The oath of eternal secrecy

One couldn’t help but have concluded that Uncle Nunzio was predestined to play a lifelong role as culinary wizard and restaurateur. From his early teens he was standing next to the stove, at his mother’s elbow, getting splattered with hot grease, asking questions, helping her cook and being called a “femme” by his jeering brothers. Nunzio would not be deterred. He was fascinated by food’s plant, animal and mineral origins, and how they could be paired and fused in ways that electrified the taste buds. The universality of food was remarkable to him. It was the most significant thing all living entities had in common — the need to consume nutrition.

The old woman never tired of giving her protégé detailed explanations of food combinations, cooking temperatures, culinary styles and the proper use of kitchen utensils. She taught her son the treasured family recipes hailing from a mountainous Abruzzo Province east of Rome and dating back numerous generations. Nunzio started with simple sauces and salads. But soon he was grilling fish and making layered dishes such as lasagna and various parmagianas. Then he was sculpting and frying meatballs and mixing and squeezing dough for homemade pasta. As his skills and confidence with cookery improved, Nunzio eventually prepared complete family dinners on his own.

World War II took Nunzio off to the military and a U.S. Army post in New Guinea, where he played a starring role in the mess hall. He proved himself a crackerjack chef and baker. Nunzio became more addicted than ever to the power of food and the outpouring of attention it could earn its purveyor. What could be more fulfilling than earning your keep making people plump and happy, he decided. What could be a more basic and noble endeavor than providing life-giving nourishment to mankind?

“An Army runs on its stomach,” the post’s commanding officer continually reminded Nunzio.

When the war ended he returned home and announced his intention to open a restaurant bearing the Marciano appellation and family crest. Parents and siblings rallied around the idea, pulling together the modest sums of money at their disposal to put Nunzio into business. The largest portion of the venture’s startup capital was provided by his parents. Just prior to handing over the bankroll that was the realization of Nunzio’s dream, Grandma Marciano swore her son to eternal secrecy about the family recipes. Generations of family member had protected them for posterity’s benefit, Grandma Marciano told her son in harshly accented English, and the recipes were never to escape the family circle.

Nunzio kissed his mother’s hand and said, “I’m a good Italian boy, mama. You know I would never betray the family. Besides, you would slaughter me like a fatted calf if I ever shot my mouth off.”

And with that, Grandma Marciano rolled the tightly wound wheel of money across the table and into Nunzio’s dough-encrusted hands.

He leased a building picturesquely situated on the northern bank of the Susquehanna River. The year was 1946. The place filled quickly and the dishes it served were greeted with gluttony and superlatives. The Mangia House’s reputation fanned out across the region. Word eventually reached the food connoisseurs of Manhattan. Even members of the snobbish New York City restaurant scene made pilgrimages to get a grasp on how an upstate restaurant located 200 miles northwest of the center of the food universe could be causing such a stir.

Uncle Nunzio’s stature grew. Despite the grinding six-day-a-week work schedule, it seemed the Great Man would go forever.

Then along came a 2,000-year-old malady known as gout.

@copyright 2016/Mike Consol