Pizza, memory and dad

"Sex is like pizza. Even when it's bad it's still pretty good" Woody Allen

"Ponder well on this point: the pleasant hours of our life are all connected by a more or less tangible link, with some memory of the table." Charles Pierre Monselet

Ask any New Yorker what the best pizza in town is and you will usually get the same answer, whatever pizza it was that said New Yorker grew up with. I am no exception, though I think an excellent case can be made for me being more right than most.

That pizza is Sal and Carmine’s on Broadway between 102^nd and 103^rd street. Known as simply Sal’s Pizza when I was a kid, the place has been an Upper West Side fixture since the 60s when Sal first opened up his shop. He was later joined by Carmine, his brother in law (I believe). Sal passed away last year unbeknownst to me until a few months ago, but Carmine and Sal’s son are still there, still putting out this most excellent example of classic New York pizza. Here is a link to the best write up I have found on about this slice. I agree with every point made. You have to scroll down to the part about Sal and Carmine’s but it’s a great read all around. http://theeatenpath.com/2009/06/07/sal-and-carmine-best-slice-in-manhattan/ You’ll get no less than 12 pages of links to different reviews, blog entries and diaries just by googleing “Sal and Carmine’s”

I started eating Sal and Carmine’s when I was 11, not long after my parents split up and my dad moved to a tiny studio apartment on Amsterdam Avenue and 95^th Street. Back then Sal’s, was a hole in the wall with no tables and white tile everywhere. The counter had barely enough room for the two men to work. But work they did. Making pizza after pizza, serving slice after slice after slice. It was rarely empty, rarely navigable and always delicious.

Their pizza was, and still is, so good that a plain slice/pie is more than good enough. Adding sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms or whatever actually ends up distracting you.

This isn’t gourmet pizza, you understand. This is classic New York by the slice pizza at its best. And it is indeed the pizza I grew up on.

Sure there's Lombardi's (where pizza was invented), Grimaldi's and John's (who both got their start at Lombardi's) and they are great, but that's sitdown eat a whole pie kind of place. Sal and Carmine are of a more common New York tradition and you are hardpressed to find something as classic and authentically Italian as they are save for parts of Brooklyn, the Bronx and Mulberry street in Manhattan.

I started eating Sal and Carmine’s when I was 11, not long after my parents split up and my dad moved to a tiny studio apartment on Amsterdam Avenue and 95^th Street from our place on 103rd and Central Park West. Back then Sal’s, as it was known then, was a hole in the wall with no tables and white tile everywhere. The counter had barely enough room for the brothers in law to work. But work they did. Making pizza after pizza, serving slice after slice after slice. It was rarely empty, rarely navigable. It was always delicious.

When the neighborhood yuppified in the 80s they were forced to move up about 7 blocks. It was worth the extra time. Back then, the real estate line was sharp…at about 99^th street the neighborhood remained a mix of middle class and sketchy, rental was still a bit cheaper than the rest of the area so the new space, now called Sal and Carmine’s had 7 tables in the back. The ovens and the flavor never changed.

Sal and Carmine never bought into the ridiculousness of putting every damned thing on their pizza the way so many of the newer, generally awful pizza places do. They stuck and continue to stick to the basics. Woody Allen's joke no longer applies in New York. The bad pizza here is pretty fucking bad. In my part of Brooklyn (Crown Heights/BedStuy) the local pizza makes you lose the will to live, it's that horrible.

When I moved out of my dad’s place 27 years ago part of my life became about finding places nearby that were approachable to Sal and Carmine’s. Not just because of the goodness but because of the memories.

When my parents split up I was of course pretty devastated. Dad was over ever Wednesday and we went to his place every other weekend. The distance between mom's place and dad's wasn't that far so we were lucky in that we still got to see him.

Dad had discovered Sal’s right after the move and Saturday pizza with Star Trek reruns on Channel 11 became the tradition when we visited. It was a tiny studio apartment and my brother and I slept on inflatable mattresses on the floor, but we had fun. There was always something to do and of course, Sal’s Pizza and Star Trek every Saturday.

