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THIS WEEK VASTO By John Mariani NEW YORK CORNER GRAND CENTRAL OYSTER BAR & RESTAURANT By John Mariani THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES By John Mariani NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR WHAT TO DRINK WITH INDIAN FOOD By John Mariani ❖❖❖
VASTO, AN HISTORIC HILL TOWN ON THE ADRIATIC By John Mariani ![]()
Vasto is my hometown,
two generations removed, whence came my
grandfather and grandmother in 1905 at a
time when it was an impoverished hill town
whose history reflected the ups-and-downs of
foreign occupation, from the Lombards and
Normans to the Turks and Mussolini.
Yet
in the past twenty-five years Vasto has been
bolstered and scrubbed as a very popular
tourist town, especially in summer when
Europeans blanket the beach and marina below
the main town. Up on the hill Vasto is
compact, wonderful for walking, with a grand
piazza (below), a 15th
century castle, a fine Romanesque Cattedrale
di San Giuseppe
and a baroque Church of Santa Maria
Maggiore, which is said to hold the crown of
thorns worn by Jesus at his crucifixion. Off season Vasto returns to
the local ebb and flow of life, with the
artisanal boutiques, bakeries and trattorias
full of people speaking the regional Abruzzese
dialect, and hotel and B&B prices, already
quite moderate in summer, drop considerably to
under $100 a night. On my visit last fall, my
wife and I stayed at the tucked-away Residenza
Amblingh (Via Portone Panzotto),
with a panoramic view of the Neapolitan
Gardens and Adriatic Sea. Owner/hosts Massimo
and Raffaella are very proud of this secluded,
beautifully decorated and well-lighted 18th
century residence (left)
wherein all has been given a modern rusticity
with superb amenities, spacious rooms with
bath and bar fridge, Smart TV and WiFi. There
is a small bar and library, and breakfast is
taken on the terrace.
My favorite pizzeria on
the hill is named Pizzeria aux Fils du
Chevalier
Lo Scudo (Corso Giuseppe
Garibaldi 39) has been around
since 1867, and is a culinary repository of
Abruzzese tradition, known for its brodetto
alla Vastese teeming with sole, hake,
scampi, red mullet and several more species
of seafood. The pastas are all 12 euros and
include a seafood risotto and cavatelli
with mussels. The fritto misto
(mixed fried seafood) is
impeccably crisp and flavorful.
We began our meal with a ravioli stuffed
with burrata and shrimp in a light
tomato sauce; then came to grandest of brodettos––40
euros for two or more people––brought in a
huge bowl, steaming with briny and spicy
aromas, abundant with half a dozen kinds of
seafood, each cooked perfectly for their
texture. And then they bring you a large
plate of spaghetti on which you ladle the
remaining broth from the bowl.
For me Vasto is
returning to my ancestral home, but for
anyone traveling the Adriatic Coast it will
come as a town that shows how resilient
Abruzzo had become in the last twenty years.
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NEW YORK CORNER GRAND CENTRAL OYSTER BAR
& RESTAURANT
89 East 42nd
Street
212-490-6650 ![]()
The
term “iconic” is today so over-used as
to describe everything from bell bottom
bluejeans to Cadillac tail fins. But if
the word applies to anything in New
York, along with the Empire State
Building, the Chrysler Building and
Rockefeller Center, it would have to be
the Grand Central Oyster Bar &
Restaurant, which this year turned 111
years old. Yesterday
I had lunch there under the
magnificent tiled Catalan vaults put
in
place by Spanish architect Rafael
Guastavino, who also did the same at
Ellis Island and
under the Queensboro Bridge.
The story of its
existence—never safe from the wrecker’s
ball and once, in 1997, devastated by a
fire so hot the tiles fell off—begins with
railroad
baron
Cornelius Vanderbilt opening Grand
Central
Terminal in 1913, putting the Oyster Bar
in its
belly. It would somehow survive
Prohibition,
when much restaurant business shifted to
speakeasies like ‘21’ Club, then
flourished during World War II when
millions of military personnel came
through
New York, then declined along with
railroad passenger ridership in the
1960’s. At
one point those historic tiles were
painted aquamarine blue. By
the 1970s it was bankrupt. Fortunately, under the
guidance of master restaurateur Jerome
Brody, a new Grand Central Oyster Bar
& Restaurant was opened and found a
whole new audience, both for those who got
slurped up their oyster pan roasts
at the counter, tourists who were
astonished at its size of
440 seats and regulars who ate their
several times a week.
