Rizzo’s Slice Shop Episode Seven: Chicken Parm Heroes and A Bag of Potato Chips

“Okay, order up, number 54, I got ya Sammartino Speciale with extra provolone, the Angelina with peppers and a Sophia with the vegan mutz. Gino’s gonna hook you up with ya garlic knots at the pizza counter.”

The last few customers from a depleted lunchtime rush eagerly received their sandwiches from Mickey, who’s eyes flitted anxiously towards the door.

“Hey, I just noticed your sign, ‘Sicilians Eat Half Price’…” one of the customers, a wiry teenager with a look of an unsuccessful Timothée Chalamet, chimed, gesticulating to the crudely scrawled notice on a white paper plate affixed to the wall behind Mickey’s head.

“…I’m half Sicilian on my mother’s side” the hopeful new owner of a meatball hero continued, his grimy white tank vest a distinct contrast to his immaculately crisp tube socks, cradled inside a black pair of adidas slides, which were more poolside cabana than Bronx pizza parlour. The signature deep blue and Princeton orange of his Knicks shorts hung off his beanstalk frame as if he were the ‘after’ photo from a weight loss commercial.

Mickey’s attention shifted back into focus as he gave the kid a puzzled glare.

“I’m half Sicilian…” the kid reiterated, this time with a more pronounced gesture towards the sign. Mickey seemed unmoved and unimpressed by the customer’s geneology.

“Ey good for you, kid” Mickey shrugged at the now exasperated teen, who’s hopes of scoring a few bucks back were disappearing along with Mickey’s attention.

Sensing his persistent angling for a half price sandwich was falling on deaf ears, the kid and his two friends cut their losses and bounced. Having watched this scene unfold as he lifted a bubbling, crisp Rosalita (smoked Mexican chorizo and pickled jalapeños) from the oven’s roaring embers, Enzo motioned towards Gino to do the honours with the pizza wheel.

“Fuck’s the matter wit’ you?” Enzo quipped, not-so-playfully clipping Mickey round the back of the head.

“Fuck ya talkin’ about?” replied Mickey, awoken from his pensive trance as A Tribe Called Quest’s ‘Buggin Out’ segued into Nas’ ‘Halftime’ on the pizzeria’s sound system.

“That kid, ya hump. You fuckin’ ignored him. You wanna lose us more customers on top o’ what Walters is currently doin’ to us?”

“Been a fuckin’ week and still no word, ‘zo. The fuck’s this guy doin’? Walters is all over social media dumpin’ on us and we got nothin’.”

“Relax, a’right? You’re gettin’ paranoid with all this shit. When he’s got our information, he’ll be in touch. You think he’s gonna stiff us? With what we’ve got on him? C’mon, will ya? The guy may be crazy but he ain’t fuckin’ stupid, Mick.” Enzo whispered, so as to not alert anybody within earshot of their current arrangement with Il Polpo.

A week had passed since Mickey’s cocaine fuelled payphone conversation with Il Polpo. The deal was simple: Find out who Benjamin Walters is working with to frame the DeMarco brothers for the Westchester jewellery heist and why Rizzo’s is being targeted as a result. The infamous, outspoken Long Island food blogger had seen his web traffic, Youtube views and social media followings positively supernova with his salacious, almost daily updates tying Rizzo’s to all manners of Mafia related activity, severely hampering Enzo’s business, while famed TV chef Joey Riggs reaped the benefits of Walters’ significant pull within the New York food industry, with athletes and celebs flocking to his Belmont Avenue spot in their droves.

Given the volatility of some of the characters that could potentially be tied up in a beef with the DeMarcos, who had done their level best to attract a laundry list of violent enemies over the past decade, Enzo had made the decision to enrol Il Polpo’s services as an insurance policy. Albeit an extreme, dangerously unhinged insurance policy.

In the intervening weeks since Walters’ premiere exposé surrounding the DeMarco brothers and their now ill fated visit to Rizzo’s, various publications had clamoured for comments on the claims the restaurant was little more than a front for mob activity, just like, Walters’ had posed, Al’s pizzeria before it.

Writers from Eater, Thrillist and even the New York Post had reached out, all to be knocked back with a simple ‘no comment’ from Enzo, who, upon his father’s advice, had decided to endure, weathering the storm as best he could before Il Polpo returned his findings which would, hopefully, turn the tide of the war with Walters in their favour once and for all.

On average, roughly two dozen customers a day were querying the validity of Walters’ reports while placing their orders, only to be abruptly knocked back each time. The silent treatment was wearing thin on Rizzo’s patrons, though, with less and less of them returning out of skepticism and, in some cases, fear of what crossfire they could get caught up in when sitting down to a slice and a soda on a sunny Saturday afternoon, given the history of what led to the closure of Al’s five years ago.

