“My brother and I would savor our tomato juice for what seemed like an eternity. We lingered as long as possible at that booth. Long and narrow with booths on the right and tables on the left, “the restaurant” was dark except for the light streaming from the front window and the light streaming from the back through the kitchen doors. The booth that my brother and I sat it was located just outside the kitchen. Mamma would sit keeping an eye on the front door while folding napkins. Sitting facing the kitchen my brother and I were practically on top of each other, just barely tumbling out of the booth, peering into the kitchen. It was our chance to find out firsthand what really went on in there. Our mouths were wide open as we gazed through those doors. The only sound we heard was from the knives. We didn’t hear any voices what-so-ever. The knives sharp, shiny and gleaming were busy. Looking at each other we spoke only with our eyes, “OOOOOO AAAAHHHH!” We had to stay quiet or Mamma would think to bring us back upstairs with our cousins. We listened for the different sounds of chopping. Like the rhythmic sound of a beating drum, the parsley was prepared for the day. Zio’s knife made clicking sounds like a typewriter, chopping garlic. With speed and precision Papa’s knife had an even faster beat while slicing the mushrooms. While all this was going on there a slow methodical thumping sound as veal and chicken were pounded into scaloppini. All these sounds together resembled a symphony. Just when we heard it all, the sound of cymbals clashed when the parsley hit the sizzling garlic! It was early morning but my brother and I wished we could hear Mamma sing out in her beautiful soprano voice “I’m ordering!” and Papa answer in his baritone voice “Pick up!” Now that would complete the musical symphony inside “the restaurant”!
Thank you for taking a walk down memory lane with me with tales of “the restaurant.”
See our Chicken ala Piccatta recipe.