As noted,
it’s not
easy to make a decision among scores of
dishes, most simply prepared, and
always from the freshest seafood possible
to find in the market. Given the
volume the restaurant does at lunch and
dinner, one can only imagine the clout
the management and chef Juan Lopez have
with
fishmongers. Each morning at 3 AM Lopez is
at the Fulton Fish Market and
all his orders are at the restaurant
kitchen by 7 AM to be weighed and cut up,
scaled and
filleted.
So, on an given day you’ll find 25
species
of fish,
including mahimahi, Arctic
char, monkfish, scrod, rainbow trout and
black sea bass, two dozen kinds of
oysters culled from Beavertail, Rhode
Island, to Prince Edward Island. As with
those luscious bay scallops, they might
have autumn’s Florida stone crabs or
shad roe. There are a dozen desserts,
housemade. And before you even go, you
can check the day’s menu printed every
morning on-line. The bar is well
stocked with every kind of spirits and
beers,
and the wine list, which offers
25 by the glass, is extensive and focused
on whites. New York has plenty
of seafood restaurants, from the French
Le Bernardin
to the Greek Estiatorio
Milos to the City Island cafeteria
Johnny’s Reef. But none has the Oyster
Bar’s
history, architecture or abundance. That,
and the fact that simply entering the
subterranean restaurant, as hungry people
have for
more than a century, is to
understand how a
restaurant can be a true icon, as
representative of the belly and soul of
New
York as could be imagined, and certainly
one never to be reproduced or built
anywhere else. Open for lunch and dinner Mon.-Fri. ❖❖❖
THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES By John Mariani CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Katie boarded a Delta Shuttle to
Boston out of LaGuardia’s beautiful old
art deco Marine Air Terminal, originally
built to receive the flying boats that
once flew into New York. A half hour later
Katie landed at Boston’s Logan
International and got a taxi to Brighton,
where, since 1884, the Archbishop’s
residence (left) had been part of a
60-acre property that also included St.
John’s Seminary.
The mansion was three stories tall,
overlooking Commonwealth Avenue, and Katie
was received under the portico by a young
priest who could tell how Katie, like
everyone seeing the Archbishop’s residence
for the first time, was amazed at its size,
modeled after an Italian palazzo in marble
and mahogany, though the interior was not as
opulent.
“We have a few minutes before
Cardinal Law can see you,” said the priest,
whose name was Kerrigan, “if you’d like to
see some of the place.”
Katie said she’d be delighted and
turned on her recorder.
`“Pope John Paul II stayed here,”
said the priest, “as have many dignitaries.
This main floor is used for entertaining
guests and some secretarial offices.”
Katie was shown a dining room and
kitchen, a conference room, a lovely small
chapel. There was a slight musty smell in
the air.
“We broadcast Mass each day from this
chapel. We can’t go upstairs but there are
four bedroom suites, one for the Archbishop,
the others for secretaries or guests. On the
fourth floor we have four wonderful nuns
from Les Souers Sainte-Jeanne who take good
care of all of us. They’re French, so we eat
very well indeed. Ah, here’s Archbishop
Law!”
Law (right), at seventy,
looked every inch the Irish Catholic cleric,
of average height, well fed, with a ruddy
face topped with white hair. He wore the
official cassock with the fuchsia trim and
skull cap.
Katie knew she had seen the same
stern look of so many parish priests she’d
known since childhood, carrying themselves
slowly, as if always moving down a church
aisle, either about to bestow a benediction
or a slap. There was no cheeriness in Law’s
demeanor, and Katie sensed the interview
would be short.
Law got right down to business.
“I’ve read about you, Miss Cavuto,”
he said dryly. “You have earned quite a
reputation as, what shall I say?, a dogged
reporter?”
