Willie

Willie said he couldn’t, and he didn’t, alright. You can always trust Willie. If anyone knows what he can’t do, it’s Willie. But Willie could cook. He cooked up a storm.  His father was from Italy: Giuliano D’Abruzzi, and he cooked, too. He married a woman who grew into herself the way the old country usually did, the way the new country is starting to. Cooking and eating fools, the D’Abruzzis.

Hotel management wanted him to be a bootblack. He knew he couldn’t do it. He knew a sole from a sole. It was not in him. He did not polish, he rubbed, marinated, soaked, tied, parboiled, skewered, stuffed, filleted, infused, brought to a boil, minced, chopped, sliced, tossed, sauteed, slow-roasted, broiled, reduced, mixed, whipped, folded, kneaded, divided, skimmed and ladled; stewed, fricasseed, barbecued, coated, trimmed, brushed and garnished. He made essences and grew his own garlic.

It would never work. Nor would laundry man, desk clerk, appointment manager, sous chef (though he admired these above many things), gardener, livery, valet, newspaper boy, doorman, concierge; waiter, hairdresser, electrician, plumber, maintenance man or switchboard operator.

 But he could cook, lord he could cook; even though he apparently had to do it elsewhere.