General Joe’s

She grew up in the town over, but had never heard of the place. Off main, the length of a diner and surprisingly deep when you walked in. Best pizza north of New Haven.

She didn’t like pizza anyway, gave her heartburn looking at it. White pizza was good but hard to find. The Mama Celeste obsession of her childhood had yielded to a fealty to Frantoia olive oil, first harvest, unfiltered, cold-pressed, the perfect last supper with a meaty hunk of fresh focaccia.

Rain is pelting in sheets. She’d parked on the wrong side street, walks another fifteen to the grizzled Joe’s sign, wrong door. She follows the “Entrance HERE” around the trailer situation, shoves right into a time capsule, espresso dark wainscoting, crimson leather booths, stained glass pendant lamps casting a suspicious glow around the room. White families and white couples swivel around for a look as she passes before diving back into heaping plates of meatballs in red sauce. Where the fuck is he?

Before she hits the far wall, she sees the tunnel to the bar, his drink in his corner spot.

You look great.

Fuck you. She finds a hook for her bomber, now dripping black instead of green. Guess that’s why I’ve never seen this spot. And serving since 1937.

You don’t like pizza, he shrugs, one of the many things that he’ll never understand about her. He has pizza twice a week with the boys, it sustained him through law school, a Rina large cheese and rack of Bud atop 36 Hull Street after lifting every night.

I love amaro though. She’s impressed with the selection. She associates amaro with cafes in Rome — black amaro from Sicily, red amaro from Calabria, slender flutes of Amaro Piperna made from wild thyme harvested on the craggy shorelines of Ischia. Boston had its own amaro distillery but the hollow fig notes weirded her out. Amaro Nonino, thanks. The Friuli concoction skews sweet rather than her preferred herbaceous bitter, but she’s a sucker for the bottle, its width, heft, the grotesque style of its label redolent of the frescoes at Pompeii and at Villa Farnesina in Rome.

He’s clueless about amaro. The farthest he’s ventured beyond soda with Tito’s, which earmarks his fealty to Texas and the Cowboys, is Tito’s with soda and sugar-free limeade, thanks to his last 20-year-old. One afternoon, he’s with the boys by the pool, and she walks out, hands them each a Solo. Hell is this, babe? It’s goddamn phenomenal. She’d thrown his usual drink into the blender, plus the lime. Gave him a slushie headache, no matter.

It’s dark so early, it’s busted.

I’m thinking Hawaii or Puerto Rico. Can you spare Christmas?

I think I can swing it. Puerto Rico.

Where I got married. No family, no friends. Picked up the best man the night before at the hotel bar.

Didn’t throw a party after, back home?

Too poor. He’s torn between the Sausage and the Hamburg, no onions. Her nail salon brought in pennies, we were bidding on a house in Framingham. Three bedrooms, but needed a ton of work. I was also starting trial.

Christ, what was the hurry then.

She wanted to close the deal. Didn’t want a fancy ring or dress, just the marriage. She and her model crew had done the Studio 54 circuit at its height, for Chrissake, partied with Gianni, of Versace, in Milan. A single dress she’d model cost more than their car. What could he offer her? His Teutonic good looks, and a cock that wouldn’t quit. And at their height, they made a hell of a couple, and could she walk. Taught their daughter, too, but the kid didn’t take to it, zero interest in clothes. Not as tall as her mother, either.

What’d she do while you were working?

She had great taste. Naturally. We stripped the wallpaper, and she hand-stenciled borders in every room. Made a killer Bolognese from scratch, fantastic chicken parm. I was spoiled. All the main women in his life could cook. Jane’s Beef Wellington was an orgasm in the mouth. Liza’s game day nachos. Outstanding. This one here, couldn’t defrost with a microwave. So he made his 85–15 burgers, or they went out. Why don’t you bring me those dumplings you say you make?

Dumplings?, she scoffs. You don’t even eat General Tso’s.

What’s General Jo. She’d piqued his interest in the East, had him reading books on history, politics, crime, decades-long T.V. habit notwithstanding. She’d started him on the Osage Indian murders in the ’20s, current thriller departs from Tokyo and takes the septilingual assassin protagonist to Beijing, Hong Kong, Saigon. He could introduce her to DeNiro’s Deer Hunter, tell her about the napalm that was manufactured nearby and flown over to the West Coast bases under top secret cover, but she’s the Mandarin-fluent sharpshooter with three degrees and a phenomenal ass.

Ts-o’s. Chicken. It’s like dinner and dessert in one. Worth a try.

Nah. He’s a creature of habit. Eats three things, reverse parks, prefers blondes. She’d already introduced too many novelties into his day to day, proselytizing about probiotics, upgrading his hair care, pinging him books and articles, a man needs his identity. Asian chicken? He’ll stick with Italian.

Hamburg, no onions. And can I get another Tito’s?