“I like to think I’m tenacious but
fair,” said Katie. “Do you mind if I record
our interview?”
“That’s fine if we can stop it if I
want something off the record.”
“That’s fine.” She placed the
recorder on Law’s desk and clicked it on.
She’d tested it out before she arrived.
Katie began with a
brief summation of what she’d been
researching in Dublin—Law deliberately
interrupted her several times to ask what
she thought of his favorite city outside of
Boston and had she gone to the Cathedral
there and how did she like the food—and she
dropped the names of those she’d
interviewed, from Sarah Garrison and Father
Draney to Law’s counterpart, Archbishop
McInerney.
“What happened to that good man is
inconceivable to me,” said Law, putting his
hand over his heart and shaking his head as
if in contrition. “Father Mac—that’s what he
wanted people to call him—was one of the
most loving priests I’ve ever met, as well
as a first-rate business manager. He put the
diocese on a strong financial footing, which
is difficult in Ireland, and he was widely
respected for his ability to secure funds
for the charities.”
“And, so, do you know why and who
would want to harm him the way he was?”
asked Katie.
“I’ve read the reports, and I have to
say I disagree with them. They say it was
most likely someone who had been sexually
abused by the Archbishop—and I can assure
you, Archbishop McInerney had never
been accused of such behavior in his entire
career—or that it was to keep him quiet
about Church activities. Which is also
ridiculous because, however tragic, the man
can still write with his hands.”
“Then who do you think committed the
crime?”
“I think he was just a very sick
individual who preyed on priests. It’s
possible he had been sexually molested at
some time in his life by a priest or that he
harbored resentment for being what he
thought was mistreatment while in school. He
might have been thrown out of high school or
college for some other activity, perhaps
alcoholism or because of his own
homosexuality, maybe even pedophilia.
Perhaps he believed Archbishop McInerney was
going to expose him
as a pedophile.”
“But you just said that the attacker
left the Archbishop with the ability to
write things down.”
Law tacked away from answering
Katie’s assertion and said, “Then why do you
think he was attacked, Miss Cavuto?”
Katie bore in, reminding Law of the
murders of the nuns by a woman who had been
physically abused by them and sexually
abused by priests visiting the Magdalene
Laundries.
“I know, I know,” said Law, wringing
his hands and giving the stock answer. “That
is a sad and sorry chapter in Irish Catholic
history. It began with the best of
intentions but became something very
different. But now that’s over. The
Laundries are gone.”
“But not all the sisters or priests
who were complicit in the abuse are. Many
are still in their parishes or teaching or
retired.”
Law said, “Miss Cavuto, I am
Archbishop of the diocese of Boston,
Massachusetts. Clearly, my reach and
influence does not extend to Dublin. I can
only try to act upon allegations of such
activities as come across my desk. These are
matters to be handled by the Dublin diocese
and, if necessary, by the Vatican.”
“But isn’t it true, Archbishop Law,
that you had a role in squashing an
investigation by the Boston
Globe some years ago about sexual
abuse by priests in the diocese of Boston?”
Law had anticipated the question and
gave the same answer he had at the time of
the aborted investigation. “Not to repeat
myself, Miss Cavuto, but I’m Archbishop of
the diocese of Boston, and I hardly think I
can stop a paper like the Globe
from printing whatever they like.”
Katie wanted to go further with that
line of questioning but began to fear that
Law would end the interview before she had a
chance to bring up the Network. She already
had the files on her lap and now placed them
on the Archbishop’s desk.
Law tilted his head slightly and
asked, “And what are those?”
“Archbishop Law, have you ever heard
of a Network within the Catholic Church, a
secret society of priests who are
homosexual, sometimes pedophiles, who are in
contact with one another and advise members
where they can go for sexual activity?”
Law squirmed in his seat and said, “A
Network? I’ve never heard of such a thing.
It’s always possible there are a few
renegade priests who keep in contact for the
reason you describe, but a Network,
absolutely not.”
Katie opened the files and Law’s eyes
signaled that he knew what was in them.
“These are pages and pages of the
names of priests and brothers who I believe
were part of such a Network,” she said. “I
was first told about such a possibility by
Richard Sipe, who has been researching
sexual abuse in the Church for a long time.”
