Dinner at Kew Gardens

I attended Pace University in New York City from 1969 to 1973. Pace was established in 1906 a few blocks from Wall Street as Pace Accounting Institute and evolved over the years by adding a law school, a drama department, and a medical school.

by Gus Parpas

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By 1971, Pace achieved University status. Nevertheless, its forte remained the Lubin School of Business. A degree in business from Pace was meaningful to employers. Professors of economics, accounting, finance and business law who taught at Pace were often associated with Wall Street firms. Students were taught by professors who came out of the trenches of New York’s financial district, not simply theoreticians out of academia.  For that reason,  Blue chip companies recruited heavily at Pace. As graduation approached, I was recruited by Colgate Palmolive, Upjohn, and Johnson and Johnson. I was offered jobs by all three and accepted the Johnson and Johnson position.

I majored in economics and finance with a minor in accounting. In my first semester at Pace, I took Economics 101. Very early in the semester, I couldn’t help but notice a student who asked a lot of questions and often debated the professor. Once, when the professor suggested that the US impose tariffs as part of its international trade policy to prevent countries from engaging in “dumping” practices, the argumentative student asked, in a tone reminiscent of Perry Mason, “Professor Swift, is it not true that such a policy has the potential of backfiring by precipitating a trade war that could plunge the world economy into recession? And would you not agree that other strategies, such as diplomacy, might prevent “dumping” while avoiding disruption in world trade?”

My interest was aroused. As a student from a foreign country who was not at all sure of myself, watching a classmate take the professor to task, and doing it so articulately, was impressive! I couldn’t resist seeking this guy out to find out who he was and what made him tick.

I approached him after class and introduced myself. His name: Paul Laoria. In order to complete his degree at Juilliard School of Music, he needed to take certain non-music classes at another institution, hence Pace. His passion was voice and piano. Previously, he had attended Eastman School of Music. I honestly did not fathom at that time the importance of these schools, nor did I understand the depth of talent needed to be admitted there. I became even more impressed as I realized this over time. Later into the friendship, my roommates and I were often entertained by Paul when, on a whim, he would break out into a rendition of “Ave Maria” or “O Sole Mio.”

Paul and I had hit it off right away. He came from a background so dramatically different from mine that I stood to learn a lot from him about my new country, its culture, its customs, etc. Once, he casually shared with me the stratospheric level of his IQ. That alone was reason enough to hang out with him. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of so many subjects, I felt I got smarter just being around him. His analytical skills were simply mind-blowing. But the real reason I enjoyed his company was his sense of humor. He always had entertaining stories at the ready. Think Sebastian Maniscalco, whose physical comedy has garnered great attention in recent years.  Maniscalco’s humor embodies riffs on his Italian-American heritage and observations on the annoying habits of big city folks, all delivered with what has been aptly described as bada-bing attitude. When my wife Carol and I watch Maniscalco on TV, we howl at the uncanny resemblance to Paul, both in appearance and style.

To Paul, I represented someone very different from others he encountered in his world. In the midst of a society that had little time for a struggling student from a faraway land, I was often a paycheck away from not making rent or tuition. Yet I was undaunted, driven, focused, committed to making it, no matter what. I believe Paul respected that.

Paul lived with his parents on Main Street in Kew Gardens, Queens. His father, Sam, was Italian, a garment district executive. His mother, Martha, was Jewish, a housewife most of the time who also worked in department store retail. I was invited to their apartment every so often. Each time was an experience to write home about. For example, most of us debate to resolve an issue. For the Laorias, debating was a blood sport. There didn’t even need to be an issue to resolve. They debated for the sake of debating. The results were often hilarious. But sometimes, particularly when the debate devolved into an argument, noses were bent out of shape. I was never a participant in these skirmishes, just a spectator. It was the Paul, Sam, and Martha show. I came from a place where showing respect to others, particularly parents, was ingrained in the culture. Not exactly that at the Laoria house.

Once, a vicious debate broke out about golf etiquette. Apparently, all three of them had played a fair amount of golf. Now, as an amateur in a friendly round, how big a deal would it be if someone in your foursome picked up his or her ball on the green and then put a ball marker down, as opposed to doing it the other way around. Would you declare all-out war over something as inconsequential as this? Paul and Martha argued with Sam over this for an hour! As you might imagine, I enriched my vocabulary of colorful epithets while watching these debates.

But even at the risk of a verbal brawl breaking out, I looked forward to sitting down with the Laorias for dinner whenever the opportunity presented itself. Other than an argument, the worst that could happen is that Martha might lash out at someone if they dissed her, as she had done to Paul, stabbing his hand with a fork when he attempted to push away a bowl of creamed peas and corn that Martha was very proud of. Martha was a very competent cook. And even if she hadn’t been, as a starving student in my early twenties who worked all the time, I would eat almost anything she put in front of me.

One day, after studying for exams at the Pace library, Paul invited me to his house. Apparently, Martha was preparing a special dinner requested by Sam. As always, I looked forward to having a good home-cooked meal. I rode with Paul to Kew Gardens. He would later give me a ride to Main Street in Flushing where I would take the No. 7 IRT train home to Manhattan.

