Braciola and Eddie’s Shoes, By Joe Ortiz

FEATURED COLUMNIST

Braciola and Eddie’s Shoes

Editor’s note: This biographical story contains slang from 70 years ago that is offensive today.

Previously: Dad left us alone at the Coney Island Pier to fish while he went “on errands” — which probably meant bar-hopping near the Boardwalk.

•••

We waited and waited. By then Laura and I were cold and shivering, and the sun was fading toward New York, we weren’t even fishing anymore. Laura said that, by the way Dad talked, she wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t left for Miami and the dog races, or maybe we’d hear from him in a few weeks from Arizona or even California. At this news I felt myself becoming numb, starting to shiver even more.

As the evening became darker, a figure walking toward us on the pier came closer, and we could tell it was Dad because of his familiar swagger, whistling as if nothing had happened.

We started clawing at him, asking questions but he didn’t listen. He just said, “Pack up, kids, let’s go.” Laura knew what was happening. We were going to sit at a bar while Dad drank beer and yakked with his friends. If nothing else, we’d be out of the cold, and maybe he’d buy us glasses of Coke with ice and cherries on top. And maybe get in on a few more stories.

On the way to Sal’s Bar, Dad started talking about the crap game again.

“The game always takes place in the alley behind the shoe shop, kids,” Dad said.

“Eddie trows da dice and they land next to his new cordovan French-toed shoes, and we all see a two-inch knife cut right on the toe.

“Eddie said they cost him eighty dollas at shop on Lexington Avenoo. And when he said it happened in Harlem, everyone gasped. It’s a miracle to come back from Harlem with shoes at all, kids. With all your limbs intact.”

Laura and I stared at one another.

“People like us cause trouble in Harlem, kids.” Laura told me later that it didn’t matter if a Puerto Rican like Dad had olive-colored skin, he better watch out in Harlem. And if you were a whitie like Eddie was even worse.

“Eddie and this darkie get to scuffing and punching,” Dad said, “... when the guy pulls out a knife.”

Laura’s eyes were bugging out and I’m sure mine were too.

“Eddie sweeps dis guy’s feet out from under him,” Dad said. “And the darkie lunges wit da knife and slashes Eddie’s shoe.

“Eddie made it outta Harlem wit his life, kids,” Dad said. “But his shoes are dead. So, he decides ta bring ‘em ova to my shoe shop ta see what magic I can do.”

Dad waited for a response from us, but we were speechless.

“Eddie said he wished da guy ha cut his leg instead,” Dad said. “Can you imagine? He was almost in tears.”

Dad was getting to the good part just as we arrived at Sal’s Place near the Boardwalk. When we walked in, Uncle Johnny and Cousin Rosemarie, were sitting at the bar. But Johnny was too busy telling everyone he can make Braciola even better than most Italians to even notice us.

“A lot a people think they know how ta make brasho,” Uncle said. “But all kina people told me my brasho’s da best.

“The secret is ta use all raw ingredients ta roll up in da beef. But I don’t use no hardboiled egg.”

Everyone used to laugh at him until they tasted his braciola. Rosemarie started to say something about the egg, but Uncle Johnny said, “Shut up, Rose, don’t tell nobody my secret.”

Laura and I laughed; it was good to see someone else get told to shut up. Still, no one noticed us because Dad was practically holding us hostage by the door so we could hear the whole story.

“Da trouble wit the way da Dagos make it is using cooked egg,” Uncle said. “But I use raw egg. Dat way, when you bake it, the egg doesn’t dry out. And the meat doesn’t taste like shoe leather.

“And speaking of shoe leather,” Johnny said, lifting his glass and spotting Dad in the corner and. “There’s my brotha now, the best goddamn shoe repairman in the greata New York area.”

Laura, Rosemarie, and I, now seated at the bar, began to perk up when Johnny started talking about fixing shoes instead of food.

“Last week,” Johnny said, “Herman proves he’s da greatest. Eddie’s got a cut on da toe of his shoe as wide as a darkie smilin’ in the night. And Herman’s da only shoe repairman in da greata New York area dat has da cajones to try and fix it. But it’s gonna cost Eddie 20 bucks.

