I have to tell you about a remarkable woman I just met tonight. Her name is Ginger Passarelli, and she's the owner of Mama Passarelli's restaurant out in Black Diamond, Washington.
The hubby and I decided on the spur of the moment (well, I was coming home from critique group, and the whole chicken I had taken out of the freezer was not yet defrosted, so...) to go out to eat this evening, and he suggested a little restaurant he had noticed out in Black Diamond. He's bicycled past this place many a time, and it wasn't open when he had gone by, but we found that it's open only on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We hadn't tried this place, and since we are definitely fans of Italian food (who isn't?) we went.
It's a small, homey place, decorated in 1950's kitsch, and as soon as you go in, you get the feeling of home and welcome. There was a big cardboard cut-out of Elvis near the entrance, and as you go in, you see lots of Frank Sinatra pictures, some signed autographs of 1950's musicians, actors, and actresses--well, the walls are pretty well covered with anything 1950's, up to 1960. There are some easy chairs around a coffee table and a chess set for anyone who might have to wait for a table. Just past the easy chairs is a wall covered with very old pictures and statuettes of the Virgin Mary and various New Testament prints, brown around the edges with age.
The menu is plain, hearty, Italian American fare, and if you are a fan of garlic, you will be a fan of this food. John and I are garlic hounds--well, John, more than me, but let's just say I make a mean aioli sauce--so this was in no way a hindrance to gustatory delight. If you look at their
menu, here, you will only see a partial list of their food--I don't think their specials are listed. I had a very tender breast of chicken in creamy prosciutto sauce over angel hair pasta, with a side of caesar salad. I've never had a prosciutto sauce, but it was nice, a sort of alfredo sauce, but with little bits of ham. I confess, I don't remember what John had, except that it contained steak, with sauteed red onions on top. I was a bit too preoccupied by my own dish. The caesar salad was more reminiscent of aioli sauce, and though John and I prefer a stronger anchovy taste, it was nevertheless very good indeed, with a strong garlic bite. As I mentioned, garlic is not a problem for us.
What I loved, however, was that Ginger herself came by and asked us how we liked our dinner. In fact, she pulled up a chair and chatted with us for a while, for all the world as if we were family. She's a motherly woman with merry eyes and a genuine smile, the kind, I suspect, that makes you smile back no matter what your mood. The image was only enhanced by the green checked apron she wore around her generous form. "I like to get to know my guests," she said.
I could see it.
Black Diamond is a small town, with not much more than 4000 residents, and the atmosphere was the essence of all the feel of home and comfort you might imagine in a small town. The town used to be a coal mining center (hence, "Black Diamond") with more than a few Italian immigrants who worked the mines in the early part of the 20th century. In fact, at one time, Ginger said, the basement of the restaurant served as a speakeasy during the Great Depression and Prohibition times.
Ginger knows her patrons well, and her wait staff know exactly what they'll order as soon as they see them. If you think of the old TV show "
The Andy Griffith Show" that's the sort of feel you get when a guest comes in and Ginger hails them by name. She greeted us, then turned to call out to two men who had come in: "Hey, there are the Brownie boys!" She grinned. "They always get the brownie sundae dessert," she said. "So, you're new--where do you come from?"
We told her, and she smiled wide. "That's a long way! I'm honored you came out all the way to eat here." John told her he he'd come by every once in a while on his bike rides, and had wondered what the restaurant was like, and that we thought we'd try it tonight.
A sound of static made her pause before a reply, and she pulled out what looked like a small walkie-talkie. "Excuse me, it's the deputy," she said, and bustled off with the words "first responder" and "emergency" fading in the space she just vacated.
John and I looked at each other. The local police have a direct line to the restaurant? But the waitress came by not long after that and served our food, and we dug in. When the waitress asked if we wanted some dessert, we decided to share a tiramisu. But I kept thinking of that walkie talkie. There had to be a story there, I thought.
Ginger came by again as we were halfway through our dessert. "Oh, I see you got the tiramisu," she said. "I made that myself." Her eyes twinkled naughtily. "We don't serve that to anyone under 21." Indeed, there was most definitely a taste of Kahlua as well as other liqueurs in it.
"The police have a direct line to you?" I asked.
