neighborhood.”
“The plot thickens,” I replied dramatically, backing away from him and returning to my paint roller. “Papa Caputo’s not going to be too keen on this.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighed. “I haven’t told him or my mother yet.”
“Remind me to vacate the premises when you let that cat—or should I say kitten—out of the bag.”
“I know, I know. Ma’s going to start crying that it ain’t right with God. Dad’s going to, well … I’m not sure whose father I should be more worried about, mine or my girl’s.”
Benny’s musings were interrupted by the piercing sound of glass breaking and a small popping explosion. Our sign! We both ran to the front window and saw shards of colored glass raining down onto the sidewalk. The old wooden bowling pin that had struck the neon sign rolled off the sidewalk and into the street like a wobbly bandit making its half-hearted getaway. A silver-and-white Hudson Coupe squealed through the intersection just as some hoodlum hanging from the passenger window screamed, “Feed it to the Pope! We don’t want you Sacco-Vanzettis around here!” (The pejorative referred to two Italian immigrants who’d been executed for armed robbery and murder in 1927.)
Benny yelled a litany of Italian curse words at the vandals as the car disappeared into the distance. A few pedestrians stopped and gaped. Still muttering under his breath, Benny spun on his heel and stormed into the kitchen.
I respected my friend too much to ever say “I told you so,” but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking it. When we initially discussed opening a counter-service pizzeria, I had suggested a location in our home turf, somewhere on Taylor Street, where you couldn’t walk two feet without bumping into a paisano. Benny disagreed with me, arguing that the best way to grow the business would be to introduce it beyond the sphere of Little Italy.
“That way, we expand our customer base—introduce a taste of Napoli to all the people whose last names don’t end with a vowel,” he said at the time.
“But the people you’re talking about wouldn’t know mozzarella from an umbrella,” I’d argued. “You’re banking that we can convert
them
into pizza lovers?”
“This isn’t just any pizza. It’s
our
pizza. One taste, and we’ll have ’em eating out of the palm of our hands. Or
their
hands, I should say. We can’t lose.”
Since our calamitous (and, in many ways, fortuitous) first day at the World’s Fair all those years ago, I had never forgotten Benny’s criticism that I was too cautious, too afraid to take a risk. So while the pragmatist in me harbored serious doubts, I had buried them and agreed to set up shop in this swank section of Uptown, a good six miles north of our home turf. This was Benny, after all. I trusted him.
I swept up the broken glass out front. Benny spent about an hour in the back of the shop, shifting around wooden crates of cooking supplies while I finished up some detail painting along the floorboards. When he finally reemerged from the kitchen, he took a cross-legged seat beside me on the ground, looking more dejected than I was accustomed to seeing him.
“Well, you were right about the sign,” I said.
“How do you figure?”
“It certainly attracted attention.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” he sighed. “I’ll figure out some replacement tomorrow. Guess a metal placard would be better, after all.”
“No way.” I shook my head. “Tell that neon sign company to make us a brand new one. Only
bigger
, this time. And brighter, if that’s even possible.” A slow grin emerged on my pal’s face.
“What about the budget?”
“If we’re going to do business on this end of town, we’d better
mean
business, too,” I said. “Nobody’s running us out of here. We’ll take out a loan if we have to. Besides, didn’t you know you have to spend money to make money?”
“Now who’s the one not acting like himself?”
“The plot thickens,” I replied dramatically, backing away from him and returning to my paint roller. “Papa Caputo’s not going to be too keen on this.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighed. “I haven’t told him or my mother yet.”
“Remind me to vacate the premises when you let that cat—or should I say kitten—out of the bag.”
“I know, I know. Ma’s going to start crying that it ain’t right with God. Dad’s going to, well … I’m not sure whose father I should be more worried about, mine or my girl’s.”
Benny’s musings were interrupted by the piercing sound of glass breaking and a small popping explosion. Our sign! We both ran to the front window and saw shards of colored glass raining down onto the sidewalk. The old wooden bowling pin that had struck the neon sign rolled off the sidewalk and into the street like a wobbly bandit making its half-hearted getaway. A silver-and-white Hudson Coupe squealed through the intersection just as some hoodlum hanging from the passenger window screamed, “Feed it to the Pope! We don’t want you Sacco-Vanzettis around here!” (The pejorative referred to two Italian immigrants who’d been executed for armed robbery and murder in 1927.)
Benny yelled a litany of Italian curse words at the vandals as the car disappeared into the distance. A few pedestrians stopped and gaped. Still muttering under his breath, Benny spun on his heel and stormed into the kitchen.
I respected my friend too much to ever say “I told you so,” but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking it. When we initially discussed opening a counter-service pizzeria, I had suggested a location in our home turf, somewhere on Taylor Street, where you couldn’t walk two feet without bumping into a paisano. Benny disagreed with me, arguing that the best way to grow the business would be to introduce it beyond the sphere of Little Italy.
“That way, we expand our customer base—introduce a taste of Napoli to all the people whose last names don’t end with a vowel,” he said at the time.
“But the people you’re talking about wouldn’t know mozzarella from an umbrella,” I’d argued. “You’re banking that we can convert
them
into pizza lovers?”
“This isn’t just any pizza. It’s
our
pizza. One taste, and we’ll have ’em eating out of the palm of our hands. Or
their
hands, I should say. We can’t lose.”
Since our calamitous (and, in many ways, fortuitous) first day at the World’s Fair all those years ago, I had never forgotten Benny’s criticism that I was too cautious, too afraid to take a risk. So while the pragmatist in me harbored serious doubts, I had buried them and agreed to set up shop in this swank section of Uptown, a good six miles north of our home turf. This was Benny, after all. I trusted him.
I swept up the broken glass out front. Benny spent about an hour in the back of the shop, shifting around wooden crates of cooking supplies while I finished up some detail painting along the floorboards. When he finally reemerged from the kitchen, he took a cross-legged seat beside me on the ground, looking more dejected than I was accustomed to seeing him.
“Well, you were right about the sign,” I said.
“How do you figure?”
“It certainly attracted attention.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” he sighed. “I’ll figure out some replacement tomorrow. Guess a metal placard would be better, after all.”
“No way.” I shook my head. “Tell that neon sign company to make us a brand new one. Only
bigger
, this time. And brighter, if that’s even possible.” A slow grin emerged on my pal’s face.
“What about the budget?”
“If we’re going to do business on this end of town, we’d better
mean
business, too,” I said. “Nobody’s running us out of here. We’ll take out a loan if we have to. Besides, didn’t you know you have to spend money to make money?”
“Now who’s the one not acting like himself?”
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