Over this past Labor Day weekend, I was reminiscing about the traditional (aka mandatory) family barbecues hosted at my Uncle’s house when I was growing up in Brooklyn. Fourth of July was an even more spectacular event because sparklers were part of the menu. Regardless which holiday, our Italian barbecues always embraced the same approach: Cook for 2 days beforehand and use of the grill is secondary to the stove top and the oven. In other words, for some reason, my family spent more time frying, baking and sautéing indoors than they did cooking outside on the actual charcoal grill, despite the fact that this was a cook-OUT.
Indisputably, one of the greatest things about being from an Italian family is the food – quantity and quality, with a perpetual guarantee of the former. Similarly, Sunday afternoon “dinners” and Christmas Eve feasts of the seven (or more) fishes are well known for an abundanza of food. But it wasn’t until this past weekend that I realized how we pushed the limits of barbecues even further by exceeding the expectations of mass quantities (“Ay, take this home with you. Lemme wrap it up. You’ll eat it tomorrow.”); and with a life altering bounty of flavors (“Did you try this? You don’t know what you’re missing, it’s so good – take a bite. Here.”); that we had added a third aspect. We cooked more food inside the kitchen than we cooked outside on the grill.
You’d think that a backyard bbq would be just that. Hamburgers, hot dogs and maybe a few other options, all cooked out back on a grill. But that would be like expecting your dinner at dinner time, despite it being a Sunday. Sunday dinner is served in the early afternoon. On this sacred, holy day of the week, pasta dinner was typically underway by 3:00 pm and was book-ended by a big salad to start and a meat dish to finish. From veal cutlets to chicken cutlets, to an overflowing platter of delicious meatballs, bracciole and sausages that had been cooked all day, with love, in a red tomato sauce we called “gravy.” Any of these standalone meat dishes could adorn the third course. And if we weren’t lucky enough to be blessed with the occasional ravioli or manicotti, mom instead put a container of Polly-o ricotta on the table for the plain, simpler macaroni’s like rigatoni. Top your dish at your own risk! This truly was heaven on Sunday.
Meanwhile, back in the yard for barbecues, there were traditions that never seemed out of place at the time, starting with the parade of meats. Hamburgers and hot dogs were a mere given like napkins and forks, rather than playing the part as a substantial center of the meal. Chicken was mandatory. This chicken had been marinated for 2 days and cut up into pieces still on the bone that even after grilled, had distinct flakes of fresh parsley clinging on. Lemon and olive oil were all we could make out. Only Aunt Minnie knew the particulars of her mouth-watering marinade. And there was always a cut of steak that cousin Joe brought from his butcher shop.
Now on to sausage or saw-zeech as it was pronounced. We had two types of regular sized sausage – one sweet and one spicy with fennel. Two variations were never enough, so an additional cheese and parsley or “skinny” sausage, wrapping around itself in concentric circles like a recoiled snake, kept sweet and spicy company on the flames. The crispier the better. But this was not enough saw-zeech. There was yet one more iteration of coveted pork links that behooves me to this day. Sausage wrapped in a white, lace-like netting. We kids feared it. It was another form of a mysterious internal organ. Perche? What is the appeal of all-things animal organs? This caul fat covered meat only reared its covered head at the big bbqs and was one of the most highly anticipated treats of the evening, often sparking a bit of a battle between the adults on who gets the first lacy link.
Leaving the adults to these sausages, we kids had our hands and stomachs full trying to consume all the other foods after we ate what otherwise would be considered a full dinner of a hot dog or two and a hamburger. Hot dogs? Hamburgers? Mere appetizers. Did we Italians have ‘clown car’ stomachs that had room for meals 3x the size of normal?
Sides were not limited to what could be refrigerated such as potato salad, macaroni salad and coleslaw. Mom made her famous baked beans prepped the day before with brown sugar, mustard, Aunt Jemima’s pancake syrup and Heinz ketchup. Topped with strips of bacon that crisped up in – you guessed it, in the oven where it was baked. This, along with the other sides, was prepped in the kitchen. Meaning in the basement. That’s because Italians love to cook in the basement kitchen on every occasion. Upstairs is reserved for plastic covered furniture that is never sat upon and Capodimonte statues and wall hangings. Up and down those basement steps from the backyard we trudged to keep the meals moving out to the picnic, poker and metal folding tables in front of the garage of my Uncle’s semi-attached house in Brooklyn.
Eventually, you thought you couldn’t take one more bite. This thought resurfaced over and over at least a dozen bites ago. Qualunque cosa. Whatever. It’s time for dessert. Like the hot dogs and hamburgers, watermelon and fruit salad are always assumed to be on the table. But that’s not dessert for and Italian bbq. Pastries, cookies and cakes were paraded up and out from the basement to the backyard. Somehow, espresso made it’s way as well and was served along with coffee – regular and decaf. Youngsters and young-at-heart toasted marshmallows over the charcoal briquettes on twigs we found in the sparse grass patches between the cemented ground. Requisite bottles of Sambuca or Anisette were passed around.
Outside, a plate of finocchio (fennel-like celery) was brought out as was always the finishing bite. The chattering and nods to “It helps you digest,” ensued. And after this feast, it better! If it didn’t, you could always enjoy a work-out as part of clean-up. Basement stairs back to the kitchen, after all.