Years later I moved in with dad so I could go to the high school I wanted to go to, my brother stayed with my mother who had moved out to Long Island and we switched off weekends. The Saturday tradition never changed, though there would be additions of Space 1999 (we would talk about how awful it was), UFO, Battlestar Galactica (to this day I wish dad had stuck around long enough to see the new one. He’d have loved it). But Star Trek was always on the Channel 11 lineup and Sal’s pizza was always in ours.

This was dad/son bonding time and just plain fun. We’d call ahead and order by phone, then go pick up. They never delivered so we always went to pick it up…always chatted with Carmine mostly, Sal was usually silent but never unfriendly. We would vary sometimes and get toppings, just for fun…and they were always good. Even better, if there were leftovers, we’d have cold pizza for breakfast.

Trust me, this is a sublime pleasure when the pizza is good. It doesn’t work for all pizzas.

More and more as the years pass and the pain of my father’s suicide is layered over by years, experience and perspective, Sal and Carmine’s pizza remains my favorite dad related set of memories.

As some of you know, this past summer I tried my hand at apartment showing for a real estate firm on the Upper West Side. This was not a terribly successful venture, in the two months I did this I made under $700 altogether and generally ended up wanting to go postal on “clients”. It is an industry I may return to but not with that particular venue.

A plus though was that many of the apartments I showed were in my old neighborhood and I had some pretty surreal experiences showing apartments on blocks that we didn’t even go to when I was a kid because they were too dangerous. Wild stuff, and fun.

Mid July I was showing an apartment in the low 100s to a couple of college girls. I was in a pensive mood. It was what would have been my father’s 72^nd birthday and whenever it is his birthday or the anniversary of the day we found him I’m always a tad on edge. Even when I don’t realize what day it is.

It was warm, but there was a slight rain that tempered the warmth that made the day actually very pleasant. I showed the apartment (which I liked very much but the girl's typically didn't, that's another blog for another day. Spoiled young clients with no clue), afterward I chose to walk a bit before heading back to the office. Lo and behold, there was Carmine tossing away and spinning a pie.

At this point I was certain that Sal and Carmine’s was no more. I hadn’t been in this part of town in a very long time. The last time I had been I “misremembered” the location and found what I thought in it’s place one of those newfangled awful pizza places that specialized in dreadful toppings to mask the utter lack of flavor. At this moment I was in one of those rare states of mind here I am deeply grateful that I am wrong about something. I stared for awhile, took a picture and then walked inside and ordered a slice and a cherry soda which was my standard back at dad’s.

Carmine looked much older of course than the last time I’d been there which I think was about 10 years. I wasn’t aware at the time that Sal had passed a year earlier, but given how old they must have been I surmised and said nothing to Carmine, only that I was so happy to see him.

He remembered me after a few minutes and asked about my dad and brother. I lied and told him that dad was fine but had moved away years ago. I didn’t want to get into it. I was too happy with the sight of Carmine, the taste of my favorite pizza which had not altered a jot. I savored every bite, grinning the entire time. I wanted this moment to be about the good memory, not grief.

I thanked Carmine for the years of great pizza and that I couldn't wait to be back again then left. I stood outside for a few moments and said quietly “Happy Birthday, Dad”, then turned and headed back to the office.

Twelve Years

Twelve years ago this week I was spending my days going through my father's apartment with my brother. Dad had shot himself on the 9th and his body was found by his oldest friend in New York on the 12th. Twelve years ago Wednesday.

Twelve years ago I was sifting through grief, memory and questions questions questions. Not the ones you might think. The fact is, when I got the call from my brother that the police had called him from Dad's apartment, I knew what had happened. I'd hoped I was wrong. But I knew.

Mom said it best that night when we called to let her know. "He was always so sad". It was true. He was also scared. Whatever the combination, he had a dim world view.

I loved my dad. He was basically a good man who never really dealt with his anger issues, his alcoholism or his strengths. A talented actor, he'd packed us up from Tucson Arizona, sold the Ford Falcon and got us on a train to New York City and went straight into substitute teaching and social work. His career as an actor was essentially small productions in holes in the wall (before the moniker "Off Off Broadway" was coined.) and extra work in movies.

