Dad Makes a Deal

Last episode: Mom made pasta and lentils but Dad insisted on having her make him Arroz con Pollo.

•••

Dad dropped the newspaper and walked into the living room. Mom had only heard part of it, but the part she did hear, about cement buckets and “gangland” revenge must have gotten to her.

“Herman,” she said, walking out of the kitchen with a spoonful of rice in her hand. “I wish you wouldn’t read those kinda things around Joey.”

Dad looked over at me and Laura and mumbled, “I thought Freddie said he’d give Eddie a broken arm.”

“HERMAN!” Ma said.

“Nothing.”

Dad stared out the window, smoking his cigarette, hugging himself around his shoulders as if he had chills. When Mom finally got Dad to budge, we sat down to a plate of arroz con pollo with pasta lenticchie. To serve it Mom put a big mound of cooked fried rice on a plate, and then put the crispy pieces of chicken on top. Next to the rice she ladled a big helping of the lentils. It tasted good, but felt a little odd, for more reasons than the strange combination. It was my first Italia-Rican meal.

Dad was quiet for a few days. He wasn’t cracking any jokes. He wasn’t singing “Oh, say can you see any bedbugs on me” like he always did. Even when a pretty lady walked by, he wouldn’t nudge me with his elbow and make that clicking sound out of the side of his mouth.

Even though Dad had been pretty quiet about the whole mess, he reminded Laura and me that, from now on, we didn’t call Federico “Freddie,” nor refer to his mother’s soup as pasta fagioli; instead, it was “Federico” and “pasta fazool.” And we listened.

After a week or so, he came back to life, but he didn’t mention a word about Eddie. Not to anyone.

One day after school, Dad and I were in the shoe shop; Dad was out front, while I was in back cutting out pieces of leather. Freddie the bookie came in. “Federico,” I mean.

“Herman, goomba. How’s d’ shoes y’ promised me?”

“Dey’re ready,” Dad said. “I put the new heels on and gave ‘em another spit shine. And dey’re ready ta go.”

“But Herman,” Federico said. “You’re sure this guy won’t be back to pick up his shoes?”

“Trust me,” Dad said. “This guy’s never comin’ back.”

That was all Federico needed to hear. There was a code that no explanations were necessary in certain circumstances. This was one of them. As long as Federico didn’t ask — Herman didn’t say a word. He also didn’t ask Freddie about Eddie, the broken arm, the revenge.

He didn’t want to know.

“How much is it gonna cost me, Herman?”

“Fagetaboutit,” Dad said. “I’m doing it for nuthin’.”

“Herman, no.”

“I already made so much dough on doze shoes,” Dad said, “It’s criminal ...” But the minute the word came out of his mouth, Dad backpedaled. “I mean, Federico, everything you’ve done for me ...”

“No, Herman, I can’t,” Federico said. “How about if I put ten dollars down as a bet for you. Tomorrow’s the big game.”

He was talking about the one-game playoff for the National League Pennant between the Giants and the Dodgers. Everyone was eager to watch the game because no one on this side of the East River cared about the Yankees, they were either a Giants fan or a Dodgers fan.

“There’s a lot of money riding on this one, Herman.”

“Okay Freddie, whatever you say.”

“So, ten on the Dodgers?”

“No, I’m going with New York, not Brooklyn,” Dad said “Herman?”

“I got a hunch about dis one,” Dad said.

“But Herman, the Dodgers are your team. You must’ve lost 500 bucks in the past couple years.”

“I know,” Dad said. “Dey’re bums. Put da twenty on da Giants.”

“Ten, Herman!”

“Oh, sure Freddie, but I thought maybe, since ...“

“Shut up, Herman. It’s ten.”

“Sure Freddie, sure.”

“Okay, Herman,” Freddie said. “But ya know you get in trouble bettin’ against your own team. It’s like betting against ya family. Sicilians don’t like that. I don’t know how you Puerto Ricans are.”

“Don’t axe me ta ‘splain it,” Dad said.

So, for once Dad had the last word. n

•••

Pasta Lenticchie: Macaroni & Lentils

Serves four

This is a classic lentil dish with pasta, a kind of poor man’s Minestrone—flavorful and meaty tasting. Mom never used meat, though.

I tried making it with chopped bacon once, but it was all wrong. It disguised the earthy taste of the legumes. Serve it in soup bowls by itself or next to Arroz con Pollo for a true Italia-Rican meal.

1 bag of lentils (12 ounces)

2 quarts water

1 bay leaf

By Joe Ortiz

2 teaspoons salt

¾ cup olive oil

1 carrot, minced

1 stalk celery, diced fine

1 medium yellow onion, minced fine 2 cups chicken broth (in Basilicata and Long Island we just used water!!!)

1 cup tubetinni pasta (some folks call it macaroni-salad pasta or tubetti)

Rinse the lentils and cook in the water along with one of the teaspoons of salt and the bay leaf.

Bring to a boil, then turn down the heat and simmer 20 minutes until the lentils are tender.

Discard the bay leaf. Drain the water and reserve both water and lentils separately.

Heat the oil in a skillet, and sauté the carrot, celery, and onion until translucent and aromatic. Add the remaining one teaspoon salt to taste, and 2 to 3 ladles full of the cooked lentils.

Cook over low heat and mash some of the lentils into a paste with a large wooden spoon.

Add this mixture back into the lentil pot along with enough of the reserved water (or the chicken broth) to make a soupy mixture.

Add the pasta and cook 8 to 10 minutes until pasta is done. (The soup can be thinned with some of the reserved water to your liking.)

Serve immediately. Or when cool, place in the fridge covered overnight and reheat the next day.

Joe Ortiz Memoir: Episodes & Recipes

Joe Ortiz’s memoir, Pastina — My Father’s Misfortune, My Mother’s Good Soup, became the framework for the musical Escaping Queens, which ran at Cabrillo Stage in 2012 and 2013. Since 2022, the Capitola Soquel Times is the exclusive publication of various episodes from the book — including a recipe that helps shape each installment. You may have read one of the pieces in the Times a few months ago entitled, “Pastina, Food for the Soul — The Night Freddie the Bookie Showed Up with the Gun.”

The idea of weaving anecdotes about food with an ongoing narrative came to Joe after reading Heartburn by Nora Ephron.

“Using recipe descriptions to help tell a story seemed the perfect way to weave the angst of a father’s chaotic life with the salvation of a mother’s cooking,” Ortiz explains. “For me, the soothing aromas and descriptions of my mom’s food became the salve to assuage my father’s abusive actions, and the ironic humor of it all helped to dull the pain.” n