“Anyway, you got next month’s special worked out, yet?” quizzed Enzo as Mickey slowly began to replenish his deli counter, silently taking a quickfire inventory of how much salame nostrano, roast turkey and mortadella was remaining, while surmising whether there was a need to prep any more meatballs for his notorious ‘Sammartino Speciale’ ahead of the evening rush. The self proclaimed ‘Deli Counter Don’, Mickey possessed an enormous sense of pride of his deli station, dutifully supplied with produce from a selection of traders from Arthur Avenue market and his own family, with his uncles operating both Ruggerio’s Bakery and Butcher Shop.

“I gotta couple ideas cooking, but I ain’t settled on one yet. I can’t think straight with all this shit goin’ on” came Mickey’s reply, arranging and rearranging semolina rolls and Ruggerio’s trademark honey golden stirato ciabattas to the final few bars of the Beastie Boys’ ‘Sure Shot’.

“Well I’m tellin’ ya, Ricky and Gino have brought their A-game for the pizza special, so ya gonna need somethin’ big to compete” teased Enzo, knowing full well Mickey operated in a different stratosphere when it came to curating a sandwich. His current monthly special offering — a vegetarian concoction of julienned zucchini fried in mint and extra virgin olive oil, sat within a crisp, fluffy, ricotta smeared stirato and layered with fresh mozarella di bufala, thinly sliced grilled eggplant and a generous topping of dazzling red sweety drop peppers, lightly drizzled with Sicilian thistle honey and a crunch of red pepper chilli flakes — had proved a runaway success during the month of August, even with the Walters inspired downturn in business.

“C’mon, huh? Those two clowns wanted a goddamn clam pie on the menu last month. Meanwhile what did I have goin’ on over here? The best fuckin’ porchetta san you’ve ever wrapped ya lips around. Gimme a few days and I guarantee I’ll blow those jokers outta the water.”

“Man, you ain’t gonna have shit on El Boricua” beamed a confident Ricardo as he wiped down the soda fountain, pouring himself a tall ginger ale in the process.

“The fuck’s El Boricua?” sniped Mickey, almost dismissively.

“South Bronx’s finest sofrito as the base…” Ricardo began, almost seductively teasing the list of ingredients out of his mouth, methodically rubbing his hands together as he passionately described his and Gino’s creation, heavily inspired by his own Puerto Rican background.

“And we goin’ heavy on the pernil. You know what that is? Low an’ slow pork shoulder baby. Plenty of garlic and adobo up in there, then Gino’s pickling up some pineapple salsa to drizzle all over that shit before we drop those cuero cracklings on top, finished with the pickled red onions outta the oven. Fuhgedaboudit. You done fo’ this month, baby.”

Mickey glared. He was impressed, yet stoic in his demeanour. His bullishness did nothing to temper the enthusiasm of his culinary rivals, though, who sensed that his silence was in fact speaking volumes. In the three months of operation, Mickey’s sandwich specials had outsold Gino and Ricardo’s opposition pizzas every single time. The now not-so-friendly competition was a brainchild of Enzo’s, aimed towards bringing the best out of his youthful, hungry, dynamic duo while also pushing the boundaries of Mickey’s visionary sandwich skills.

Each special would run for an entire calendar month, sitting alongside the regular ‘Perfect 10’ items on each menu, all christened after family, friends or famous Italian icons (the Sammartino Speciale being Mickey’s meatball sub, named in honour of legendary WWE Champion Bruno Sammartino, while the Sophia was a tribute to the eggplant parm Enzo’s mother watched him ravenously demolish so often during his childhood).

“Fuck this. ‘Zo, we got more pressing matters to attend to. Gino was telling me Riggs is gonna have Jeter comin’ in there next week? How are we gonna compete wit’ that? You know what I’d do to have Derek Jeter set foot in this place and taste one o’ my sandwiches? I’d retire on the spot.” Mickey tried to veer the subject towards their arrangement with Il Polpo once more, increasingly more agitated the longer radio silence was observed.

“C’mon…” Enzo slapped Mickey on the back and directed the pair of them to a booth in the far corner of the pizzeria.

Taking their seats, Enzo smiled at Mickey, sensing his friend was not faring too well since last week’s phonecall. There was, after all, the pair’s history with Il Polpo, a happening that had lingered and remained unspoken for years. It was an incident that had morbidly worked in their favour, but neither ever cared to bring up unless it was absolutely necessary. The last seven days had seen it gradually creep back into their vocabulary and Mickey was feeling the strain of a past he thought he’d left behind.

