Life Goes on

ANGELINA'S CRABS

 

We are anxious, elated, salivating for tonight's treat in an area of our city we don't know very well. Izzy is our driver and I am Izzy's wife, Sadye. Two other couples, our very best friends, are with us. I'll introduce them later. Right now I have to keep my eyes peeled for Albemarle Ave. Izzy is trying to drive carefully, slowly but not too slowly. The Goodmans and Goldfarbs behind us are almost glued to our trunk. Izzy is superb, sees ahead a traffic light about to turn red, he slows down, so Jerome driving behind us stays behind us.

 

I take  my miniature flash light out of my purse, read  directions  aloud just to confirm to Izzy that he is going the right way. We have been to Angelina's twice before but were always passengers, paid no attention to where we were until the high stone steps to porches that had large planters filled with heavy ferns said, 'We're here, Folks.'

 

Angelina's can barely be seen.  Her haven is in the lowest part of the house, ordinarily called the cellar, but in this case a red neon sign blinks, 'Crab Cakes'. Angelina is there to welcome us in. There is a small vestibule, its walls covered by out-dated ornate tin patterns, up to the ceiling. I get the feeling this was from the speak-easy times when booze, hootch was readily available for a handshake and paper money.

 

I call the Friedmans and Brodmans over. 'Come meet Angelina. She'll see to it that we have a fantastic dinner. From outer space comes Trixie, our waitress, who guides us to our reserved table, motions to the one next to us that is waiting for our friends. We wait. We wait. The Goldfields must be lost. While we worry, we order beer, lite beer, ice cold. Before a single bottle is empty, the door opens and Angelina brings in the Goldfarbs and Goodmans, blabbering loudly they couldn't find a parking space in that damn tiny alley. Angelina looks ready to strangle them, but smiles and seats them next to us.

 

Removing the grumpy attitude that shows on Alan Goldfart's face, isn't easy. 'Ooops.' I work at it by ordering crab soup, a big bowl. I start to tell her to put lots of lump crab in it and Izzy kicks me under the table. Like a chorus, we all order the crab soup, talk, laugh across the aisle. Queen Trixie carries six steaming bowls on one tray without spilling anything. I don't care that it is impolite to blow on one's hot soup, I do it anyhow and relish it's warmth, hot seasoning. Each huge crab lump is a gift from the bay. It is certainly not from our god who must be putting black marks next to our name for eating unkosher crabs. None of us cares too much. We take a breather with cold, cold beer.

 

I can see steam rising from the tray of crab cakes headed our way. I cover my mouth so I won''t dribble. Two each, humongous, tanned, shell less crab cakes. By their side there is 'home-made slaw that does not slop up our plates with too much mayo. French fries, big, thick, toasted smell as good as they will tate. I look up to the ceiling and say aloud, 'Oh God, I'm on my way to heaven. Look, out. I'm comin' in.' It was dumb but we all had a laugh. Trixie offers dessert. I order a double rich piece of chocolate layer cake to go. Craving it meant saving it.

 

'All done! All over! Angelina thanks us, takes us to the door and hands us each a flyer. 'Thank you for your patronage. It has been a pleasure serving you. This location closes November 1. 'COME VISIT US AT OUR NEW LOCATION, ALBEMARLE SKY LITE IN THE NEW TRANS-LUXE MALL. Bring this flyer. You will have your first dinner at the new Angela's on us.'

 

She is a great cook but bad actress. Angelina is crying.