Katie was sure that Law knew of Sipe
but the Archbishop said nothing.
“The priest in Dublin who was
attacked and castrated, Father Liddy, is on
this list.”
“And is Archbishop McInerney?”
“Yes, but on a separate list,” said
Katie, opening to another page and pointing.
“These priests are all high Church
officials, cardinals and bishops. They may
or may not be gay or pedophiles but they
seem to be on the list as people who can
help a priest out who may have been outed or
gotten into trouble.”
Law knew exactly what was coming
next.
Katie turned the page around for Law
to read it.
“And there’s your name, Archbishop.
Why would it be on this list?”
Law stammered, his face going from
pink to red, and said, “I have absolutely no
idea how or why I would be on this or any
such list. If someone put my name on there,
I…I assume they thought that . . . that
because I am the highest official in a
specific diocese a priest could come to me
with his problem, just the way if you were
in trouble in a foreign country you…you
might go to the American Embassy for help.”
“You mean sanctuary?”
“Of a kind, yes.”
“And have priests who might be on
this list come to you for help in such
matters?”
Law stroked his chin and said, “Well,
of course, in the sanctity of confession I
have heard priests and brothers—and nuns,
too —tell me their sins and ask for
contrition and my help.”
“And when they did, you would just
give them penance to say and absolution and
nothing else?”
“Oh, I’d try very hard to convince
them not only to get help but to go straight
to church authorities who can provide
psychological help. They’re the specialists
in such things.”
“Well,” said Katie, “I know about the
sanctity of confession, but have any
priests, brothers or nuns come to you
outside of the confessional to ask you to
help them out of trouble?”
Law had beads of sweat on his
forehead and temples, but he managed to
rouse a sense of indignation at what he was
asked.
“Miss Cavuto, we in the diocese take
such allegations about our people very, very
seriously. We investigate them thoroughly,
and sometimes we are driven to expel such
clerics, not just from their religious order
but from the Church itself, which threatens
them with eternal damnation.”
“But you never involve the police,
even if it was a case of pedophilia?”
“If the police arrest one of the
clergy on such charges, well, it’s their job
to prosecute them. The Church has no
judicial authority to do so.”
Katie had grown tired of the same
stock answers, though she would repeat them
in her article, verbatim. She said, “You may
have heard, Archbishop, that in Dublin my
partner, a former New York police detective,
and I, were attacked twice and almost
murdered because we were getting deeper into
our investigation. And at the same time, we
heard from the Dublin police that for as
long as anyone could remember, cases about
priests who molested minors never went
anywhere because the Church officials—and I
assume that included Archbishop
McInerney—brought pressure on them to kill
the investigations, just like people say you
did with the Boston
Globe investigation.”
Law was leaning over the files,
turning the pages.
“And just where did you obtain these
files?” he asked.
“They were copied from on original
book in Dublin and that there are several
copies among the Network, including one kept
by Archbishop McInerney.”
“And you intend to put this all into
your magazine?” he said.
“The story’s pretty much finished,
but my editor said he thought you should
have a chance to respond before we publish,
so I flew up here to see you and let you
have your say.”
Katie remained silent, waiting for
Law to unscramble his thoughts. Finally the
Archbishop spoke, haltingly.
“Do you know, Miss Cavuto—and I’m
pretty sure you were raised as a Catholic
girl —how harmful this would be to so many
lives and to the Church itself?”
Katie had no intention of going back
over her Catholic upbringing, except to say,
“Archbishop Law, the people on this list
have been so much more harmful than anything
I write could ever do to them. And as for
the Church, this
is not the Church I was raised to believe
in. This
is like. . .like the Anti-Church,
one that stands against everything good that
I still believe in. But I didn’t come here
to discuss 21st century Catholic
ethics. I’m here doing my job, and the chips
will fall where they have to, if I do my job
right.” Katie didn’t wait to be
told to leave. She got up from her chair,
grabbed her recorder and the files, without
help from Father Kerrigan pushed her way
through the door, down the cold marble steps
and out the iron gates of the estate, where
a pre-arranged taxi was waiting. She took a
long breath of air that felt as restorative
as when she’d emerged from confession as a
girl, feeling all her sins had been washed
away. © John Mariani, 2018 ❖❖❖ NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR
What to Drink with Indian Food ![]() It is
certainly not true that all Indian food is highly
spiced and red hot with
chilies (which didn’t even reach India from the
Americas until the 16th
century). But
many dishes are built
around seasonings and spices with pronounced
aromatics that make them difficult
to match with wine.
