Red Sauce

Giuseppe Agresta arrived in the United States with big dreams of making it in America.  He'd wanted this ever since he was a little kid growing up in the old country. Giuseppe was 50 now, with a wife and two teenage sons that he hoped to bring over from Italy when his business took off.

Giuseppe was a chef and restaurateur.  For the past 30 years he had toiled away in the sweltering kitchens in Calabria, Southern Italy.  He spent long summer days over the coal-fired ovens, and long winter nights smoking homemade cigarettes made from crudely cut tobacco rolled with newspaper.  Those were called giornales, something that was, and still is very popular throughout Italy but especially in the Southern Peninsula.

Giuseppe set up shop in New York City, renting a modest but very expensive storefront downtown.  He spared no expense renovating and getting the finest hand-made Calabrian furniture, perfect gold wall sconces, tables made from refurbished wine and balsamic vinegar barrels, and beautiful kiln-forged white tile.  Everything as it should be, authentic Italian and true to his dream.

He grew his own organic tomatoes and herbs in the backyard garden, and milled his own flour to just the perfect consistency for his coal-fired pizza oven.  Giuseppe hired top-notch line cooks and waiters and was ready for his opening day.

"30 years in the making, this day," Giuseppe thought, as he lit up a giornale rolled out of the NY Times travel section.  The American newspapers smoked differently, smoldering and dropping flakes of still burning paper onto the sidewalk in front of Giuseppe's Fine Italian Restaurant.  The Italian chef was unfazed.

Opening night was a huge success, with the restaurant operating at capacity and all the diners lauding the pizzas, appetizers and entrées.  Giuseppe spent the night at the ovens and over the grill, making sure each and every dish that went out to the dining room was up to the highest standard of fine Italian dining.  And the dishes were phenomenal.

The next day, Giuseppe received a call from Italy.  It was his oldest son, a boy of 15 who was rapidly becoming a man.  Giuseppe gushed to his son about how good everything in America was going, about the restaurant and his attention to detail, about how many covers they had sold on opening night.  Giuseppe poured himself a Chianti in a stemless glass, sipping the wine as he told his son of his great accomplishment.  "Pop," his son interjected, "I read a review on Yelp of the new restaurant.  it says, 'Just another rowdy shithole with mediocre pizza.  One star.' "

Giuseppe hung up the phone.  He went to his computer and looked up the review.  'Just another rowdy shithole with mediocre pizza.  One star.'

He slugged the Chianti, rolled another giornale, turned off the lights, and smoked in the darkness.