You never can tell....

Last week, in emailing back and forth with my friend Andrew, I told him the story of how I had led a cooking class many years ago. He thought it was a great story and I should post it here.

And I will. But not today. See, I have another story, without a recipe, that came back to me because of what I was cooking. It involves, as I said to someone, sex, cooking and fame. Now how can that miss?

I was making osso buco. My recipe is very much out of a cookbook - a cookbook you've heard of - so I'm not going to post it here. But the cookbook was written by someone I met once, in one of those "only in NY " set of circumstances.

It was back in '83, when I was a young, single gay man. People told me I needed to get out more , and I was doing that. I was having a lot of fun, and not "getting a lot of action," as they say. One of the things I began to realize was that I was hanging out at the wrong places. To be honest, the men my own age, were boring me. I was finding it very hard to find anything in common with them, and , dare I admit it, physically, the "twang" wasn't there, know what I mean? So I began to do some investigating. There was a bar in my old neighborhood on the Upper East Side. NOT THE ONE YOU PIGS ARE THINKING OF. This was one that was actually - I swear - connected to a woman's clothing store and a cafe. You could walk through the cafe, to the clothing store, and then into the bar , which was only opened at night. It was a fun place, and I guess that, given the circumstances, it drew an older crowd. DO keep in mind that in '83 I was 26 years old. So just about any group was an "older" crowd.

Anyway, I was there one night.... AND THERE HE WAS. Attraction, even for a short time, is never explanable. As I remember him, perhaps it will make more sense. Prematurely salt and pepper. Great skin. Eyes as blue as mine, and a big, BIG smile. And he was checking me out. Now, I can stare down just about anyone, but this guy had me beat. Staring and smiling. And then, he clinched the deal. He was clean shaven, but when he rubbed his hand on his chin, I saw the stubble. A major weakness here, beard stubble. Both on me and on another guy. That was it. If he asked me to walk on fiery coals, I would have. Anyway, he got up and I saw that he basically had painted on pants, a well tailored shirt, and all I wanted to do was rip off his clothes.

OK THAT'S ALL YOU PERVS ARE GONNA GET. YOU WANT MORE? BUY ME A MARTINI VERY DRY, GIN , OLIVES AND I'LL TALK.

We went back to his place and had a REALLY good night. And a REALLY good early morning. And on Sunday, at about 7, there was a pounding on his ceiling.

"OH SHIT. There she goes again" He moaned, not in a good way. I asked what he was talking about. He said there was an older woman, a "real witch" who lived above him, who cooked. And when she cooked, she was noisy. Like she was now.

I asked him why he didn't ask her to stop. I remember seeing real fear in his eyes. "I did. She scares me. She scares me big time." Well, with all the pride of my 26 years, my law degree, and my, ahem "accomplishments" of the prior evening and morning, I threw on some clothes and said "I'll take care of this." I smiled and said "And when I come back, I'll take care of you again."

Remember, I was 26. He didn't look convinced.

I went up one flight of stairs and started banging on the door of the woman's apartment. I could hear a string of very vulgar Italian as she came to the door. Cigarette in hand, kitchen implement in another, a head of gray hair, she did, in fact, look quite formidable as she looked at me and said, in a voice deeper than my date's "what do you want?"

I said to her "look, I'm downstairs visiting a friend and we're trying to sleep. Could you be more quiet please." She laughed. "Visiting a friend. Sleeping. So that's what you're doing, eh?" She shook her head and for the second time in 12 hours, someone outstared me. '

"Uh, yeah, well, sort of. But seriously, it's very noisy. Can't you be quiet."

Again I got the stare "Listen, what I'm doing is very important. I'm cooking for a party, you are, shall we say, entertaining one person. SO no, I will not."

It looked like we were at an impasse. But then I saw her mind working and she asked a question.


"My English isn't perfect, but even I know this is a ridiculous question Mister, but how are you at pounding meat?"

I SWEAR. I may not remember everything else precisely, but I do remember that.

I was truly embarrassed. "Well, I never have." Again, I got a laugh. "Right. Look. I have two extra seats tonight, my hand hurts me and I could use some help in pounding my meat. Call the friend you're visiting," (she began to chuckle at that). If you do it right, you can stay for dinner with my party.

I used her phone, and called my date. "DId you get her to stop?" he asked "Well, not exactly. She'd like to invite us for dinner." He paused. "She'd WHAT? Do you know who that is?" He told me and I honestly did not. I didn't even hear the phone go down, but I did hear his voice behind me as he introduced himself. Without a minute's pause, we were in aprons, with pounders in our hands, at work at veal cutlets for scallopine.

Since that day, I've learned more about that woman. Her legendary temper. It's true. Her smoking like a chimney. Also true. But MAN, the bitch could COOK. Between hacking through her cigarettes, she had us do everything. We made a batch of semolina gnocchi. "FASTER FASTER FASTER Like you can't wait to express yourself anymore," was what she told me as I was stirring it (she had a way with English that I hope I never hear again as long as I live." Then there was the scallopine. "YOU CALL THAT POUNDING MEAT? NO WONDER YOU'RE LONELY " (Yup, another one from her), and escarole, and green beans. Then salad. "NO, you can NOT make the salad. That is for a professional and you are just, shall we say, inexperienced." I didn't even get pissed off when my friend shook his head yes. Dessert was fruit. The best strawberries I believe I have ever had. In balsamic vinegar.

There were about 2o people there that night. Maybe four or five other gay guys. "Yes, gay men appreciate me. Women don't. They tell me that I remind them of an Italian Barbara Stanwyck. Who is she anyway? What does she cook?" I remember my friend saying "Men for breakfast." Lacking a command of idiom, our cook friend looked at him and said "Do I seem like a cannibal?"

Yes, it was that kind of night. There was lots of wine, but nothing else.

So, filled with the lady's wonderful meal, my friend and I kissed goodnight, and promised to call each other. But we never did. A year or so later, when I was very involved in church work, he walked into my church one day. When he saw me, he left. I've never seen or heard from him again.

In talking about this afterwards, with non cooking friends, no one ever mentioned our hostess. Rather all I got was "OH MY GOD I NEVER KNEW YOU HAD A DADDY FETISH." Neither did I.

Time passes, and I guess now I'm one of the "daddies' I used to fetish about, according to my friends. I guess I still have it, too, who knows. He's gone, but she lives on, and I refer to her constantly.

Figure it out yet? If you haven't, okay. Marcella, you're golden. When all else fails, I turn to you and I get what I need. If you're reading this, in Florida, I hope you still teach young guys how to properly pound their meat. God knows they need it.

Ciao. And if you want the osso buco recipe, consult her. And I'll tell you how I modify it, which isn't by much (just don't tell her)