Martorano Steve - It aint sauce, its gravy: macaroni, homestyle cheesesteaks, the best meatballs in the world, and how food saved my life

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright 2014 by Steve Martorano
Food photography copyright 2014 by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House LLC

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, Penguin Random House companies.

www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

Portions of this work first appeared in Yo Cuz , copyright 2011 by Steve Martorano, published by Northstar Books, Indianapolis, in 2011.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress.

ISBN 978-0-385-34989-5

ISBN 978-0-385-534990-1 (eBook)

Food photography by Carlos Beauchamp

Cover photographs by Carlos Beauchamp

Cover design by Abby Weintraub

v3.1

I would like to dedicate this book
to my late dear friend and attorney, Ed Lassman.
If it werent for him,
none of this would have been possible.

LEFT: MoNique, Marsha, my girlfriend, and me

CENTER: Jimmy Kimmel

RIGHT: Paula Deen

ITS NO SMALL MIRACLE youre reading this book.

I couldve been a gangster. I shouldve driven a delivery truck. I wouldve ended up dead or broke had I joined either the family business or The Family Business; there was a fine line between the two when I came of age in a South Philadelphia row home during the 1970s and 1980s.

But Im the kind of guy who believes that when you run into a dead end, you look for a detour. Yeah, taking the long way around can be a pain in the ass, but you may be surprised at where you end up. I know I am.

Almost thirty-five years ago, I started that journey when I began selling sandwiches out of my mothers basement. Today, I have five restaurants where I cook Italian-American food South Phillystyle, a line of jarred sauces, a wine label, and an inspirational jewelry-and-clothing collection. Ive cooked on TV for people like MoNique. Hundreds of celebrities and professional athletessome of my all-time favoriteshave come into my restaurants and enjoyed my food.

For a guy from the neighborhood, Ive done all right. I really didnt dream of anything like this. But maybe my mother, Lillian, did. Shes the one who gave me a head start in the kitchen and a love of great food. The saying goes that a person begins as a gleam in his fathers eye, right? Me? I began as a rumbling in my mothers stomach. When she was pregnant with me, she craved macaroni seven days a week.

Baby Steven

Take note: In Philly, we call it macaroni, not pasta. And, cuz, it aint sauceits gravy. The cuz thing? Thats just our way of saying, I dont remember or know your name, but you seem like a good guy, and chances are were probably relatedcousins or something. It means, Youre one of us. Even if the people I hung out with in South Philly werent all really related, it seemed that way. After all, among my friends and neighbors, the weekly menu was a shared ritual that pretty much never changed, regardless of the weather or the season.

Every Monday, your mother would make a pot of soup, like chicken or oxtail. On Tuesday, we had the leftover gravy from Sunday with a different type of macaroni. (Rigatoni tasted different from fusilli. Fusilli tasted different from perciatelli.) Wednesdays were for chicken or veal cutlets with ketchup on the side, chicken-flavored Rice-A-Roni, and a salad. On Thursday, we had macaroni again. On Friday, it was linguine and clams, peppers and eggs, or tuna-fish salad with hard-boiled eggs and sliced tomato. Never any meat. It was a Catholic thing. On Saturday, your mom didnt cook; it was her day off. Saturday was always pizza, or we ate takeout like cheesesteaks, or cold cuts.

But Sundays were the best. On Sunday in South Philly, you always heard someone say, What time do you want me to put the water on? This referred to the pot of water used to cook the macaroni. Rigatoni was my favorite. Every Sunday, my mother would make rigatoni and put the leftovers in the refrigerator. Late at night, Id go downstairs, take out the bowl of macaroni, pour a glass of homemade iced tea, watch some TV, and then head back to bed. Even cold macaroni right out of the refrigerator was delicious; thats how I knew my mother was a great cook.

In Philly, we call it macaroni , not pasta. And, cuz, it aint sauceits gravy .

Sundays started early. You didnt even need an alarm clockwe had meatballs for that. Maybe you would wake up after staying out late on a Saturday night, maybe you still had a little buzz, andoh, shit!it would hit you. Youd hear the meat sizzling, smell the tomatoes with the garlic, olive oil, and the pork. Forget about eating bacon and eggs in our house. Hangover or not, you wanted to get your ass out of bed to get to that plate of fried meatballs.

And my mothers gravy? Get outta hereit was phenomenal. Every Sunday, she made a pot of gravy that contained pigs feet, pork skin, ribs, sausage, braciole, and especially meatballs. Some people baked their meatballs, some people threw them right into the pot, but we fried ours first. Before the meatballs went into the gravy, wed tear through a dozen or so of them. My mother would always yell, Stop! There wont be any left for dinner. I couldnt argue with that, but later in the day Id sneak back into the kitchen and make a gravy sandwich: sliced Italian bread, gravy, grated cheese. The best things are usually the simplest things.

Family dinner at 6th and Fitzwater

People dont really do this anymore, but back then, we made it a point to eat as a family. A really big family. My mother, father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and, of course, cousinsmy best friends. In my family, like the others I knew, they fed you and fed you. It was the way we showed love. Food was always part of the equation, always the solution to a problem, always a way to mark an occasion. Any occasion. Someone got married, there was food. Someone died, there was food. You didnt feel good, there was food. The only way you got skinny was if you went to prison. It was like the South Philly version of Weight Watchers or something.