Larkmead
Lillie Sauvignon Blanc 2023 ($75).
Bolder and more full-bodied,
with a high 14.3% alcohol, this Napa Valley spends
time in 100% barrel
fermentation, with 32% new oak. It has tropical
notes, good minerality and
a fine
finish on the palate. It would
work wonderfully with the crêpe-like dosas filled
with potatoes and spices.
Inman Family Wines OGV
Estate Brut Rosé 2023 ($80). An elegant sparkler
made with 100% Pinot Noir
at the Olivet Grange Vineyard with the méthode
champenoise, it comes
quite close to rose Champagnes at much higher
prices. Two percent of the
previous vintage “tinted” the wine to “reduce
bitterness and phenolics and add texture
and character.” It would be excellent with
mulligatawny soup.
Penfolds Bin
600 Cabernet Shiraz
2021 ($50). The Cabernet (85%) brings the
richness and tannin backbone
while the Shiraz (15%) brings the glow of ripe
fruit. While Penfolds is known
in 1998 as a significant Australian company, in this
case they brought cuttings
from the Kalima and Magill Estates to California,
planting them in the Camatta
Hills vineyard known as “Creston ‘600’ Ranch, thus
the name. It spends 16
months in American oak barriques. This is one big
red that would meet the heat
in dishes like lamb vindaloo from Goa. ❖❖❖ FORTUNATELY HAGGIS, CULLEN SKINK AND GRUEL WILL STILL BE SERVED FOR LUNCH Scotland's
SNP government will soon ban birthday cakes and
sweet from playgroups and nursery schools, as well
as chicken nuggets,
fish fingers and anything deep fried — including
chips — chocolates and fruit juice,
pretzels and popcorn., as well as most white breads. Only
water will be served.
❖❖❖ Any of John Mariani's books below may be ordered from amazon.com. ![]() WATCH THE VIDEO! “What a huge surprise turn this story took! I was completely stunned! I truly enjoyed this book and its message.” – Actress Ali MacGraw “He had me at Page One. The amount of heart, human insight, soul searching, and deft literary strength that John Mariani pours into this airtight novella is vertigo-inducing. Perhaps ‘wow’ would be the best comment.” – James Dalessandro, author of Bohemian Heart and 1906. “John Mariani’s Hound in Heaven starts with a well-painted portrayal of an American family, along with the requisite dog. A surprise event flips the action of the novel and captures us for a voyage leading to a hopeful and heart-warming message. A page turning, one sitting read, it’s the perfect antidote for the winter and promotion of holiday celebration.” – Ann Pearlman, author of The Christmas Cookie Club and A Gift for my Sister. “John Mariani’s concise, achingly beautiful novella pulls a literary rabbit out of a hat – a mash-up of the cosmic and the intimate, the tragic and the heart-warming – a Christmas tale for all ages, and all faiths. Read it to your children, read it to yourself… but read it. Early and often. Highly recommended.” – Jay Bonansinga, New York Times bestselling author of Pinkerton’s War, The Sinking of The Eastland, and The Walking Dead: The Road To Woodbury. “Amazing things happen when you open your heart to an animal. The Hound in Heaven delivers a powerful story of healing that is forged in the spiritual relationship between a man and his best friend. The book brings a message of hope that can enrich our images of family, love, and loss.” – Dr. Barbara Royal, author of The Royal Treatment. ❖❖❖
MARIANI'S VIRTUAL GOURMET
NEWSLETTER is published weekly. Publisher: John Mariani. Editor: Walter Bagley. Contributing Writers: Christopher
Mariani, Misha Mariani, John A. Curtas, Gerry Dawes, Geoff Kalish.
Contributing
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Advisor: Gerry
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