January 8, 2009 |
Short Order
I’ve been immersed in Pino Lungo’s juicy and revealing new memoir, Dirty Dishes: A Restaurateur’s Story of Passion, Pain and Pasta (Bloomsbury USA). As immersed as an overcommitted workaholic blogger can be, that is. I’ve been reading it in the tub, on the subway, in taxis, and when I take a break to eat my salad between postings.
It seems I sold restaurateur Pino Luongo short for years. From his early days at Il Cantinori, I remember him gesturing to the fabulous march of antipasti reminiscent of antipasti thrills in Rome. I thought of him as “that cocky waiter.” And later the cocky maitre d’. Then at Le Madri and Coco Pazzo, that crafty showbizzy restaurateur. Since I am admittedly as full of myself as Pino is, and always assume what I believe to be the only truth, I just never gave him his due. The book, Luongo’s version of his life and his role in the Italian dining revolution, sets me straight.
Did you know that Pino Luongo brought regional cooking to New York? It wasn’t Tony May at his Italian Festivals in the Rainbow Room. And it wasn’t Sylvano Marchetto at Da Silvano where Pino, newly arrived in New York without any English, pulled himself out of a homesick funk to work as a busboy. No credit for that darling Alfredo Viazzi who died much too young leaving memories of garlicky soppresetta and the marvelous cacciuco that drew James Beard to lunch at Trattoria da’Alfredo’s front window table.
So I really owe the guy a big apology or half an apology. It was his ideas, his menu, at times, even his cooking. He really was there, nursing our appetite for robbiolo cheese stuffed into a split focaccia and puntarella alla romana, juggling celebrities at Sapori di Mare and daring to sell tableware and Tuscan soap at Tuscan Square. His story is convincing. Co-author Andrew Friedman has done a brilliant job of getting the basically defensive man to reveal the inner Pino, the insecurities, the missteps, the prickly defenses that defeated his analyst. You might not exactly fall in love with him or swallow the tomato whole – he’s too Me Generation for that, but in the end when he’s lost almost everything, you do actually care. Meanwhile it’s a saucy and spicy read. And you definitely should visit him at Centolire where I recently rediscovered the man as expansive host, visibly humbled (or maybe just mellowed), and his famous rigatoni alla buttera with sausage and peas.
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