—Doesn’t that sound delicious, Woolly sighed, as the boys on the radio dug into their dinner.
—Delicious! I exclaimed in horror. It comes out of a can, Woolly.
—I know. Isn’t that amazing?
—Whether it’s amazing or not, that is no way to eat an Italian dinner.
Woolly turned to me with a look of genuine curiosity.
—What is the way to eat an Italian dinner, Duchess?
Oh, where to begin.
—Have you ever heard of Leonello’s? I asked. Up in East Harlem?
—I don’t think so.
—Then you’d better pull up a chair.
Woolly made a good faith effort to do so.
—Leonello’s, I began, is a little Italian place with ten booths, ten tables, and a bar. The booths are lined with red leather, the tables are draped with red and white cloths, and Sinatra’s playing on the jukebox, just like you’d expect. The only hitch is that if you walked in off the street on a Thursday night and asked for a table, they wouldn’t let you sit down for supper—even if the place was empty.
As one who always loves a conundrum, Woolly’s expression brightened up.
—Why won’t they let you sit down for supper, Duchess?
—The reason they won’t let you sit down, Woolly, is because all the tables are taken.
—But you just said the whole place was empty.
—And so it is.
—Then taken by whom?
—Ay, my friend, there’s the rub. You see, the way that Leonello’s works is that every table in the place is reserved in perpetuity. If you’re one of Leonello’s customers, you might have the table for four by the jukebox on Saturdays at eight. And you pay for that table every Saturday night, whether you show up or not, so no one else can use it.
I looked over at Woolly.
—You with me so far?
—I’m with you, he said.
And I could tell he was.
—Let’s say you’re not a customer of Leonello’s, but you’re lucky enough to have a friend who is, and this friend has given you the use of his table when he’s out of town. When Saturday night rolls around, you put on your best duds and head up to Harlem with your three closest friends.
—Like you and Billy and Emmett.
—Exactly. Like me and Billy and Emmett. But once we’re all settled and we’ve ordered a drink, don’t bother asking for menus.
—Why not?
—Because at Leonello’s, they don’t have them.
I really had Woolly with that one. I mean, he let out a bigger gasp than he had during the Chef Boy-Ar-Dee commercial.
—How can you order dinner without a menu, Duchess?
—At Leonello’s, I explained, once you’ve taken your seat and ordered your drinks, the waiter will drag a chair over to your table, spin it around, and sit with his arms on its back so that he can tell you exactly what they’re serving that night. Welcome to Leonello’s, he’ll say. Tonight for starters we got stuffed artichokes, mussels marinara, clams oreganata, and calamari fritti. For the first course we got linguine with clams, spaghetti carbonara, and penne Bolognese. And for the main course, chicken cacciatore, veal scallopini, veal Milanese, and osso buco.
I took a quick glance at my copilot.
—I can see from your expression that you’re a little daunted by all this variety, Woolly, but worry not. Because the only dish that you have to order at Leonello’s is the one the waiter hasn’t mentioned: Fettuccine Mio Amore, the specialty of the house. A fresh-made pasta that’s tossed in a sauce of tomatoes, bacon, caramelized onions, and pepper flakes.
—But why doesn’t the waiter mention it, if it’s the specialty of the house?
—He doesn’t mention it because it’s the specialty of the house. That’s the way it goes with Fettuccine Mio Amore. Either you know enough to order it, or you don’t deserve to eat it.
I could tell from the smile on Woolly’s face that he was enjoying his night at Leonello’s.
—Did your father have a table at Leonello’s? he asked.
I laughed.
—No, Woolly. My old man didn’t have a table anywhere. But for six glorious months, he was the ma?tre d’， and I was allowed to hang out in the kitchen, as long as I didn’t get in the way.
I was about to tell Woolly about Lou, the chef, when a truck driver came barreling around us with a shake of the fist.
Normally, I would have replied with a bite of the thumb, but when I looked up to do so, I realized I had gotten so wrapped up in the telling of my tale, I had let our speed drop to thirty miles an hour. No wonder the trucker was out of joint.