The meatball

 Back in the 70s, I worked for a General Motors radiator plant in upstate New York. I'd made a few friends, one of whom was Anthony Dacrupa. His love for Italian food was well known and usually all he talked about. He said he had tried a dozen Italian restaurants since moving here from Chicago, where there were so many restaurants it would take a lifetime to try them all. One night after second shift, I asked him to come with me to experience what I believed was the very best in Italian cuisine. He was leery of anything I suggested, no matter the topic, but he eventually agreed, and that night we rode down a back-county road and saw what looked like a run-down farmhouse. Set back off the road, mostly a place that time had forgotten. But inside, everything changed. Opening into what was once a large living room with velvet curtains and wine racks in each corner. The walls were papered with paintings of Italy, and the flags from both countries proudly displayed. Red table cloths and napkins on every table, and in the background, the sound of someone singing at the top of his lungs, old songs from the old country. I told Anthony that Geno was the owner and that he would soon come to our table to tell us about that night's menu. What he can't afford, menus we read ourselves, Anthony asked. Just then, a waiter, the only waiter, came to our table with two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. He poured us a glass and disappeared back into the kitchen. Where some angry Italian voices were coming from the kitchen and a broken glass or two, Geno put on his best smile and came to our table. His English was very broken, but we managed to ask what was on the menu, and he replied, meatball. Anthony looked puzzled, as did I, as he went on to tell us that his meatball had won many prizes back home and that he should come to America and open a restaurant where countless people could experience it for themselves. And with a bow, he backed up, then turned to the kitchen, barking out in Italian, Two meatballs.

Good thing there's a 24-hour diner not that far from here. Anthony said, "I don't think one meatball is going to fill me up. We looked around the room at every table and noticed there were no appetizers or bread baskets in front of the people eating. Just a bottle of Chianti and enough glasses. Then, with a bit of fanfare, Geno and his sole waiter pushed carts out of the kitchen and served every guest a plate with the biggest meatball they had ever seen. When I say it was big, I meant huge, the size of a softball, maybe even bigger.

Geno began by saying, " Don't let the look surprise you. Take your fork and gently pull back some of the ball, where you'll find four layers of the finest cheeses anywhere. Let your fork dig deeper as it passes through two layers of fresh tomatoes I grow in the back yard. Have a taste of the sauce mixed with some cheese as I continue. Using a knife and fork, cut further into the ball, where you'll find a layer of veal and a layer of lightly seasoned homemade sausage. Now use your knife and fork to cut the ball into three sections, then use the ladle provided to mix the ingredients in the bowl with a combination of fresh vegetables that have simmered to perfection. Lastly, use the ladle to pour the tomato sauce from the bowl provided all over the best meatball you've ever tasted. Anthony and I became regulars at Genos, along with many friends who had to see firsthand why one meatball was the only thing on the menu.

Mike 2026