He’s gray-haired and raspy-voiced, tells stories of his home in the Rockaways, which could have been knocked out by Sandy and still has some damage, but this is life on the water, you don’t leave, where would you go? He talks of the neighborhood here, where his store still stands, as the ‘old neighborhood’ where he played ‘stickball on the streets.’ I hear the echo of my own father’s memories. Their shared vocabulary lets me know I’ve found some kind of home.
When I order ‘Georgie’s Bowler’, he tells me that’s his sandwich.
Soppressata, mozzarella, roasted red peppers, basil, and balsamic vinaigrette.