Go Fourth
I'm coming out of a supermarket near my apartment building with two bags full of groceries when a car pulls over and a guy sticks his head out. "Excuse me, miss?"
It's already early afternoon, and I still need to whip up a couple of dishes-to-pass to bring to my cousin Rebecca's place downtown for her annual Fourth of July party, so I'm feeling a little rushed, but I walk to the curb and take off my sunglasses. "Yes?"
"Is there any place around here to get some decent ribs?"
I laugh. "Ribs?" I squat a little to peer past the driver, and I see a pregnant woman sitting next to him.
"Ribs!" she nods, smiling.
"Yes, absolutely! You're not far from Brother Jimmy's... their dry rub is great, plus they have wet ribs if that's what you're into, and they even do a proper 'sweet tea.'"
"Oh, God, what I wouldn't give for an ice cold glass of sweet tea right now," says the expectant passenger. I give them some basic directions - I can never remember if Brother Jimmy's is near 76th, or 77th, or 78th, I just always keep walking along 2nd Avenue until I stumble across it - and they drive away, thanking me, while I shake my head at what has to be the oddest request for directions I've ever had.
When I get home a few minutes later, Gary is coming out of the bathroom with wet hair and only a towel wrapped around his waist. I unceremoniously shove both bags of groceries directly into the refrigerator, and follow him into my room before he can get dressed.
Forty-five minutes later, he finally pulls on his jeans as I lie in bed letting the air conditioning slowly dry my sweat. "Are you sure you have to go to work? I really want you to meet Rebecca and her husband and baby boy."
"Yeah, baby, I have to go... it may be a holiday for you lot, but it's still Wednesday, and I've got a newscast to get on the air. Bria and Henry have to work, too, and they're more senior than I am. Anyway, there's plenty of time for me to meet your family." That last part makes me smile.
And so he's off, and a few hours later I'm in a cab heading downtown. Normally I would take the subway, but I've got two big covered dishes with me, and there's no way I'll get a seat with all the people heading for South Street Seaport to see the fireworks. About halfway there, I notice the cab driver glancing at me in the rearview mirror, and I smile at him.
"So you cook?" he says, as if we were in the middle of a conversation already.
I glance down at the food I'm bringing for the party. It's pasta salad and the easiest baked dessert in history, something my Dad calls "Evil" - not exactly the work of a gourmet chef. "I dabble."
"What olive oil do you use?"
"Um... extra virgin? I have no idea what brand, I just get whatever's on special. Why, what do you use?" And I realize just a moment too late that this is exactly what he wanted me to ask.
"Oh," he says, throwing up his hands, "my family back in Greece, they export to this country, I use nothing but! You must try it!"
"Well, just tell me what brand it is, and I'll look for it." Only in New York, I think to myself, but I don't know the half of it yet.
"No, no, I give you some!"
"What, now?"
"Yes! You live downtown, or where I picked you up?"
"Where you picked me up, but --"
"Then I give you two bottles, one for you and one for who you visit down here!"
"That's very nice, but it's really not necessary."
"Listen, you like it, you ask around at store and get them to carry the brand, okay? You don't like it, it still makes me happy you give it a try." At this point there's no denying the guy, so I just shrug. And when he reaches Rebecca's building, he jumps out of the cab along with me and opens up the trunk, and sure enough, it's filled with cases and cases of olive oil, plus a stash of assorted plastic bags. He's got an entire wholesale operation in his trunk! He whips two bags into shape, picks two tall, skinny bottles out of a box, and slides them in.
As he's helping me balance the dishes I already have and handing me the bags, he says, "You're a very beautiful lady. Me, I'm already married, but you want to meet my brother, too?"
For a moment I'm speechless. "Um - he's not in the trunk, too, is he?"
My benefactor stares at me for a second, then laughs heartily. "You're also a very funny lady! My brother would not like you at all." I gape at that, but he just goes on. "Okay, you have happy July fourth day, enjoy the olive oil, tell your friends!" He jumps back into his cab, and he's off.
I'm still shaking my head in disbelief when I arrive at Rebecca's apartment upstairs. There's a crowd, and everybody's inside off the balcony because it's been raining lightly on and off. I head straight for the kitchen to unload, and I'm just getting the plastic wrap off the dishes I brought when my father comes in. I give him a big hug and kiss, and I'm about to ask him who else is here already, when he puts his hand on my cheek.
"Honey, you're writing a novel about when Mom left us?"
There's no good answer that comes to mind, so I just look back at him and read the sadness and sympathy in his face. When I feel a tear starting to form in one of my eyes, I look away, reach for one of the bags, and hold it out to him.
