Vongole

When Mary and I quit Manhattan in '98, we moved to Somerville, NJ, a town with deep roots in what I came to consider New Jersey's legacy ethnicities:  Italian and Jewish-Americans.  These were the people that gave the Garden State good food before the onslaught of the Indians, Chinese, Brazilians, and others that lomade it an even better place to eat.

On main street in Somerville there is a place called Alfonso's, a family-oriented pizzeria and trattoria.  On the wall in the front of Alfonso's is a picture of a couple of plump Italian guys mustaches, sitting in their undershirts in bright sunshine, next to some water.  They are eating what is clearly linguine with clam sauce, and they are eating it out of a metal tray, like what you might use to make brownies.

Although I have never lived like that, I think of that as the essence of summertime.

Tonight, with Mary and the kids away, I made a nice linguine alle vongole, way garlicky, though with canned clams.  The cats went nuts.  I didn't give them any.