“Look Mick, this deal with him, it’s nothin’ to worry about. There ain’t even gonna be raised voices, let alone raised fists. We’ve cashed in our favour for him to go play detective. Once he’s given us what we want, we’re free from ever dealin’ with him again. That’s why I wanted you to make the call in the first place, to get all this shit tying us to him outta the way for good.”

“I hear ya, it’s just…why not let it go entirely, huh? The ball was in our court, ‘zo. He’s in our debt, not the other way round. We coulda just wiped our hands o’ him and never crossed paths again, but you wanna involve him in this? We shoulda fired back at Walters like I wanted to in the first place. But you’ve gone and employed the Bronx’s most notorious fuckin’ manhunter to compile a report on some geek from Long Island?”

Enzo ruminated on his best friends words, taking in a few lines of Ka’s ‘No Downtime’ as he attempted to rub the exhaustion from his face. He knew Mickey made a lot of sense regarding his feelings towards Il Polpo. He understood that utilising the skillset of a man who’s been greenlit for more assassination attempts than Fidel Castro was a conspicuous choice.

“Mick, we were all in agreement that we needed all the help we could get in this shit with Walters. He’s got the fuckin’ pigs keepin’ more than just an eye on this place, lookin’ for any reason to shut us down. Wit’ the stroke Walters has in this industry, we need someone on our side who can rain a shit storm down on them that will make them run 10 fuckin’ miles in the opposite direction and never come back. And we need to know how fuckin’ Riggs and the DeMarco’s figure into all this bullshit.”

“A week and no word, though? The fuck’s he even lookin’ for? The fuck’s he even found? This guy, ‘Zo, he’s unpredictable. He’s a fuckin’ killer fer chrissakes. He bit that fuckin’ cop’s nose off when he was supposed to be layin’ low in Miami that time…”

Enzo couldn’t help but laugh at the repetition of the Miami story — a tale that had been told via Chinese whispers around the Bronx’s Little Italy and beyond for years. It was just another brushstroke in the picture that had been painted of the Il Polpo character over the last 20 years.

Il Polpo, ‘the octopus’, a moniker bestowed upon him by the borough’s criminal underbelly for ‘having tentacles in every corner of The Bronx’, reached where water couldn’t. His knowledge of street level business was unparalleled, his propensity for extreme violence unsurpassed. His actual name was, much like almost every facet of his character, a mystery.

He was more entity than human being, operating within the darkness of an underworld populated by gangsters, traffickers, pimps, murderers, drug lords and those who society had simply forgotten about. His rage, crucially, was only ever focused on those he felt deserved it. He wasn’t driven by a desire for power or fame or wealth. Vengeance and justice were meted out to those who inflicted misery and suffering needlessly on the helpless. The same tragic incident that had caused so much internal conflict between Enzo and Mickey, however, had also seen Il Polpo holster his guns and focus more on detective work in recent years. To his own relief, it had proven to be a lucrative, bloodstain free business.

“He didn’t bite nobody’s nose off ya fuckin’ hard on,” Enzo grinned.

“Oh yeah? You ever seen the guy eat a steak? Well I have. Fuckin’ blue and bloody. Remember tryin’ to broker a deal with the miserable prick. Just the two of us, back room of Salerno’s steakhouse. Remember that place? Was like being on a date with Hannibal goddamn Lecter. Fuckin’ nauseating. I almost turned vegetarian.”

Shaking his head, Enzo smiled at Mickey and stood up, ready to prep for the evening shift.

“I know all this shit worries you, Mick. I don’t feel too great about it either, but let’s just focus on the end goal here. All the shit we want to do with this place? Can any other motherfucker in this borough, this fuckin’ city, make a chicken parmigiana hero like Mickey Ruggerio?”

“Ya fuckin’ sweet talkin’ prick, ya. A’right, I hear ya. It’s just seeing that pissy little rat’s face everywhere, talkin’ shit, sending people into hiding, winin’ and dinin’ with celebs at Rigg’s joint. Makes me sick. I can’t bite my tongue much longer, ‘zo. I refuse to let this place die at the keyboard o’ some goofball who dresses like Pee Wee goddamn Herman.”

“It’s gonna be over soon, I promise. Now, speakin’ o’ those chicken parms, I’m starvin’. How about fixin’ us a couple, huh? And Gino, we’re empty over here, how about some fuckin’ volume on those speakers?”

Enzo’s younger cousin complied with the request, pumping KRS-One’s ‘Step Into a World’ onto the corner of 3rd avenue at a volume so volatile the concrete vibrated.

