Gravy ruined my love life.
That’s not teenage hyperbole. As a shy high school senior, I was infatuated with Chiara Milano. She was outgoing, smart and funny. I was bewitched. We had improbably gone on a few dates. My first dates. Chiara likely agreed because we shared an interest in horror movies.
By December, I was hoping for a steady relationship. Chiara was hesitant. The holiday season was critical, and I was obsessed with giving her a memorable Christmas present.
One day, Chiara called, “Bruce, would you like to come to my house for Xmas Eve dinner?”
I tensed. This was a big deal. “Let me check and see if I’m free.”
My mother was sitting in the room. “Chiara invited me to her house on Xmas Eve. Are we busy?”
Since Mom considered me a social recluse, she beamed, “That would be great.”
I asked Chiara, “What are you having for dinner?”
Mom blanched, then turned a fiery red.
Unfazed, Chiara said, “The usual holiday stuff.”
“I’d love to come.”
After hanging up, Mom went ballistic. “When invited to someone’s house, you never ask that! You eat whatever is served and appreciate it.”
I was almost disowned for embarrassing her parenting skills. Instead, I received a crash course in manners. With my sister’s help, I bought Chiara a nice bracelet.
Despite the preparation, on Christmas Eve, I was extremely anxious. Whether it was nerves or something I ate, my stomach was dodgy and felt nauseous. Any other day, I would have canceled. But, I couldn’t bail on my big chance.
Mom gave me an Alka Seltzer and said, “Only eat a little, and stick to bland foods.”
When I arrived at Chiara’s house, the street was crowded. At the door, I was greeted by a very friendly woman. She welcomed me with a big hug and a kiss, “Buon Natale.”
Stunned, I stood paralyzed. She smiled and pointed up to mistletoe.
In my family, Xmas dinner is a sedate affair with the four of us and my Aunt Karen. This place was a madhouse. The rooms were packed and noisy. Little kids were bumping into tables. All the adults had drinks. Several were gesticulating wildly and talking over each other. Everyone was having a boisterous good time.
Chiara found me and did a frenetic round of introductions. An Italian carol I’d never heard was playing, “It’s Christmas at our house and the door is open wide.” Nothing could be truer. There were aunts, cousins, siblings, girlfriends, a priest, nieces, uncles, neighbors. And, the matriarch, Nonna. The ancient woman squinted up at me, pinched my cheek and said, “Bello ragazzo”.
My head was spinning as fast as my stomach was churning. I couldn’t remember any names. Except Uncle Tony. He grabbed my shoulder, pointed at me with his drink and said intimidatingly, “Junior, make sure you don’t mess with my favorite niece.”
Chiara excused herself to help prepare food. That couldn’t be necessary. Tables in several rooms were already laden with dishes. Few were recognizable and none looked bland. The strong aromas exacerbated my fragile stomach.
Standing alone, the aunt who had kissed me handed me a glass of red wine. She winked, “It’s the holidays. Saluti.” She took a long drink. Not to offend, I did the same. The wine was strong and landed in my stomach like napalm.
I’d never drunk alcohol. In minutes, I was woozy. I found a corner out of the bedlam with a view of the kitchen. Nonna was making a pot of pasta sauce. She mumbled to herself in apparent confusion. The woman added spices at random without measuring. Every so often, she’d pour in wine and take a swig from the bottle.
‘You go, granny.’ I thought.
Opening a spice jar, the top fell off. Half the container went into the pot. Nonna gasped. Then, looked around surreptitiously, shrugged and blended it into the sauce.
I made a note to avoid that potent brew.
There was a call for dinner. Chiara led me to a chair between her and Nonna.
My friend insisted I sample a selection of strange fishes, meats and spicy vegetables. I gamely nibbled. The exotic foods, spices and wine made me queasier by the mouthful. “Try some of Nonna’s gravy. It’s a family treasure.”
Good old-fashioned gravy. “I’d love some,” I smiled at the tipsy grandmother. There were no mashed potatoes in sight. “What do I put the gravy on?”
“The ziti, of course.” Chiara gave me a large helping. The wiry septuagenarian poured her over-spiced, red sauce on my plate. “Mangia.”
I nearly gagged. “Chiara, you said there was gravy?”
“In Rhode Island, Italians call meaty pasta sauce ‘gravy’.”
My digestive track was horrified. I whispered, “I can’t eat this. My stomach is doing flips.”
“If you turn it down, you’ll insult Nonna. Just eat a little.”
Nonna was waiting for my praise. My mind said, ‘Don’t do it.’ My stomach screamed, ‘Hell no!’
Chiara gave me an angelic smile. Love won. I swallowed a mouthful. And, then another.
The reaction was instantaneous.
My stomach bubbled into an eruption. I couldn’t throw up on my nascent girlfriend. I turned to bolt to the bathroom. That was the moment my body detonated and returned the gravy to its creator. Lumpy red vomit spewed like the Trevi fountain onto diminutive Nonna.
Chaos exploded. The horrified Italian nation screamed and cursed in two languages.
Deathly weak, I semi-passed out on the floor. I was conscious enough to understand I narrowly avoided a lynching. Wine-besotted Nonna was the least disturbed person. She sat covered in a pink glaze with a benign expression.
Somehow I got home.
My relationship with Chiara was over. There’s no recovering when you make such an emphatic rejection of a treasured family recipe.
It broke my heart and killed my dating prospects. No one would date The Vomiter.
I was traumatized and still get a hitch in my throat thinking about dinner at an Italian restaurant.
INSTANT NOODLES 