She laughed. "Oh, I was just responding to an emergency," she said. "I'm one of the
Soup Ladies." She nodded at the empty bowl of Italian Tomato Bisque that John had eaten. "I get soup like that--and other things on our menu here--out to first responders in the area." I could hear the pride in her voice. "We serve them the same as what we serve the people who come to our restaurant."
"First responders?" I asked.
First responders are police, emergency and search and rescue crews, firefighters, swat teams, etc., who go out to investigate and rescue in emergency situations: anything from stranded hikers to finding murder victims to being in a stake-out. Her eyes grew sad. "The murder of the family up in Carnation?" she said. "It took a long time for the swat team and then the police to go over the murder scene. Days. No breaks. Then there was the four police officers who got killed down in Lakewood. We got some food up to those guys working on those scenes--good home cooking--because they've got to eat, you know? And..." I could see tears well up, and she pressed her lips together for a moment. "Home cooking--it's something normal for them, after all...all that. It's like a bit of Mom and home going to them when they can't go to their own homes themselves."
I nodded. I could see that, for sure.
There weren't many people in the restaurant; the recession had made business kind of thin, so they could only open from Thursday to Sunday, and were closed the rest of the week. I felt bad for her about that, but in this moment, I was selfishly glad that she could sit down a spell and talk to us, because I wanted to hear more. "Wow," I said. "I never thought about the fact that they'd be out there for days--and of course, they'd want something to eat."
"Right," she said. "And it's just wrong that they have to run out and grab some junk food. It's bad for them, and where's the comfort in that? And when it's cold and wet, it's better to have a good hot meal." She shook her head. "Sometimes, we can't get enough food out to them, so I'm lucky in that we have a network of restaurant owners I can call on. You know Stortinis?"
"
Mama Stortini's up in Kent Station?" I said. It's what I'd call a "casual upscale" restaurant; my mom and I went there once; it's a new place in the Kent area, and the food is...hmm..."Pacific Northwest Italian," if that makes any sense. Emphasis on local Northwest seafood and goods. Quite delicious.
"That's the one. Joe Stortini owned that restaurant. He now owns
Joeseppi's in Tacoma. I called up Joeseppi's for the Lakewood incident and they came out with more food that quick." She snapped her fingers. "So we get some good food out the door to our first responders, really good food." She grinned. "Sometimes, in the all-volunteer search and rescue groups, all we need to do is tell them Mama is providing the food, and we get a lot more volunteers, even when it's bad weather out there."
"People in a situation like that, they need a Mom," I said. I understood this, down to my bones, being a Mom and a foodie. To me, there is no better expression of sheer abundant love than laboring in a kitchen and bringing a feast out to your loved ones. "It's a hell of a lot of stress and trauma on them. At least they know someone cares, and cares enough to bring them something good and filling."
She nodded and smiled a little. "Exactly." She paused for a moment. "You know, it's funny. The last time I brought over some food, one of the guys said, 'Mama'--they all call me Mama--'no offense, Mama, but I hate it whenever I see you, because I know what's going down on the scene is going to be bad." Her smile grew watery. "And then he said, 'but I'm glad you're here, because I could sure use a hug.'" She cleared her throat. "That's something, you know? The police don't let people hug them, because they can't usually do that--because of guns and all. But he asked a hug from me." She said it as if the officer had offered her a pot of gold.
"I can see why," I said, and I couldn't help a little lump in my own throat. "God bless you," John and I said at the same time, and we all looked at each other and laughed.
Ginger "Mama" Passarelli got up as another customer came in, and she called out a greeting to them by name. "Well, I've gotta get the dessert over to the Brownie boys." She grinned at us again. "It's a pleasure seeing new people here. Thanks for coming by."
"Absolutely," John said. "It was
our pleasure."
"We'll be back for sure," I said. It was a promise.
Today, our Pastor Jon talked about the gifts and talents each of us are given, gifts of the Holy Spirit. These gifts aren't to be left unopened--they have to be opened, recognized, and then "regifted" out to others, to the community, in the Spirit of love and abundance. As John and I drove home, I said, "that's what Pastor Jon was talking about. Mama Passarelli's a living, breathing example of it."
So if you're ever in the Black Diamond area and want a bit of small-town comfort, chat, and good solid food, give Mama Passarelli a visit. If it's not too busy, look for a comfortable grey-haired woman in a pretty, practical apron. That's Ginger Passarelli, doing what she does best--giving you her gift of the Spirit with all her generous heart.
Posts
