There’s no place like home
Once in a while people ask me why I came home to Troy after living in the New York City metropolitan area for twelve years.
Other friends have been asked the same question when they returned from places like San Diego, Chicago, and Boston. It’s not easy to explain but when my friend, Sam, came to visit recently, he summarized some of my thoughts very well.
Here’s what he had to say. “I came up to Troy from Long Island late September to visit my friend John. I’m a lawyer for a Hospital, but will also attend to friends’ legal questions. During my visit to John’s family, I was helping him out with an important legal matter.
I’ve known John since 1980. He was my boss when he lived on Long Island. We soon formed a friendship that has lasted 39 years. I thought that was long time… and it is… but on this trip I met three of his friends, Dominic, John and Angelo. They go back with John 60 years.
After our meeting, John suggested we all go out to LoPorto’s for dinner. I had never heard it of much less been there. I checked it out online and found it was a “Family-run Italian mainstay offering heaping plates of pasta & seafood along with cocktails & wine.” When we got there we sat outside waiting for one of the guys to arrive so we could grab our table. While waiting, I met the owner, Mike LoPorto for whom the place is named.
He’s a character in the best sense of the word. Some of the guys had cigars lit (hardly allowed anywhere on Long Island). When the last of our party arrived we cut the burning ends off the cigars, and Mike told us to leave them: “they’ll be waiting for you after dinner, no one will bother them.”
Being Italian American, I felt at home in the warm and unpretentious environment. I thought James Gandolfini had risen, but it was their professional but friendly bartender. Here I got my first dose of banter between John and Dominic. They argued (um…discussed) what wine was appropriate. Then which type of pasta went with what. Then a few other things I forgot. I could tell this went on all the time, and was a friendly ritual.
I saw a picture on the wall across from us. Having heard that Martin Scorsese dined here, I thought it might be a picture of Joe Pesci. The friendly waitress brought out the food. They could have used a pickup truck to deliver it. “…heaping plates…” just as advertised. While we savored the tasty offerings, I heard stories of the old days of Troy.
Their exploits as young men, and things that I could relate to like Sunday pasta (Macaroni, that is).
After dinner, we spent a little more time at an outside table. There seemed to be endless number of people greeting each other. Everyone knew everyone.
When John left downstate many years ago to go back to Troy, I’d been mystified. What did it have that we didn’t have downstate?
As we ended the evening with goodbyes, I thought about what I just been a part of. And the last thing Angelo said to me as he crossed the street. “We are all getting together next month… and Sam…you’re invited.”