As a kid I would listen while he would lament the vagaries of the business and how hard it was...and it instilled in me the belief that the business was indeed brutal. It didn't stop me from wanting to be an actor. It didn't stop me from thinking I could do better. But these things are insidious and the sins of the father are often visited upon the son. His beliefs did become mine and even when I achieved some pretty good if minor successes, my joy would be tainted by fear of the success not lasting.

Now to be sure, being an actor isn't easy. It can be brutal, but I can see very clearly as I look back how my own thoughts and feelings that were inherited affected the way I approached my career and subsequently the way my career developed...or didn't as it turns out.

Twelve years ago fears and doubts overtook my father to the point that he no longer was able to reason. This man who raced down the street with me...encouraged me to take the training wheels off my back when he knew I could. The man who when he saw I was floundering in my efforts to audition for the High School of Performing Arts bought a gazillion plays for me to look through and helped me find the right pieces and even coached me. A man who as a social worker had saved or improved as best he could, so many lives, wasn't even able to remember a simple meditation technique because anxiety had overcome him.

He'd been given Buspar and started to take it, then stopped. 12 years ago it got so bad that he sat at the edge of his bed and ate the barrel of a .357 magnum. He left a note that was really more of an excuse than anything else. Fears of a cancer that didn't exist.
Two weeks later, the girl he wanted to marry, a dancer from Japan was finally allowed back into the country. He'd become convinced it wouldn't happen after months of legal back and forth. Fear of being alone and abandoned convinced him that his life wouldn't work out as he desired. So it seems he decided to just stop trying.
12 years later I still wrestle with loving him and hating him. Remembering his capacity for compassion for everyone while he seemed to only have pity for himself. I am sometimes on the edge of forgiving him. And then I remember having to tell my daughter what happened. I remember how as she is now almost 20 years old, she can't play chess because that's what she used to do with Grandpa. I can't quite do it.
For the past 12 years, for about 3 weeks before and after the anniversaries, he shows up in my dreams. Sometimes as if he's never been gone, sometimes as if he's only been on some trip in South America or something and we all just THOUGHT he was dead.I forget about it...forget it's that time of year...sometimes even the days of his actual death or the day he was found go by entirely unnoticed. Sometimes not.
Twelve years later I can watch Dirty Harry make one line comments about his Magnum and still get a kick out of it. But when Heroes first aired and there was an episode with half a skull being cut off and brains removed, I get completely worked up.
I wrestle with fear too. And it's not hard to see how it keeps me from acting. Clouds my thinking. I've made a decades long struggle of shifting from "can't" to "can". It hasn't been easy.
Twelve years ago I cremated my father. Twelve years later I'm still cremating parts of his legacy so I can rise from the ashes.

So...what AM I doing?

When I was 5 or 6 years old I started to get it into my head that I wanted to be an actor.

My mom and dad married in Tucson Arizona and a year later I was born and a year after that we moved to New York, so that dad could pursue a career as an actor. They'd sold the car and got us all on the train because my mom hated to fly (still does).

Dad's headshot from 1963

By the time I was 5 dad was working a lot as an actor on the side from being a social worker...but only as an extra in movies and commercials. Still to a little boy this seemed pretty exciting, especially as the bug began to bite me too.

At that point in my tiny life I had already run the gamut; policeman, fireman, secret agent, mayor but then the classic 'little boy wants to be just like dad' thing kicked in I started talking about being an actor. I started talking about it a lot. I even wrote a short essay in school and drew a picture of my dad in front of a camera, then added one of me in front of a camera.

But there was something more going on for me...it was going beyond wanting to be like dad because I kept talking about it.

Right around the age of 6 my dad said to me that there was a movie coming on channel 13 that I should see if I really wanted to be an actor. He told me that it featured a man then widely considered the greatest actor in the world and in one of the most famous parts any actor can play. He was talking about Laurence Olivier's film of Hamlet.

For what seemed an eternity I waited for this movie...I asked my dad all kinds of questions and he helped me to understand it.

