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The Feast

Joani Reese

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Our train rolls south from Bridgeport past the blue noses in Fairfield and Westport — the mistake that is Stamford. Peeping into Greenwich, Manhattan’s ermine-lined bedroom, we ride the express train into Grand Central for the Feast of San Gennaro.

Shawl-clad grandmothers waddle down Spring Street’s cobbles, cloaked as black as Catholic guilt, swollen feet stuffed like cannolis into Payless shoes, they will kneel to pray their penance for sad souls stranded in purgatory, their scarved heads bowed. Carved rosaries sway between curved fingers.

These blackbirds of faith congregate al fresco after evening mass at St. Patrick’s. They perch on nineteenth century stoops to drink espresso and dip almond biscotti–Old ladies chattering about their God. Of course He is Italian. Padre Luca Fallica tells them so. Once a year, they gather to watch the profane crowds annex these narrow streets on which they were born and on which they hope to die.

Green, red and white banners blaze above Mulberry and Houston to announce this September ritual. Bright posters wave Cannoli! Zeppole’s! We plunge into Manhattan’s Indian-summer, cash in hand. Deep-fried calamari and sausage and pepper heroes scent a welcome on the breeze.

Sheeted white booths mask sooty tenements as portable grills and deep-fryers sing for the dance of tourists who gobble frittata, calzones, spumoni, and zabaglione. We come to hear bad music, breathe the garlic of Little Italy, drink mellow chianti.

We win useless stuffed animals, give them away, dunk sad clowns for a dollar. Fried donuts shake with powdered sugar inside brown paper bags. There are t-shirts to purchase, pick-pockets to avoid.

We stroll up Mulberry to Hester filled with stromboli, nostalgia, paper-cup wine. This annual shoulder- to-shoulder pilgrimage of gimme caps and logo shirts offers temporary succor in a world that slowly succumbs to conformity’s siren song.

The corner table where Crazy Joe Gallo met his last supper has vanished.

Umberto’s metal kitchen door, where years of gawkers poked fingers into bullet wounds, was hauled to the dump long ago. One more glance around before we hail a cab to start our journey home.

On the corner, McDonald’s is stuffed with eaters. Children in stocking feet play reassuring games. The smell of sizzling fries overpowers the exotic weave of flavors perfuming Little Italy’s air. The young grow distant, move away. Fires of tradition flicker, grow cold. Our late night taxi hums into the station. The train for Connecticut waits as darkness folds over a sepia sky.

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Joani Reese is a poet and writer living in northern Texas.

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