pants leg as he talked, fell on the floor in big noisy droplets.
"Just cut the shit and tell me what you have to," I said. "Am I canned or
what?"
"No, no . . . of course not," he said, flashing a mouthful of pearly-white
teeth at me, "We'd like you to stay on—as chef de cuisine." I declined
his offer, packed up my stuff and went immediately home where I slept,
nearly without interruption, for three and a half straight days and nights.
There is little I miss about the experience at Coco Pazzo Teatro. I do
miss the food: strawberries macerated with balsamic vinegar, sugar and
a little mint, Patti Jackson's wonderful watermelon parfait, the incredible
focaccia, robiola and white truffle pizza, the carta di musica flatbread,
served with sea salt and olive oil, the homemade pasta and freshly made
tomato sauces.
And I think fondly of Pino, the times I sat at the table with him and some
of his other chefs, sampling food, each taking a bite and passing to the
left. I miss hearing him regale us with stories of his first few years in
America, his difficulties and pleasures, and I think fondly of his
enthusiasm for food, the food he ate as a little boy in Italy—the squid
and octopus and mackerel and sardines—a time and place far from the
life he lives now: the sharp-cut suits, cellphones and fancy chauffeur-
driven cars, the attendants and supplicants. Despite all the things that
some chefs who've been through Pino's wringer have to say about him—
much of it undoubtedly true—I owe him a big one. He taught me to love
Italian food. To know it a little. He taught me, by extension, how to cook
pasta, really cook pasta, and how to manage three or four ingredients in a
noble, pure and unaffected way. He also taught me to watch my back
better, and to make the most of my opportunities. I picked up a slew of
recipes and techniques that I use to this day.
And I owe him something else, for which I am grateful, as I am to my