Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New

Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New
Previously published in the New York Times, Sunday, September 30, 1984

One evening, while visiting a chic new espresso café in Massapequa, I watched the waiter serve someone a plate of “peppers and eggs.” When the patron smiled approvingly after the first bite, I felt triumphant as I thought back to an event in my childhood, 30 years ago, in that very neighborhood.
When I carried a grease-stained paper bag to elementary school and unwrapped my “peppers and eggs” sandwich at the lunch table, I heard comments like: “What’s that gook you’re eating?” and “How come your mother never gives you normal food –like bologna, or peanut butter?”
Now, in this Italian café, “peppers and eggs” is the specialty of the house.
Back in 1950, we were the new – and only Italian – family on the block. Granted, our eating habits may have seemed a bit peculiar: When my friends were eating roast beef for dinner, I was twirling spaghetti with garlic and oil or eating an artichoke omelette. But they were even further bewildered by our Sunday afternoon dinners that lasted well into the night.
Every Sunday at 3 o’clock, the relatives arrived.
After a long drive out to “the Island” from Brooklyn, aunts, uncles and grandparents would emerge from their voluminous cars, pausing a moment to stretch and groan. They smoothed down their wrinkled coats, adjusted their hats and formed an orderly procession marching single file up the front walk, all of them delicately balancing little white cardboard pastry boxes in their right hands.
After dinner the entertainment began. My father gave the cue with a slow nonchalant stroll over to the piano; Uncle Vittorio coaxed him on (although he never needed much coaxing), and soon all the men were clearing their throats, standing in a semicircle around my father, who was planted firmly on the piano bench.
With arms outstretched, each man sang his favorite aria with such passion and fortissimo as if he were competing with the others for the title role in a Verdi opera. They supported each other with back slapping and cheers of “Bravo, John! Bravo, Vittorio!”
My mother ran through the house closing windows and doors, muttering something about keeping the neighborhood quiet. When the concert was over my father retraced my mother’s path around the house, reopening windows and doors and exclaiming, “It’s hot in here! Who closed the windows?”
On Monday morning my friends wondered what the racket was at my house the night before.
“How come you always have so much company on Sundays?” they asked.
“What company? That was just my family,” I answered.
I liked Sundays – that is, until I grew up. Then, as a teenager, Sundays meant I couldn’t go out with my friends, or do anything for that matter, since I had to be home for dinner by 3 o’clock. My social life sadly waned.
It wasn’t long before I hated Sundays. I didn’t like those arias; I couldn’t understand the Italian words. Uncle Vittorio always squeezed me too hard, and kissing all those relatives got on my nerves. I was sick of eating macaroni every Sunday. Pastries were too fattening for a 16-year-old trying to fit into a size five. And besides, the espresso tasted like mud.
I would retreat into my bedroom with the excuse of homework. But I couldn’t concentrate; the laughter and applause that accompanied the singing were much too loud.
As the years passed, Sunday dinners became very quiet. The older relatives died; some moved away, others lost touch. We started talking politics at the Sunday table, and I soon began to long for the music and laughter of “the old days.”
Then, while sitting in an espresso café one night, I recognized a familiar tune. It was Pavarotti singing Uncle Vittorio’s aria! Then he sang Uncle Sal’s, then Uncle Tony’s. I listened carefully for the first time and realized how beautiful those songs really were, and I longed for my uncles who sang them a little too loud and a little off key.
The next day I bought a music book of Italian songs and learned every one that I could recognize from “the old days.”
Now I’m the one being coaxed over to the piano to accompany my dad. He sings alone, since the others have gone, but he sings loud enough and strong enough to make up for the rest of them. In fact, he sounds so good that I won’t let my mother close the windows.