From Behind the Ivy Walls: After witnessing the wondrous lifestyle of Chambersburg, I knew this was where I had to be. I never wanted to leave, and although I wasn’t Italian, I needed to belong to this neighborhood. I saw a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of the Hudson Beer Garden on the corner of Hudson and Mott streets, which was right around the corner from my rooming house. It was a well-known, family-oriented, Italian bar and restaurant. I just strode into the Hudson, as it was affectionately called, with my biggest smile and all the nerve I could muster and told them that I was their new pizza guy. Louie was right. I would never want for a job with that skill. The restaurant was one of the ‘Burg’s longtime legends. I remember listening to the local radio station and hearing the slogan, “I’m going to the Hudson,” like it was yesterday. I finally felt like I belonged and had found a home. One of the owners interviewed me. He was an ex-boxer in his 40s, and he ran the kitchen with an iron fist. Everyone knew he was the boss back there. He was about five-foot-six and of stocky build. Thick, jet-black hair was pushed straight back. He always had a heavy, rough beard. Even if he’d shaved in the morning, by nighttime he had thick, black stubble. He was quite the sight, never changing out of his white over-starched chef’s shirt and pants. He even wore the uniform on days when he wasn’t working. They were so starched that at night when he finally took them off to go to sleep, I think he must have stood them up in the corner of the room. He lived in an apartment above the restaurant and always talked about his dream of going back to the Old Country one day. Not just a chef, he also loved games of chance. He played poker in the neighborhood joints, but he loved craps better. He loved it so much that he often had guys over for a game in the basement of the restaurant. That way he could play all night, and if they needed him in the kitchen, he could just run upstairs and cook something. I don’t think he ever left the neighborhood or made it back to Italy, but he was definitely the Don of Chambersburg to me. At the time I applied for the job, I was cleaned up and was no longer looking like a bum, but I still had very long hair and wore it in a ponytail halfway down my back. When I walked in and asked for the job, he took one look at me and fell against a wall, holding his hand to his chest while laughing hysterically. He asked how the heck a WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) hippy like me knew how to make tomato pies—another word for pizzas in Chambersburg. I laughed right back at him and said, “You just show me the kitchen and stand back and watch the magic.” With that, we both went into the kitchen, and I made a couple of beautiful tomato pies for him. They were far better looking and more appetizing than the pies he made, because I never touched those rounded edges and the pies cooked perfectly. I even got cocky and flipped the second one high into the air, where it lightly scraped the ceiling, and it came down the perfect size for the pan. He was so impressed that he hired me on the spot...
Posted on: Sun, 17 Aug 2014 19:34:04 +0000