Lest you wonder what the hell a dad was doing encouraging a little boy to watch a film of a tragic and violent play, let me tell you, my father was great at prepping me. The ending was hard, almost everyone dies, this is what a tragedy is...etc.  Yeah, I think in this case, spoilers were acceptable, because it really did help.

Finally the movie was showing. I guess it was a Saturday night. A very special event. Possibly the first time it was on TV in New York since ABC had shown it in the 50s. Anyway. I was transfixed.

The film is as luscious as any black and white film can be. Filled with haunting atmosphere and cinematography...AND...it had a ghost in it

I found this thrilling. THRILLING. Slow moving. The eyes invisible behind the helm. Only a pained motion of a bearded face.

And the language....Let's face it...at 6 I had no idea what the fuck was being said...but it sounded incredible and I was "bound to hear".

I
Was
Hooked.

But what really got me in the end of this movie was the duel between Hamlet and Laertes. I can find no pictures to really capture the thrilling choreography and tension...but this too grabbed me by my Batman t-shirt and held me transfixed.

I was on the edge of the couch. I was haunted by ghosts, funerals, drowning maidens and Shakespeare's language. In short, I was ruined.

I went to bed that night, fencing. Laying on my back and crossing swords in the air until I finally fell into a deep sleep.

I woke up the next day, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was the actor's life for me....

to be continued...

Below are links through my Amazon Associates account to the DVD of this movie. You just can't appreciate the beauty of it here. You have to see it. It's well worth it and worthy of any movie lover's collection. I don't agree with the Freudian take of the movie, but it was the prevailing wisdom in 1948 and so is interesting in that context.

Then there is the Campbell Scott version, which for pure storytelling and stunning acting must be seen. Campbell is  a grossly under-appreciated actor. I had the privilege of being in class with him over 20 years ago under Geraldine Page. Fecking Brilliant.

Dad

Its been a week since I've blogged here. I've been tired or just not able to prod my lazy ass to write what's been on my mind. There's a Star Trek blog coming up soon, I just haven't been up to it.

This time of year is a weird time for me. I am easily distracted, often irritable and yesterday I was reminded it was indeed that time.

11 years ago today, my father's body was found after suicide a few days earlier. It happened in what was a period that seemed to be a step up from a very hard several years for me and served as a major setback, not only emotionally, but spiritually and financially.

In a lot of ways I'm STILL recovering. I've never quite forgiven him for the mess he left behind, both literal and figurative. For the pain he left his granddaughter in who was just shy of turning 8 at the time.

I have, however, come to miss him. As with us all, our father's shape so much of who we are. My love of movies comes from him, pop culture and the like. My political nature is my mother's, my geekdom, entirely from dad.

In the last few years I've thought a lot about how he would have loved the reboots of our old favorites; Battlestar Galactica, James Bond and now Star Trek. He was a big Western fan too. GOD he would have loved Firefly.

I think he would have loved them. Especially Casino Royale. He was in a great deal of psychic pain, obviously, but I can never understand how he shut himself from the experiences he had yet to have. Watching his granddaughter grow and become a college student, the shows she was in...all that.

And as I said, there's Star Trek. I think he would have gotten a big kick out of this last movie. It had a lot of nods to the old sci fi movies of the 40s and 50s that he loved as well as being Trek itself. I can even see tears in his eyes as it brought back good memories of his youth and how so often pop culture comes fill circle for us.

Dad, I hope you are resting peacefully. I hope one day I can forgive you for being so fucking stupid and selfish. And I hope you can watch movies wherever you are and that they have an IMAX.

Below are a couple of old pics of him.

Dad's Headshot from 1963 when we moved from Tucson to New York so he could start his career as an actor. I was a year old. He sold the car and we took the train from Tucson, through Chicago and into NYC.

The only real break my dad's career ever got. This is from an ad campaign from the 70s. Of this particular campaign dad's was the most popular, appearing in more places than any of the others. There's a picture of dad on some highway standing under a ginormous version of this picture... I mean Godzilla big. Alas, it didn't translate into much further work.