TulaneLSU's quick and easy Michael's of Brooklyn spaghetti

Dear Friends,

New York is my second city. It, along with Paris and Cambridge across the pond, are the only cities that give me a feeling of home away from New Orleans. I spent my senior year at a boarding school perhaps inside or perhaps not too far outside New York. My senior exploits in the city had me considering Columbia for college. Its Upper West Side location was not the most appealing spot to me, for obvious reasons. However, the proximity to Riverside and St. John the Divine tempted me. So I visited. The moment I stepped on campus, I realized there were too many bricks on the sidewalks. Columbia was not meant to be.

Apart from my time in school near or in the city, exact location withheld due to unsavory organized figures pursuing me, I have been to New York probably 50 times. Of late, pizza has been my infatuation and compulsion. Before that, Mother and I preferred sit down restaurants. One such restaurant we tried in the late 1990s was Michael's of Brooklyn. It was there that I had the fourth best red sauce I've ever had, after Impastato's, TulaneLSU's Sunday gravy, and Lucali's marinara, which accompanied the most excellent of calzones.

When, several years later, we saw a bottle in a local grocer, we purchased it. Although it is not as good as the sauce in the restaurant -- it never is -- it is probably the second best available commercially. Impastato's is available, of course, as Sal and Judy's red gravy. The bottled variety from Sal, likewise, is not as good as the in-house version.



Mother stocked up the pantry with tens of jars of this sauce months ago. She sensed storm clouds gathering on the horizon and ensured that I would not go without. I tried calling her again today to ask from which grocer she purchases this sauce, but for the fifth day, I have been unable to reach her. Uncle texted me that she is fine, and is "under one of her dark clouds," so wants to be left alone for a few more days. I will give her space. When I find out which store, I will let you know.

Although our dear anti-south Louisiana friend in Boston, BitaFan, recommends Eataly for fresh pasta, I actually prefer dried pasta at home. There is quite the stockpile in the pantry. I like the thin stuff, but in a pandemic, I will eat any variant. Today I used the Essential Everyday thin spaghetti. It's not as good as the imported Sam's brand, but it was opened. I think it was open for quite a long while.



Last week, I watched an incredible film from 1987 called Empire of the Sun. It stars a young Christian Bale and recounts the semi-true story of a twelve year old British student living in Shanghai at the time of the Japanese invasion of the city. He is separated from his mother and father and ends up in a concentration camp where he becomes the go-to kid, full of energy, optimism, and art. Adults shuffle him from one to the other, some of good influence, some of less good influence. In reality, though, his Churchillian spirit is the one rubbing off on them.

The main character reminds me a little of myself, and I suppose anyone who has experienced separation from one or both parents might relate to the character. At that pivotal age, he is trying to come to terms with evil in what he holds to be a good world. He is never one to demonize his captors, even in the ugliness they commit. The ambiguous portrayal of the enemy in Empire of the Sun is entirely different from the dissolute, psychopathic picture of the Japanese painted in Bale's 2012 film about the Japanese capture and rape of Nanking, The Flowers of War.



Once the water's ebullience was evident, I added the pasta. It was then I realized I added more than just the pasta. Apparently some weevils were enjoying the pasta before me. Rather than throw out the guests, I cooked them with the pasta. It was Empire of the Sun that so encouraged me to do so. The young character played by Bale rejoiced any time he found weevils in his paltry meals. "Added protein," he said. When one of his surrogate parents was struggling at the end, he tells her, "Eat the weevils. They will give you energy." She leaves them and the next time she is seen, she is dead, probably from malnutrition. I have no desire to share in her fate, so I swallowed up every last weevil I could tonight.



While the pasta cooked, I prepared some freshly grated Parmesan cheese. It was a little past its sell-by date, but I was undeterred. As I unwrapped it, I realized I needed to do a little trimming. I love a moldy cheese as much as anyone, but this was a level of mold my stomach probably is incapable of digesting.



The remaining tan-white colored cheese was extremely hard, as it had well and truly aged. I tried to eat a piece without shredding it and it was too hard for my teeth. However, shredded into a Waterford bowl, it looked and smelled delicious.



I considered walking to City Park again to gather some red soda apples, a.k.a., cockroach tomatoes, but, as they are supposedly poisonous, I decided against it. Perhaps another time.



Ms. Mae taught me a secret in how to determine if pasta is cooked appropriately. She said, "When you throw two pieces of spaghetti at the microwave and one sticks and the other falls, then it's just right." If both stick, you've overcooked it just a tad. Tonight, it was a tad overcooked, but still not limp.



Because so many of you harangued me for not including sugar, not to mention onions, which have no place in a red gravy, in my own Creole red gravy, I decided I would add a little of South Louisiana to Michael's of Brooklyn. I'm a big fan of whipped cream, as its creaminess and sweetness are perfect to cut an acidic sauce. I added a dollop and it was a pleasant addition.



The aged cheese, the weevils, the well cooked pasta, and the Michael's red sauce infused with a taste of Creole Italian made for a delicious meal. I hope one day to share a similar dish with you.



Faith, Hope, and Love,
TulaneLSU