By Jillian Bedell
A long time ago I lived in Brooklyn. This Brooklyn sort of felt like Pittsburgh (I think, having never been to Pittsburgh). I lived beneath the highway. The buildings on my street were three storied homes with gray or blue or gray-blue siding. There was wrought iron fencing around the garbage patio, and shabby steps up to a linoleum-floored flat.
Faintly mustachioed Nonnas swept the walk vigilantly, to keep away dust, dirt, and the evil eye. Red sauce restaurants mingled with dingy dive bars, and Polish clubs for ancient immigrants who sat on squeaky chairs outside on nice days. It was a working class neighborhood that skipped a generation. Old people who’d settled the place in the fifties, and twenty-something interlopers lived together in resigned harmony.
- 4 large garlic cloves, grated or minced
- 6-8 anchovy fillets
- 1/2 stick butter
- 1/2 cup olive oil