“Herman doesn’t wanna give away no secrets. But I seen him do it before. He takes ground shoe leather, mixes it with cordovan shoe dye and some special glue and rubs it inta da crack. Den he takes da filling down to the surface on the sanding wheel, buffs it out, and re-dyes the front tip of da shoe. Da naked eye can’t tell da shoe’s been touched. Like wit our cookin’, da Puerto Rican mind can turn garbage inta gold.”

“It costs Herman 50 cents to do the job and he makes twenty bucks on da deal.

“But you’re gonna die when you hear what happened next. . .”

“Now, Johnny,” Dad said. His face turned that pale, pasty look it got when he wound up in hot water with Mom. Uncle just kept on talking.

“When Eddie gets his hands on the dice,” Uncle said, “Strange numbas start showing up. Eddie’s numbas.

“Da pot grows,” Uncle Johnny said. “Eight, sixteen, thirty-two dollas. Herman starts ta turn blue.

“Pretty soon Eddie’s thirty dollas up, and da twenty dollas Herman just talked outta Eddie ta fix da shoes are right back in Eddie’s pocket.”

Braciola — Stuffed Skirt Steak

Serves: 4

This recipe is linked to the time Dad fixed the knife wax paper and, pound until it’s about ¼ inch thick (thin as cut on Eddie Ryan’s shoes by gluing ground shoe leather into the crack, then — according to my Uncle Johnny — grinding it down so “the naked eye couldn’t tell da difference.” It was the same night we caught Johnny bragging about his secret technique for adding the egg. But now I’m realizing no one uses egg at all, it was just Johnny’s penchant for fictional elaboration (read “lying”) in telling a story. 1 skirt steak weighing 1 1/2 pounds

Salt and pepper to taste 5 to 6 slices of Prosciutto ½ cup chopped spinach ½ cup chopped parsley 6 cloves garlic, minced fine 3/4 cup breadcrumbs 1 ½ cup grated Parmesan 2 tablespoons olive oil and 2 tablespoons butter 2 (28 ounce) cans Italian plum tomatoes. (To prep the tomatoes, sauté 6 cloves of garlic, minced, in a few tablespoons of olive oil, add the tomatoes and simmer with a little water for a few hours over low heat, stirring frequently.) •••

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Place the steak between 2 pieces of possible). The steak should measure about 6 to 7 inches wide by 20 inches long. Set aside. Poach the spinach in a little pan of hot water over low to medium heat for a few minutes. When cool, squeeze it try with your hands. Heat the butter in a skillet and sauté the garlic until translucent. Let cool. In a medium bowl, combine the breadcrumbs, grated Parmesan, parsley, spinach, and until well blended. Lay the steak out on a flat surface, fat side down, and cover the meat with the prosciutto slices, then about a ¾-inchthick layer of the filling. The mixture should be an inch or so from the back edge, and then roll it into a log of about 2 inches in diameter. Secure with toothpicks (tying with kitchen twine is best). Heat the olive oil and butter in a casserole pan large enough to hold the log (or cut in 8-inch lengths to accommodate) and fry the meat until brown on all sides (4 to 5 minutes). Pour 4 to 6 cups of the tomato sauce over the meat and bake in the 350-degree oven for 1 hour 30 minutes. Let the logs cool ten minutes, then slice and serve with some of the sauce on top. n

By Joe Ortiz

•••

On the subway home, a pretty lady across from us had her skirt hiked up. I looked over at Dad, whose head was cocked back, his mouth wide open. He must have fallen asleep while taking a look. Laura was distracted by playing with the fishing lines, so I leaned back and slid down in my seat to get my own look up the lady’s skirt.

When we arrived at the elevated Queensborough station and went down to street level, we went into the Asian fish market where Dad bought a few flounder filets. Outside the shop, he ripped off the white butcher paper and wrapped the fish in newspaper.

“Mom asks, we caught this offa da pier,” he said. “It’s fa her I’m doin’ it. You know she gets sad when we don’t catch no fish,” he said.

“She doesn’t ask, don’t say nothin’.”

“And Eddie’s shoes? Keep ya mouths shut.” n