GROWING UP VIOLA…THE FORCE OF 40

           Everybody has people in their life who are like skin tags—unsightly, annoying, but not really life-threatening and easily ignored. Then there’s family; more specifically a large tightly-knit Italian family, where the only cure is intense therapy or total submersion. I was born into a family rooted to the borough of Fort Lee like goutweed—pervasive and impossible to remove. My maternal grandparents met and married in Fort Lee, and immediately began a population explosion. My mother was one of 10 Viola children; had my grandfather not died at a young age she would have probably been one of many more children. And those ten children, whose lives are indelibly etched into the character and history of old Fort Lee, left legacies nearly impossible for their children to live up to.

          I was born into the pack of second-generation Viola’s—the grandchildren who overly-populated Fort Lee back in the ‘60’s and early ‘70’s—a time when families moved around, but never moved away. There were about 40 first-cousins who lived within a mile of my house and we saw each other almost daily—we were bonded by blood, proximity, and a four-foot-ten inch grandmother who left her enduring mark on each and every one of us old enough to remember her. We used to get the shakes whenever our parents said that Grandma was babysitting. Let’s face it; a woman widowed with ten children at the age of 37 who worked many jobs to keep her family together was not in the business of suffering whiny grandchildren.  She did rub whiskey on our gums whether or not we were teething, but tough luck if you needed your diaper changed! In the ‘60’s, my older cousins actually had to work with her in one of the Fort Lee film labs. My cousin Charlie’s stories about “Working with Grandma” would rival every episode of Seinfeld.

Sundays bordered on the ridiculous, and it still amazes me that Grandma’s pot of sauce (not gravy) never went empty and her apartment in the Gnasso house, now the restaurant In Napoli, contained all our traffic. (Though, God as my witness, I’ll never eat another raisin and pignioli meatball again or sauce with pig knuckles—I always thought the pig was giving me the bare-knuckled finger!)  The noise level from those Viola gatherings still ring in my ears—the laughter, the shouting; the jokes, the shouting; the conversation, the shouting. When Uncle Joey asked someone to pass the salt it sounded like an invitation to fight, his voice so thunderous it exploded in my ears. But as a family, we had to live loud—it was the only way to be heard.

          There were definite advantages to being a part of such a large extended family. When I was three, my cousin Carol took me on her dates with Richie; my cousin Joey let me and my other cousins play in the engine room of Fort Lee Firehouse #1; my cousin Cheryl let me wear her make-up; my cousin Karen gave me all her “original” Barbie’s; and my cousin Danny, an outstanding Fort Lee football player in the early ‘70’s, would carry me on his padded shoulders onto the field after a home game win. It was the closest I ever came to being “cool.”

          When you’re part of a family that big and that close, the lines between brother, sister, cousin blur. When one of us got into trouble, we were always aware and there. And boy, we’ve had our share. Being a Viola is like running with a gang. I remember in high school some boy was giving me a really hard time until someone mentioned that I was a Viola. Immediately his whole attitude changed and he treated me with respect. I realized then, that although I didn’t carry the Viola name, I carried with me the force of 40. It was the first real powerful moment of my life.

          Time moves on, and so have we. Family gatherings are now intermittent weddings and too many funerals, but the force of 40 lives forever within me; always beside me; ever-present shadows on the streets of old Fort Lee.

PLACES TO GO IN THE HIGH HOLY DAYS OF WINTER: WINTER; EAT YOUR HEART OUT!

          Okay, I’m in total Mardi Gras mode. I’m serious; January begins the high holy days of winter, so why deny myself the comfort that only food and libations can provide? I’m done with setting goals on January 1^st that I will ultimately reject. It’s when everybody falls off the wagon during March Madness that I buckle down and get serious. For now, I snuggle by the fire (read: candle) in my Snuggie, toast my feet in my Fuggs (fake-Uggs), pour myself Makers Mark (great Christmas present-- thanks brother!) in a cut-crystal bourbon glass, and snack on a plate filled with Spanish cheeses, Italian prosciutto, sliced pears, and spicy pecans. Put down the celery sticks and join me. Here are my picks of the season:

Cedar Lane Cinemas, 503 Cedar Lane, Teaneck (201) 836-3334:  If you ever wondered what movie theaters were like when they were independently owned, come to Nelson Page’s Cedar Lane Cinemas. Nelson is a film aficionado and hosts screenings of young independent film-makers. He also gets all first-run shows with tickets priced at $4.75 for ALL showings. “Big Screen Classics” is an absolute hit -- American in Paris is playing January 20^th, 8pm; The Godfather is showing on February 17^th, 8pm. Jeff Barker is the theater’s resident organist and plays every Saturday evening and Sunday afternoon. Have dinner at one of Cedar Lane’s many great restaurants, and then support one of our last independent theaters. Dinner and a movie have never been more affordable. For more information, check out www.bigscreenclassics.com.

Garden State Pizza, 153 Bergen Blvd., Fairview (201)941-8510:  Nothing screams comfort food better than Garden Pizza. Whether you order their incredible pizza (their Sicilian is the best I’ve ever tasted), or anything else from the menu that’s sinfully cheesy, this bring-your-own bottle neighborhood gem is like an intestinal Snuggie. Johnny, Rosa, and sons Alby, Tony and their entire staff put the smile behind the word service. You’ll never feel more welcomed! My son made me promise he can work here as soon as he’s old enough so he can eat for free.   