"Olive oil, Dad?"
It's already early afternoon, and I still need to whip up a couple of dishes-to-pass to bring to my cousin Rebecca's place downtown for her annual Fourth of July party, so I'm feeling a little rushed, but I walk to the curb and take off my sunglasses. "Yes?"
"Is there any place around here to get some decent ribs?"
I laugh. "Ribs?" I squat a little to peer past the driver, and I see a pregnant woman sitting next to him.
"Ribs!" she nods, smiling.
"Yes, absolutely! You're not far from Brother Jimmy's... their dry rub is great, plus they have wet ribs if that's what you're into, and they even do a proper 'sweet tea.'"
"Oh, God, what I wouldn't give for an ice cold glass of sweet tea right now," says the expectant passenger. I give them some basic directions - I can never remember if Brother Jimmy's is near 76th, or 77th, or 78th, I just always keep walking along 2nd Avenue until I stumble across it - and they drive away, thanking me, while I shake my head at what has to be the oddest request for directions I've ever had.
When I get home a few minutes later, Gary is coming out of the bathroom with wet hair and only a towel wrapped around his waist. I unceremoniously shove both bags of groceries directly into the refrigerator, and follow him into my room before he can get dressed.
Forty-five minutes later, he finally pulls on his jeans as I lie in bed letting the air conditioning slowly dry my sweat. "Are you sure you have to go to work? I really want you to meet Rebecca and her husband and baby boy."
"Yeah, baby, I have to go... it may be a holiday for you lot, but it's still Wednesday, and I've got a newscast to get on the air. Bria and Henry have to work, too, and they're more senior than I am. Anyway, there's plenty of time for me to meet your family." That last part makes me smile.
And so he's off, and a few hours later I'm in a cab heading downtown. Normally I would take the subway, but I've got two big covered dishes with me, and there's no way I'll get a seat with all the people heading for South Street Seaport to see the fireworks. About halfway there, I notice the cab driver glancing at me in the rearview mirror, and I smile at him.
"So you cook?" he says, as if we were in the middle of a conversation already.
I glance down at the food I'm bringing for the party. It's pasta salad and the easiest baked dessert in history, something my Dad calls "Evil" - not exactly the work of a gourmet chef. "I dabble."
"What olive oil do you use?"
"Um... extra virgin? I have no idea what brand, I just get whatever's on special. Why, what do you use?" And I realize just a moment too late that this is exactly what he wanted me to ask.
"Oh," he says, throwing up his hands, "my family back in Greece, they export to this country, I use nothing but! You must try it!"
"Well, just tell me what brand it is, and I'll look for it." Only in New York, I think to myself, but I don't know the half of it yet.
"No, no, I give you some!"
"What, now?"
"Yes! You live downtown, or where I picked you up?"
"Where you picked me up, but --"
"Then I give you two bottles, one for you and one for who you visit down here!"
"That's very nice, but it's really not necessary."
"Listen, you like it, you ask around at store and get them to carry the brand, okay? You don't like it, it still makes me happy you give it a try." At this point there's no denying the guy, so I just shrug. And when he reaches Rebecca's building, he jumps out of the cab along with me and opens up the trunk, and sure enough, it's filled with cases and cases of olive oil, plus a stash of assorted plastic bags. He's got an entire wholesale operation in his trunk! He whips two bags into shape, picks two tall, skinny bottles out of a box, and slides them in.
As he's helping me balance the dishes I already have and handing me the bags, he says, "You're a very beautiful lady. Me, I'm already married, but you want to meet my brother, too?"
For a moment I'm speechless. "Um - he's not in the trunk, too, is he?"
My benefactor stares at me for a second, then laughs heartily. "You're also a very funny lady! My brother would not like you at all." I gape at that, but he just goes on. "Okay, you have happy July fourth day, enjoy the olive oil, tell your friends!" He jumps back into his cab, and he's off.
I'm still shaking my head in disbelief when I arrive at Rebecca's apartment upstairs. There's a crowd, and everybody's inside off the balcony because it's been raining lightly on and off. I head straight for the kitchen to unload, and I'm just getting the plastic wrap off the dishes I brought when my father comes in. I give him a big hug and kiss, and I'm about to ask him who else is here already, when he puts his hand on my cheek.
"Honey, you're writing a novel about when Mom left us?"
There's no good answer that comes to mind, so I just look back at him and read the sadness and sympathy in his face. When I feel a tear starting to form in one of my eyes, I look away, reach for one of the bags, and hold it out to him.
"Olive oil, Dad?"