Arrivederci, Gino (part 3 of 3)
Before my Summer 2003 travelogue series comes to a close, allow me to share one last adventure. My friend Gino from Philadelphia was here for three weeks this summer. We toured the state catawampus. Then it ended. Here are the details of our last days together.
Gino spent half of his final week visiting his cousin Joe Capone in Sacramento. I gave them some family time alone. I dropped him off and returned to Benicia to do some lesson plans and take a breather.
Joe moved out here 20 years ago and made a name for himself in the construction trades. Chris Capone, another cousin, came out shortly after and bolted up the ranks with Jacuzzi. Gino Giambrone’s mother was born a Capone. Everyone always asks “the question,” so let me address it here: are these boys related to Big Al Capone? Here is the official family answer, such as it is: It doesn’t matter. The name carries an aura regardless. If it stimulates business, go with it.
To close our extravagant holiday, I picked up Gino mid-week and we drove once again to San Francisco for an over-nighter. He, Susan and I took rooms at the Golden Gate Hotel, on Bush near Union Square (a quaint and excellent small establishment with wonderful rates of $85-per-night). This way we could awake and drive directly to the airport.
Gino very much wanted to return to Swan Oyster Depot, a small seafood diner we found on Polk and California a week earlier. It was owned by five Sicilian brothers who did the cooking, and was renowned for being boisterous, filling, and popular with local celebrities. We’d found it after a full meal, so we didn’t get a chance to eat there. We agreed to make it the scene for our last supper.
We walked over from our hotel around 2 p.m., the day before Gino’s flight, and got in the line that stretched down the sidewalk. After a decent wait, we found ourselves inside, bellied up to the counter on three stools of different sizes. Jimmy Sancimino, one of the brothers, took our order. We ordered chowder, crab, shrimp, and three kinds of oysters. Then Gino said to Jimmy, “So, you’re Sicilian?” Jimmy said yes. Gino said, “So am I,” and they shook hands across the table.
“My ancestors are from Sciacca,” said Jimmy. Sciacca is a small town on the southern coast, in the Agrigento province.
“Naw!” said Gino. “You’re kidding. That’s were my family is from.”
“Ho, ho,” said Jimmy. “Do you know the Abono family?”
“Yeah,” said Gino. “We are the Giambrone, or Giambroné family.”
“Holy mackerel,” said Jimmy, “I think we’re related.” They shook hands again, this time like a thunder clap.
“So, make me something interesting,” said Gino, “something that’s not on the menu, something from the old country.”
Jimmy grinned. “You like fresh sardines and anchovies?”
“Sure I do,” said Gino.
Jimmy winked and walked away. He came back a few minutes later with a plate of filleted sardines, anchovies, and scallops drenched in olive oil and sprinkled with capers. We all took a bite. “Geez, oh, man, that’s good,” said Gino. “This is unbelievable.”
Jimmy asked, “Do your parents or grandparents ever tell you stories about the old country?”
“No,” said Gino. “Thanks to Mussolini and the war, they we not allowed to speak Italian in America. I never learned the language.”
Jimmy told of how his own grandfather jumped ship in the San Francisco harbor long ago. How he saved his pennies. How his father saved, and how he opened the Oyster Depot in 1946. We kept eating. Jimmy told us stories about Sciacca during the French occupation and how the Sicilians routed the French.
When the revolt began, French soldiers discarded their uniforms and tried to conceal themselves as Sicilians. However, they were found out by the awkward way they pronounced chiche (the Sicilian word for the chickpea or garbanzo bean). We kept eating. Men were lined up in the town square before a small bowl of garbanzo beans. Those who pronounced chiche wrong were executed.
We enjoyed more beer, more chowder, more oysters, more stories. The afternoon rolled by. At the end we paid our considerable tab, took some arm-in-arm pictures with Jimmy, and left the Depot, promising to return.
That evening we went to the Biscuits and Blues Club and saw Shana Morrison, Van’s daughter. We sat in Lefty O’Douls drinking coffee until after midnight. We slept late, ate complimentary breakfast in the lobby, and took Gino to the airport.
We had long hugs. Then he was gone. Until we meet again, my friend.
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