Franco’s Metro Café, 1475 Bergen Blvd., Fort Lee (201) 461-6651: Who would ever expect to find a beautiful Italian bistro with a fully stocked bar in a strip mall? That’s Franco’s Metro Café. Although they dish up terrific pizza, their steak pizzaiola and veal marsala (along with everything else on the menu) is out of this world.  And for goodness sake—they have a martini menu! Also a great place to host a bridal shower or family event.

In Napoli, 116 Main Street, Fort Lee (201) 947-2500: I have to give it up for hometown boy, Sam Gnasso. Sammy has been serving incredible food for so many years that In Napoli is a local legend; my generation’s Riviera Night Club. When Chef “Keith Moon” Sammy isn’t drumming with his band, he’s cooking up these incredible specials: Lobster Night, Delmonico Steak Night, and Sunset Three-Course Dinner Night. If you’re looking for a great place to lunch—this is it. The food is great, the service is over-the-top, and the bar is THE BEST. And the bartenders! Jamie borders on reverent when pouring bourbon, neat; and Kathy is like having your girlfriend behind the bar—fun, fun, fabulously fun! If you and your husband haven’t done the “bar scene” in an obscenely long time, Sammy’s bar is the place. You won’t feel out of place; it’s an older crowd; it’s a great night out. Karaoke night is a blast! Also, my grandmother used to live upstairs when it was a residential house in the ‘60’s—I can still smell the meatballs with raisins and pigniolis.

Deli on the Cliffs, 476 Sylvan Ave, (9W) Englewood Cliffs, (201) 894-5515: When you just want a terrific sandwich, and GREAT coffee, here’s the place to go. Best BLT I think I’ve ever had. Nice dining area; great place to meet someone for lunch. Friendly and accommodating staff. A real find; my favorite deli!   

The best thing about these places—they’re owned by moms and dads, just like you and me so please support them.

The Feast of Saint Rocco

Growing up in Fort Lee in the late ’60’s-70’s, The Feast of St. Rocco was to old Fort Lee what the San Gennarro Feast was to Little Italy, and the members of The St. Rocco Society continue to work hard to maintain the fundamental traditions of the Feast. I remember as a young child watching in amazement as the members hoisted the enormous statue of St. Rocco onto their aged and crooked backs and proudly marched through the streets of West Fort Lee stopping to pay respect before the homes of deceased members.

I remember the ordered procession that began with the sons who followed their fathers knowing that in a quarter century they would be charged with carrying on this tradition and bequeath the same inheritance to their yet unborn sons. Bearing the weight of all the generations were the Nona’s dressed in mourning black from the lace of their veils to the soft soles of their orthopedic shoes. Clasping fingers gnarled from years of scrubbing floors and wringing water from wet laundry; their stooped bodies distorted from the weight of carrying more babies to the grave than to the cradle. To them belonged the hearts that cannot break, but do not heal. Flanking them were the young women sharing the laughter of girls--unconscious of the pain that life had yet to deliver to them; hopeful for a future that may not be as kind to them as they imagined. Last came the mass of children dancing exuberantly to the music of their own mirth oblivious of the line of lives they trailed behind.

I remember my parents, aunts, and uncles sitting on their green and white nylon lawn chairs in front of the gas station that sat adjacent to the Yellow Front Saloon (now J.D.’s Steak Pit) meeting and greeting old friends who gathered their own lawn chairs around them; the earth beneath their feet conjuring memories of growing up poor on lower Main Street, evoking for me a fondness for a time I never knew. I remember my grandmother, Carrie Viola – mother of ten, grandmother of way-too-many-to-count—who lived on the second floor of the Gnasso house (now In Napoli) as she sat regally on her nylon throne like the female Godfather as people stopped to offer her respect. (Whenever I’m upstairs in Naps I can’t help but see my four-foot-nothing grandmother standing on her tip-toes stirring a humungous pot of meat sauce and yelling at my Uncle Joey to stop dipping pulled pieces of Italian bread into it. Every time Chef Sammy Gnasso walks through the upstairs kitchen doors I half expect to see my grandmother chasing him out with a wooden spoon dripping with her Sunday gravy.)

I remember my mother sending me into The Yellow Front Saloon to find my father who always found his way into the bar where men young and old would buy him drinks and beg him to tell a story from his life because he was the funniest man I ever knew and could make a room come alive with laughter. I remember the bartender handing me a Coca Cola with a cherry in it as I sat beside my dad watching while he made the world around him laugh from the pulpit of his stool. I remember my mother coming in and finding us both sitting on barstools having the time of our life. The less-than-pleased look upon her face made me feel what it was like to be married to an Italian woman…and I was scared.

This year, as I stand amidst the crowd at The Feast of St. Rocco, I can’t help but look back on those days and feel a deep homesickness for those ordinary moments. To hear my father’s laughter float from a barstool, to see my grandmother ladling sauce—those monumental moments taken for granted evoked by the annual tradition of a feast. Thank you to all the members of The St. Rocco Society, who keep the memory of those who came before us alive every year by carrying on the tradition of your fathers.