On The Rocks

Scene from Food Critic Mike Kalina’s First Visit to The Primadonna

On Friday of the following week, six people walked into the restaurant—three well-dressed couples, differing noticeably from the normal jeans-and-t-shirt Rocks attire. I immediately pulled Donna aside. “Donna, that might be Kalina’s party. I want you to wait on them.”

“Okay, but I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’re the best, Love.” The regular servers were fine, but Donna had unusual poise and grace, along with that beauty-pageant smile that won people over.
The hostess seated the group. Donna scurried over with menus, promising to return shortly to take their drink orders. She watched as they perused their menus for a few moments, then took their drink orders. As soon as she served the drinks, she returned with a basket of garlic bread made from Mancini’s Italian bread and a plate of fried zucchini with lemon slices and marinara sauce, saying, “Joe sent this zucchini on the house. If this doesn’t appeal to you, I can bring roasted red peppers instead.” Two of the men said something in unison about the zucchini being fine.

Donna asked the party if they were ready to order. They showered her with questions about the menu—What would she consider their “specialty”? Which did she like more, the Veal Calabrese, or the Veal Sicilian? With what were the clam appetizers stuffed? Were the gnocchi made with potato or ricotta? I know these details because we relived the scene over and over the next couple of days for anyone interested—staff, family, and our circle of friends.

I waited in the kitchen, and Donna rushed back to me. “I think it is Kalina, Joe. They’re asking too many questions.”

“I think you’re right, Love, but don’t get too nervous. We’ve got to serve this guy the best meal he ever had in his life.” I gathered the kitchen staff by motioning for them to turn towards me. Then I instructed in a low tone, “Everyone tighten your game; I think Kalina is here.”

Donna squeaked, “Joe, I am more nervous than when I had Maria.”

“You’re the best, Love. You’re the best in the world. Get back to the table. You have a job to do.” I told the busser to step aside while I busied myself at nearby tables where I could get a glimpse of the action.

Donna announced to the table that tonight’s soups were French onion, homemade chicken soup with pastina, or Manhattan clam chowder. The vegetable choices were glazed baby carrots or broccoli.

One of the gentlemen ordered first. “I’ll have the Mostaccioli all’ Arrabriata.” This dish was mostaccioli noodles tossed with hot peppers, butter, and brandy, in a tomato sauce. “And the house dressing on the salad.”

Remembering his earlier question about the peppers, Donna clarified, “That is a good choice, sir. The peppers are hot?” she asked as she nodded up and down, making sure he had noticed that.

He nodded back as one of the women leaned forward to announce her entree. “I’d like the Sea Scallops Barsac. Are those breaded?”

“No, ma’am. They are baked in a garlic, lemon, and white wine sauce with fresh mushrooms and parsley, but they are finished with a sprinkling of toasted breadcrumbs.”

“Okay. And what kind of soup do you offer today?”

“We always have French onion or homemade chicken soup with pastina, and tonight we also have Manhattan clam chowder,” Donna replied sweetly, as though she had never mentioned it earlier.

“And what vegetable?”

“Tonight’s choices are glazed baby carrots or broccoli.”

“I’ll have the chicken soup and the carrots.”

“A side of spaghetti or a baked potato also comes with that.”

“Oh. I’ll try the spaghetti.”

“Certainly,” affirmed Donna, her smile broadening as if to say those were excellent choices.

The second woman ordered Veal al Pino, a dish with fresh veal, breaded and sautéed, topped with a combination of fresh mushrooms, onions, green peppers, and tomato sauce, crowned with a melting of provolone cheese.

The last three guests ordered the homemade manicotti, the Spaghetti all-Amatrigiana, and the Fettuccini Primavera.

I took a familiar walk to the kitchen, passing the cooler filled with my mother’s homemade apple pies. When the double doors opened, I gazed around the room and noticed how everything was running at peak efficiency. Everyone was hustling, and everything had its place, from the pepperoncini jars stacked on the shelves to the cove where Anna used her thumbs to print every gnocchi that was made. I remember a few moments in a somewhat surreal state, pleased and calm, yet knowing this moment could be monumental; however, the smell of the pasta all’ Arrabriata mixture knocked me back to my senses. I grabbed the hot plate of pasta and helped Donna load it onto her tray.

Donna and her assistants made sure the service that evening was impeccable, continually replenishing the waters, clearing plates, and asking about drink or bread refills. When it came time for desserts, two women ordered the Italian rum cake, and one ordered pineapple sorbet served in a bowl carved from a fresh pineapple. One of the men ordered the chocolate cheesecake, and the other two gentlemen ordered the apple pie. Donna commented, “The apple pie is made from scratch daily by Joe’s mother. You’ll taste the difference.”

The party lingered over dessert as the staff whispered that the guests seemed to be relaxing and enjoying themselves. Before they were done, one of the gentlemen introduced himself to Donna as she poured his second cup of coffee. “Thanks for waiting on us. I’m Mike Kalina from the Post-Gazette.”

“Oh, my! Now I know what your real voice sounds like,” replied Donna cheerfully, alluding to the electronically disguised TV voice of The Phantom Diner. Kalina asked to speak to me.

On her way back to the kitchen, Donna murmured to me, “It’s Mike Kalina; he introduced himself. He wants to talk to you.”

I wasted no time walking over to the table. “Mr. Kalina, Joe Costanzo. What did you think?”

“Joe, the food was really good; I’m very surprised.” He and his party collected their things and got up to leave. “Something will be in the paper about this on Friday. I am really debating about what to give you. I think you deserve Four out of Five Forks, but I have never given a local place like this Four Forks.”

My heart dropping a bit, I replied, “Mr. Kalina, if we deserve Four Forks, we should get Four Forks.” But I didn’t push it.

Kalina walked out the door, and I immediately felt the disappointment. How could he not give us what we deserved? I walked into the kitchen, and they were dancing the bump and singing “Primadonna dreaming is becoming a reality” to the tune of the Mamas & the Papas “Creeque Alley.” (If you can’t remember that song from its title, it’s the one with the line “No one’s gettin’ fat ‘cept Mama Cass.”)

“Guys, great job tonight. We served Mr. Kalina a fabulous meal, and he loved it.” Everyone cheered. “He said we will be in the paper in a couple of days, but he is debating about what to give us. He thinks we deserve Four Forks, but he may give us Three.”

“What!” Tony exclaimed.

“Why wouldn’t he give us what we deserved?” Pino chimed in.

I looked at Anna. “Hey, Anna, you’d better get out your rosaries. We need some prayers.”