Paul’s food idiosyncrasies drove restaurant staff crazy and often embarrassed his friends. And at home, with no-nonsense Martha present, Paul’s peculiarity elevated stress to unsafe levels. Just as his passion for music derived from his Italian heritage, his obsession with food can safely be attributed to his Jewish background. His standard greeting was “Did you eat yet?” We put a lot of miles on Paul’s Chrysler Cordoba, which was of course equipped with “fine Corinthian leather” as the aristocratic Ricardo Mantolban of Fantasy Island fame promised in the iconic TV commercial. We often hunted down specialty items that Paul happened to have a craving for at that moment. He introduced me to most of the Jewish delis in New York. We visited The Stage, The Carnegie, and Kantors, but we frequented Katz’s on the Lower East Side because it was close to Pace. Watching Paul place an order at the counter was downright torture. “Corn beef on New York rye, thinly sliced please [God forbid that the ratio of bread to meat should deviate one iota from Paul’s standard], extra mustard on the side, and could you crisp the meat lightly on the flattop? And please don’t overcook my latke. I like them soft in the middle.”

So it was not a surprise that there was always tension at the Laorias’ dinner table. But on this day, there was an unusually civil tone to the conversation. On this particular day, Martha prepared, along with spaghetti to accompany the main entrée, veal Bolognese, a dish that was gaining popularity around New York at the time. This was before the animal rights movement alerted the world to the cruelty of raising calves to produce veal. In any case, Sam and Paul had ordered it at a restaurant in Manhattan and loved it, so Martha obliged. I was thrilled to partake in this feast.

Martha started with an arugula salad with delicious vine-ripened Roma tomatoes plus slivers of radicchio adding color to the mix. She remembered that Moroccan black olives, the shriveled-up variety, were my favorite and bought some to serve on the side. Little cubes of provolone added a wonderful touch. Martha’s Italian vinaigrette was to die for. And fresh-baked Italian bread was the perfect way to sop up the juices at the bottom of my salad bowl.

We were off to a great start, and it was now time for Martha’s latest masterpiece, veal Bolognese. The plates were assembled with great care and served with obvious pride. Al dente spaghetti first, topped with a lovely tomato sauce, prepared with canned San Marzano tomatoes. The sauteed, herbed ground veal had been tossed with the tomato sauce and ladled over the pasta. Grated parmesan and fresh sprigs of basil provided the finishing touches. A stunning presentation and a mouthwatering aroma.

I couldn’t wait to dig in. As expected, everything tasted superb, so much so that I was worried I might embarrass myself by eating too fast or too much. The dinner was progressing swimmingly until, out of the blue, Sam made the casual observation that Martha should have followed more closely the Manhattan chef’s recipe he had given her and shaved asiago cheese instead of grating parmesan over the dish. By now a veteran diner at Martha’s table, I saw storm clouds on the horizon and, not yet able to gauge the risk, I picked up the pace just to be safe. Everything was delectable, and I was grateful to be at this table. But Paul found fault with the tomato sauce and, treading a minefield, insinuated that Martha had reduced the sauce much more than the Manhattan chef, making it more intense such that it was overpowering the spaghetti and the veal. At that point, I kicked Paul under the table. He gave me a puzzled look which said that he did not see the danger ahead. So keeping a discreet eye on Martha, I picked up the pace even more. I couldn’t understand the lack of gratitude. Martha had painstakingly prepared what was to me a delicious meal and I was enjoying every morsel.

At this point, all I could do is pray that Paul and Sam would just shut up and enjoy the food. But much to my horror, Sam blurted out that the spaghetti was “underdone”. Even though I was tracking Martha’s darkening mood, and fully expected that Martha would not let this comment go unanswered, I was completely unprepared for what came next. She stood up, and looking Sam in the eye she calmly said, “So you wanted me to shave asiago instead of grating parmesan; and you also think that I undercooked the pasta.”

Turning to Paul, she seethed, “And you think my tomato sauce is too thick. Well, I tell you what:  the next time the two of you want a special dish, MAKE IT YOURSELVES!” With that, she reached across the table and grabbed all four corners of the tablecloth and, with one swift move, she swung it over her shoulder. With dishes clanking, glasses breaking and liquids trailing her out the apartment door, she tossed the makeshift satchel into the trash room with a thunderous crash! Then she stormed out of the apartment building.

Thoroughly enjoying the food that Martha served, I had done nothing to provoke this outburst and didn’t deserve to have this wonderful meal interrupted. On the other hand, Sam and Paul, the provocateurs, acted surprised and offended! As the three of us sat speechless with fork and knife in hand, Paul broke the silence. “I wonder what mom made for dessert!” No one laughed.

A little later, Paul and I were sitting at the counter at Rumpelmayer’s, a famous ice cream parlor and café in the St. Moritz Hotel on Central Park South in Manhattan, and one of Paul’s favorite haunts. As we enjoyed opulent ice cream sundaes, I probed for a clue as to why Martha exploded. Not that Paul and Sam’s comments were not enough to tick anyone off, but had there been a fight earlier? Did someone make an offensive comment that put Martha on edge? Paul didn’t think so. And he simply couldn’t understand how insensitive his and Sam’s comments were. He was genuinely puzzled that Martha blew her stack!

Paul now lives in Florida with his wife Gail, a Pace classmate of the two of us. She’s had a distinguished career as a university administrator. Paul is a successful artist. The four of us are still good friends.  When I sent him a draft of this story, he wrote back that the two of them were laughing so hard that they had tears coming down their faces.  But as I recall, none of us at the time thought that there was anything funny about our dinner at Kew Gardens.

 

 

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