Meet Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli in the real life), a nephew to Anthony Soprano, the "retired" crime boss from the television. Chris is on a pastry run in North Jersey, circa Season 1 of HBO's "The Sopranos."
He is about to shoot a young baker in the foot.
See, Dougie, the baker, allowed Gino, a customer who was known to him, to place an order ("two Neopolitan loaves") ahead of Christopher. Chris, of course, did not care much for this. And so the piece. And then the pop.
These things happen.
I mention this because, in matters of fine Italian pastry, it is a sacred moment when one man (Uncle Tony in this case) calls upon another (young Chris) to "get some sfogliatelle" for the guys.
Many times I myself have been called to such a mission. And though incidents occurred (stories for another time perhaps), I never popped anybody.
In this I consider myself fortunate. For, confronted with the same disrespect as Dougie's while on una missione di sfogliatelle, I, like Chris, may have acted ingloriously.
I am devoted to this pastry in an extraordinary way.
Why, I often wonder, isn't everybody? This is the perfect pastry.
Sweet, moist, magnificent ricotta and candied fruit on the inside.
Crisp, flaky layers of thin, perfect pastry shell outside.
What more could you possibly want from life?
(That was a serious question. What?)
I came to Maine fifteen years back, and by Week Two had become inconsolable: Not a sfogliatelle in sight. Some weekends I'd drive four hours to and from Boston, allegedly to do "city things" but in fact to prowl the North End to feed my addiction. Once I discovered myself cold, alone and packing eleven -- eleven -- partially eaten sfogliatelle. They were in as many little white paper bags and the bags were inside the pockets of the winter coat I was sporting. I'd spent two hours wandering the streets, buying and sampling a pastry specimen wherever there was a pastry specimen for me to buy and to sample.
It was snowing. I may have failed to mention this.
Months later an intrepid baker (from away as they say in Maine) opened a shop on India Street here in Portland and to my shock had decided to bring here my beloved sfogliatelle. Not a bad one either. To make certain he kept on making it I bought up nearly every one he baked. I gave away, or fed to birds and other wildlife, probably ten times what I consumed. For months this went on, until one day, not surprisingly, baker and bakery were no more. And so again I mourned.
I am not well. I know this.
Now another baker here in town has committed to making my sfogliatelle. It is a fine one too (see "Sweet" under "Local Faves" at right), and is made, coincidentally, not a hundred feet from where the last guy tried. I do not bulk purchase them any longer, so either he will keep making the pastries because Mainers enjoy them or he won't because they don't.
I'm like Dougie the baker.
It's out of my hands.
(Extreme Wiseguy Language)
Martin Scorsese's "Goodfellas," 1990: Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci) pops Michael "Spider" Gianco (Michael Imperioli) in the foot for failing to get him a drink.
David Chase's "The Sopranos," Episode 8, "The Legend of Tennessee Moltisanti," 1999: Spider gets his revenge.
"Gino," who reappeared as "Vito" in Season 2, hides out in New Hampshire later on in the HBO series.
Looks like he could use a good pastry.