Last Exit to Queens

Sometimes it isn't all about the food, you know.

Take this pile of lightly fried calamari and shrimp that's been generously doused in a medium-hot red sauce. It's my and my brother Joe's go-to order when we're craving down-and-dirty Italian on those occasions when I visit him for a few days. The dish's origin is a not in the least memorable restaurant called Vincent's in Queens, New York, hard by JFK International Airport in an area known as Howard Beach.

Joe and I have enjoyed Vincent's calamari and shrimp together countless times through the years. Largely we do this when it's just the two of us on hand. We may stop by the restaurant after a day at the racetrack, or order takeout for watching a ballgame on TV. It's one of our little rituals. You know, the kind that bonds you to another, no matter the time or circumstance. 

Last week marked the last time my brother and I would share this particular intimacy, though. I'm saddened by this; so is he, I'd imagine.

But it was time.

You see, just up the road and to the north of Howard Beach and Vincent's is a place called Ozone Park. It's the neighborhood where Joe has been living for around three decades. He moved there from our childhood home in Brooklyn after his two older brothers had gone off on their own, only Joe took our aging mother along with him so as not to leave her unattended. This is not how young men are supposed to build a life for themselves; nonetheless, Joe shouldered mom's dependence on him admirably, if against his own interests, until the day that she died.

He's a good man, my brother. Honor and loyalty flow through him freely—and he's got the devotion of many good people around him to prove it.

Joe finally left his old life in Ozone Park last week, determined to start a new and better life elsewhere, one that is unencumbered by the past. I went down to New York and spent several days helping him with the move. The night before the movers came the subject of where we would be eating came up.

"Vincent's?" said my brother, more a statement than a question.

We'd decided this last time would be a takeout run and so I waited in the car while Joe went inside. I could see that "The Fat Man" was at his usual place behind the cash register next to the door, and that he greeted my brother enthusiastically, which often is not at all the case. 

"Did you say goodbye to him?" I asked when Joe returned with our food.

"Nah," said my brother. "Fat Man was in such a good mood tonight I figured why ruin it for him."

If I'd had any doubt about Joe's commitment to boldly turning a well-worn page in his life it was dispelled when he opened his takeout container.

"The hell is that?" I grunted, opening the last beer from an almost-empty refrigerator. "They give you the wrong order?"

Joe's container held not our usual shrimp and calamari, as mine, but rather cheese ravioli and meatballs.

"Nope, that's what I ordered," he said. "Time to move on."

Good luck, my brother. And much love.

My brother's pancakes

There's a lot that I don't know about my brother Joe.

How he came to take up the game of golf has always mystified me. Where he learned to handicap thoroughbred racing so expertly I have never entirely understood either. What allowed him to believe, albeit briefly and very early this past spring, that the Mets might have a respectable 2012 season? That I shall never know.

Until a few days ago I also had no idea what an astoundingly good pancake maker my brother is. It has been more than a week since I cleaned my last plate of Joe's crisp and fluffy breakfast treats and still I am thinking about them. A lot.

Of the five days that I stayed with my brother in Queens recently he cooked me his "famous pancakes" twice.

Hell, I didn't even know that he had a famous pancake.

Naturally I had to find out the secret to my new favorite breakfast entree and so in between stacks I asked Joe to explain, slowly, so that I could commit the recipe to paper.

"Easy," my brother said, dropping a fresh slab of butter onto a red-hot pan. "One cup Aunt Jemima pancake mix, three-quarters of a cup of milk, an egg, and about two tablespoons of olive oil."

"That's it?"

"That's it," Joe said pouring another three pancakes' worth of his mix into the sizzling-hot butter. "Oh, and be sure to use an electric mixer. Makes a big difference."

I wondered whether my brother was holding out on me, keeping his famous pancake recipe to himself. The olive oil wasn't exactly what you'd expect to find listed on the recipe panel of a mass-market dry mix box. But could it really propel Jemima to such greatness? After all, these pancakes were dissolve-in-your-mouth extraordinary.

After a few days of pondering, and an unsuccessful attempt to recreate Joe's perfect pancakes in my own kitchen, I had my answer.

And it wasn't the oil.

My brother is just the type of guy who does things really well or not at all. It's probably the reason why so many people depend on him. He is smart and strong and very, very able. His heart is good.

When disaster struck our family recently Cousin Susie, who was forced from her home after Hurricane Sandy, told me that the one guy at the very top of everybody's wish list for aid and comfort was Joe.

Which was no surprise to me. Like his pancakes (or his clam sauce, come to think of it) my brother is the best that there is.

Just so we're clear.

Goombah Joe's white clam sauce

This is my brother Joe. He is in my kitchen and he is tasting the sauce that he prepared Saturday night for a household of (okay, ten) family members.

It is not just any sauce. It is my brother's white clam sauce.

A better homemade version you will not find.

He started with four dozen countneck clams that he steamed open in white wine, olive oil and sweet butter.

Like so.
After letting the clams cool a bit (I can't say for certain but a Wii bowling match with cousins Joanna and Alec may have transpired during the wait) he scooped out the meat.

It is at this point that I must apologize for an interruption in the visual portion of our discussion, for I was called away to attend to a very urgent matter regarding a box of Joyva Ring Jells that were caringly driven more than three hundred miles to me by cousins Josephine and Frank (long story).

Suffice to say that the B team on the photographic side did not perform as admirably as the chef this evening.

And so I give you the finished product.

And the very much loved family visitors for whom it was prepared.

Oh, and if you're interested in the rest of Goombah (that's "godfather," and he's a damned fine one, much better than I) Joe's method, here goes: Return the shelled clams to the wine/butter mix and add a quart of clam juice. Then — and this is the most critical part — add four heads of roasted garlic and simmer. When the pasta (linguine here, and two pounds of it) is almost done toss it in the sauce to finish cooking for the last couple minutes.

And stay away from the Ring Jells, okay. They're hard to come by — and they're mine.