Arthur Two Ways

I’m so serious about tomatoes it’s fucking goofy. Or maybe I’m so goofy about tomatoes it’s fucking serious. Doesn’t matter. Just know I have tomadar and can spot a good Cherokee from fifty paces.

Oh, the Cherokees. That deep sweet 1964 New Jersey farm stand flavor. The way the green on top yields to a rich red chocolate brown. The sun-scarred, slightly squat heirloom imperfection of it all. I want to stop right now, channel my inner Neruda and write “Ode to a Cherokee.” I want to bring Cezanne back from the dead, sit him down in front of a big bowl of ‘em and say, “Go ahead, Paulie, paint that.”

I’m tomato loyal, and though I respect the two-tone glories of the “Green Zebra” and the bright red wonders of the “Brandywine,” for me, it’s Cherokee or bust. I actually put a scorching hot picture of a ripe and gleaming Cherokee on my dating profile. I felt I needed to let the ladies know what I was all about. That food is sex and sex is food and both are joy and words are the garnish on top. I wanted to make it clear that this man comes with a caprese salad and fully groks the pomodorial truth of existence. That if I can procure a tomato that red and ruthless then maybe I am capable of other astounding and flavorful acts.

And speaking of caprese salad, is there a more perfect dish? Not only in flavor and texture but in color (the red, white and green, embodying not just the Italian flag, but the Italian soul). Tomato, mozzarella, basil and olive oil. As great a quartet as John Coltrane, McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones. But as much as caprese is an opportunity for rapture, it’s also a chance for catastrophe, as what passes today for a tomato is closer to a “super pinky,” the hard rubber ball of my youth.

A caprese is only as good as its tomatoes and that goes for the mozzarella as well. Yes, that weird waxy stuff can be a melty pleasure, and there are fine low-moisture versions (not to mention the joys of a good smoked mozzarella), but for true caprese euphoria you need a mozzarella that can swim.

My first experience with mozzarella in water was when I was eighteen and a production assistant on the movie Arthur (my brother Ezra was the location manager, his best friend Michael, the UPM). Part of the gig was getting the actors their lunch, only Liza Minnelli didn’t eat or if she did, she did it on the down low. As for Dudley Moore, he only ate frozen Icelandic brook trout, the preparation of which he handled himself in his trailer. The only actor I actually brought food to was Sir John Gielgud and it was an experience I will never forget.

Tommy knocks on the trailer door.

SIR JOHN GIELGUD (O.S.)

                     Come in.

Tommy enters. Sir John sits magisterially in his bathrobe, reading the New York Times.                  

TOMMY

                     Hi, Mr. Gielgud. What would you like for lunch?

Sir John lowers his newspaper and removes his readers.

                          SIR JOHN GIELGUD

                     Just call me John, young man.

                               TOMMY

                     Okay, John. What would you like for lunch?

                          SIR JOHN GIELGUD

I’ll have a kosher tongue sandwich, and a lager beer.

What a sound he made! Royal and sonorous. You could have heard him from the back row of the Belasco. The next day it was “A kosher hot dog and a lager beer,” the day after that, “A kosher corned beef sandwich and a lager beer,” each order like a line of Shakesspeare.

Dick Mingalone was a total genius. Not only as a camera operator, but as a classic, could have been cast in the Sopranos, New York Italian. Back in the day there was no such thing as video assist (the ability for the director to watch immediate playback on a monitor), so the “operator” was not just the guy shooting the film, he was the only one who actually saw what the camera was seeing. On Broadway Danny Rose, the great cinematographer Gordon Willis, and even Woody himself, would turn to Dick and ask “how’d it look?” And it was up to Dickie M whether or not they got the shot.

But shooting 35 millimeter film wasn’t Dick Mingalone’s only passion, and you just had to look at his stomach to know it. When he realized I was in charge of getting the actors lunch, he tried to get in on the action. “Tommy, do me a favor. There’s a nice Italian deli over on 29^th. Get me a few slices of prosciutto, a few of capicola, some mozzarella, a couple of artichoke hearts in olive oil and a nice hunk of bread— But make sure the mozzarella is in water, because if it’s not in water, it’s shit, and I don’t eat shit, understand?” I didn’t understand then but I do now.

Good, fresh mozzarella is a true happiness. Simple, yet sophisticated, it pleases the child palate but can also thrill the most jaded gourmand. Be it “bufala” with its wink of tang or “fior di latte” (cow’s milk) with its smooth-creamy kiss, fresh mozzarella is good any time, any meal, anywhere. When I go to New York, I’m not thinking about seeing a hot new Off-Broadway play or the Vermeers at the Whitney; I’m not even wondering who’s playing at the Village Vanguard. My only concern is how and when I’m going to get my ass up to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. I want to “pig” out at the Calabria Pork Store, where the entire ceiling is a giant salami chandelier. I want to stand on the sidewalk and knock back a dozen little neck clams in front of Randazzo’s Seafood, the entire Atlantic Ocean contained in a single bite. I need to kneel before the Gods at Borgatti’s Ravioli and Egg Noodle, where there’s just one kind of pasta, and the only question, “how wide do you want it?” And as good as the egg noodles are, it is the ravioli that settles all scores. Fresh, unfussy squares of joy. Each one like a little Christmas present from the Italian Grandma you never had. The gift as good as the wrapping and the wrapping as good as the gift. But as great as all these places are (and they are great), it is Casa Della Mozzarella that pulls me like a magnet to the northernmost borough.

It looks like the cheap ass stove in your crummy first apartment, but on that stove is made some of the finest mozzarella cheese this side of Naples. Sometimes you’ll see the maestro in back, cooking away, and you can’t really fathom how what he is doing back there leads to the huge off-white slabs of bliss you see on the counter before you. Some folks prefer the little bocconcini (small mozzarella balls), but I like a big fat hunk of just made motz, glistening, and dripping that watery white. And while you’re at it give me a half pound of San Daniele prosciutto, and some of those sun-dried peppers (not sun-dried tomatoes, sun-dried peppers, something I have seen nowhere else). And let me get a little smoked mozzarella ‘cause I may make a pasta al forno, and throw in a little ricotta salata too, because I might change my mind and make alla Norma instead. And how about a nice wedge of one of those Roman table cheeses, and since I’ve been waiting on line for an hour and I live all the way across the country, let me get half a pound of soppressata, sliced medium thin.

The place is tiny-- a narrow scar cut into 187^th street, jam packed with locals named Vincent and Louisa. The eighty-five-year-old lady on line in front of you has been coming since Eisenhower. The young, blue-haired Japanese cat behind, here all the way from Osaka. CDM is legend, and on weekends there’s always a crowd. Come around Christmas and the lines are so long you’ll have time to read a Russian novel.

I used to go to Casa Della Mozarella with my brother. Food was a huge point of connection for us, and he was as fanatical as me in his pursuit of the best Bolognese or the perfect pork chop. We’d make the rounds, get our supplies, go over to Terranova Bakery back when their pizza bread was a work of art. The owner would take us in back, show us the old brick oven and Ez would nod with appreciation, always honoring anyone who was deeply skilled at what they did. He’d stand on the sidewalk with his broad shoulders and bowed legs, suck down a cold clam on a brisk November day, then shake his head in wonder at how good it was. My older brother who I loved so much. I wish he was still here to taste these Cherokees I’m getting.