Someone recently asked me why Arthur Avenue and the Bronx are often written about in my books. The answer is as simple as it is complex.
The Bronx is where I was raised, and I like paying homage to the place of my roots. Just like Sicily. I write a lot about the birthplace of my mother's family in Lercara Friddi, Sicily. If you read Gino: What's Left, you will see what I'm talking about.
Let me talk about the Bronx first.
When I was a boy, it was a melting pot of first-generation Italians and Sicilians, Irish, Germans, and Jews. Everyone back in those days respected one another's cultures, foods, and religions. The hallway always smelled of Sunday sauce, fried garlic, onions, stuffed cabbage, meatloaf, and pot roast. Luckily for me, I got the chance to sample the foods of the different cultures.
The doors to the apartments were left open during the hot summer months to get cross-ventilation, hoping the coolness of the marble and tile hallways would cool down the rooms. The aromas mixed nicely. During the torrid nights at the height of summer heat waves, most everyone was out on the cast-stone steps in front of the buildings—they were called stoops. We stayed up late to avoid the oppressive heat in the bedrooms.
There were never air conditioners in those days, and when we had a fan, it was usually in the living room to move the hot air around. On the stoop, the adults would chat. Some of the men told war stories. I learned so much about World War II. They sometimes played cards, and occasionally someone got a couple of large watermelons that were cut up. Everyone got a refreshing slice.
If the ice cream truck came, the parents would either shake their heads yes or no depending on whether they had a dollar to spare. We kids never questioned the no. Paydays for the men—none of the women worked—were on Fridays, when we had the best chance of getting a Creamsicle or a frozen cone.
On the nights when the temperature was extreme, one of the dads opened the fire hydrant (we called it a Johnny pump), and cold water brought amazing relief. The water, when splashed onto the warm asphalt, gave off a familiar chemical odor as the steam rose from the street. When the police came to shut down the hydrant to the boos and Bronx cheers of the kids and parents, we would wait for the cops to leave and do it all over again.
We were all in the same boat. Very little money. No extras. No one ate out unless my dad's uncle, who owned an Italian restaurant, invited us. Occasionally we had a car, and that was a luxury until it died. Most people didn't have one. We were all poor but didn't realize it, nor did we complain about missing anything.
Most of the adults smoked cigarettes. They were taught that from the movies, where all the actors smoked, and the World War II veterans came back addicted to nicotine. Everyone in the neighborhood watched out for everyone else.
More extreme poverty brought my ancestors to New York. My grandfather wouldn't even tell us where they were from in Sicily. Everything was a secret. He acted as if there was something to hide or be embarrassed by. I can't imagine why, as he was a baby when he came over to Ellis Island in steerage with his mother and siblings. More than likely, it was a silence he was taught: Say nothing and you have nothing to worry about.
"A fish dies by its open mouth."
I researched for years, finally discovering where the family came from. The immigration papers told me what Grandpa would not. So I went there.
In Lercara Friddi, I found distant relatives. Initially, they also didn't say too much, probably fearing I came to investigate any real estate the family had claim to. After they realized I only came home to see my ancestral town, they opened up, and we have remained part of the family for over twenty years.
Having a magnificent outdoor dinner of peasant foods my ancestors ate with the huge Miceli family is a highlight of my life. Peas and macaroni. A frittata with wild asparagus and mushrooms. Outdoor oven-baked calzone was better than any meal I had in any fancy New York restaurant.
I never forgot where I came from.
