A Tuna Fish Story - by Dom Capossela

My mother may have been the greatest among the great cooks in the North End, but she was not one for entertaining: her nerves constantly got the better of her. So, hosting a lunch for three of her closest friends was a once in a lifetime occasion and, on being invited, her guests carried on as though they had won two tickets to a Taylor Swift concert.

Mom planned her day well, reserving the final thirty minutes before her guests’ scheduled arrival to execute the recipe. To her dismay, the over-eager guests arrived a half-hour early. My mother tried to smile but failed. She offered her guests some feeble excuse for her glistening eyes.

I was only eight but could see her anguish and, spontaneously, without being asked, without reference to my utter lack of kitchen experience, save casually watching my mother do it 195 times, I began to gather the ingredients she would be needing. Tuna Fish, celery, red onion, red ripe tomato, black olives, lettuce, olive oil, mayonnaise, salt, freshly-ground black pepper, a bowl, a knife, a can opener, (I hope you’re recording this for your own use) and of course, as essential as the tuna fish itself, the loaf of crusty Italian bread hardly out of the oven an hour. That I knew first hand because I had gone out to buy the bread, waiting patiently at the bakery for five minutes until the loaves were ready. I tucked the hot baguette under my arm, headed out the door, and ripped off the heel, chewing on it while I walked home: the errand boy’s prerogative.

So, I finished the mis en place, ready for mom to step over and take charge. But she was in entertainment mode, noticeably relaxing. I took her nonchalance as a “Go on,” and began the chop. You already have surmised the rest. One thing led to another. The chop done, I blended the ingredients, tasted the salad, and added more salt. I sliced the bread open and stuffed that entire tuna salad into it. I cut the baguette into sandwiches and served the women.

You should have heard the oohs and ahhs when the women bit into their sandwiches.
Bit? If ‘bit’ conjures up a dainty nibble of soft American-style Wonder bread, followed by a delicate dabbing of their mouths with fine linen napkins, forget about it. Think ‘ravenously attacked,’ growling as they ripped resistant chunks of the crunchy subs and chewed themselves into ecstasy.

Their lack of decorum didn’t offend. Quite the contrary. I never forgot, will never forget, how good it felt to create edible art.

Who knew that in the distant future, after four years of private high school, after a BA from BU and
an LLB from BC, after I passed the Massachusetts bar exam and hung out my shingle, who knew that when one of my clients offered to pay his legal bill with an abandoned building, the building with a location perfect for a restaurant on the ground floor, who knew that the memory of that tiny tuna moment would awaken and, wielding its transformative magic, upset my carefully planned life, and reshape my lifetime aspirations? Who knew then that I would spend the next thirty years of my life operating a high-end Italian restaurant?