“Fuckin’ A, now we’re talkin’…” clapped Mickey, emboldened by his chat with Enzo, sliding a couple of sesame seed semolina rolls into the oven to develop an extra bite, “Hey, an how about Black Sheep and some Eric B and Rakim? Let’s get this fuckin’ place bouncin’.”

Manoeuvering the bread back out of the oven once it had developed a crunchier, singed finish, Mickey began his construction. Brined chicken thighs received a generous dredging in flour and dunked into the fryer. As the bird sizzled, the Rizzo’s blend marinara sauce is generously ladled across the bread and topped with Arthur Avenue market’s finest, freshest mozarella. A scattering of basil leaves then provides the greenery before the chicken makes it’s triumphant, golden brown return from the fryer, nestling into the welcoming, pillowy embrace of the semolina roll, the oil soaking into the bread with the sauce so that it becomes a gooey, crispy, meaty mess held together by the charred crust.

“Look at that. Someone should fuckin’ hang this in the MoMa” declared Mickey, his chest puffed out as if the sandwich were his actual child that he’d witnessed riding a bike for the first time.

“Hey ‘zo, let’s eat.”

“Ah shit, we got no chips?” Enzo lamented, realising their lunch was missing a staple ingredient.

“Fuck it, I need chips ta go with this. I’ll head to Jimmy’s bodega down the street. Gimme two minutes, Mick.”

As Enzo departed on his emergency supply run, he held the door for a young female bike messenger, who had just hit her breaks outside Rizzo’s entrance.

“Hey, it’s OK, bring the bike in if you need to. You don’t wanna be leaving it outside unchained” assured Mickey as the messenger made her way inside sans her wheels.

“It’s OK, I’m not sticking around. You Michele Francis Ruggerio?” the messenger asked, holding a letter in her right hand, prodding it towards Mickey.

“Yeah but no one ever calls me Mich….ah shit”

As the envelope exchanged hands, the realisation dawned on Mickey that the letter’s origin was from a certain Pelham Bay Printing Services. One look at the meticulously crafted octopus shaped wax seal on the ivory envelope told Mickey all he needed to know.

Not so delicately ripping the seal open and discarding the envelope, he unfurled a methodically handwritten note.

“Good afternoon Michele. Flushing Meadows baseball fields. One hour.”

“This fuckin’ guy can’t txt like last time?” Mickey wondered aloud.

At that point, Enzo made his return from Jimmy’s bodega, a dark orange bag of potato chips gleefully clutched in his right hand.

“Hawaiian luau BBQ kettle chips, motherfucker…”

“We better take ’em to go,” Mickey responded, holding Il Polpo’s summons in the air.

Within what felt like seconds, the pair were hotfooting it into Mickey’s beaten up Honda Civic and tearing towards Flushing Meadows. Scored by a combo of Method Man, Redman, Action Bronson and Busta Rhymes, the chicken parms and chips were devoured en route, as last minute butterflies kicked in, wondering just what level of information Il Polpo was sitting on.

Barely a word was exchanged as they made their way to Flushing Meadows’ baseball fields. Ordinarily, this would make for a perfect summer’s day, but, sat on a bench overlooking a sunkist baseball diamond now presented an unshakeable sense of dread.

“Why can’t this guy do anything goddamn normally? A handwritten letter delivered by bike messenger? Whadda we in the 1920’s all of a sudden? Just txt me. That’s what he did last time.” Mickey stressed, the nerves that had dissipated a little over an hour ago now making a most unwelcome return.

“Shit, I hope this don’t take long. My old man’s gonna be at the restaurant soon. I got the Sunday gravy for him to take to my grandpa. Then my ma and Simone are comin’ down to do some filmin’ for this project they’re working on…”

“Jesus H Christ, ‘zo…” Mickey bluntly interjected, “How is this not you’re only problem right now? We’re about to sit down with one o’ the most murderous motherfuckers in all o’ New York and you’re worried about your granddad’s sauce recipe and your ma’s new project with your ex-girlfriend? How is nothing in your life goddamn straightforward? This has always been your problem y’know. Always takin’ on about 48,000 jobs at once and then they all go ta shit. Just focus on this shit right now.”

“Been a goddamn hour already. This fuckin guy, he never heard of punctuality?”

“Maybe he’s bitin’ the nose off another cop” Mickey cackled.

“No Michele, he’s just taking a walk through the park to meet some old friends” a low voice rumbled behind them, stopping the conversation dead in it’s tracks.

“Jesus! Why don’t you go haunt a house or somethin’?” Mickey sharply snapped, every nerve ending in his body exploding upon hearing Il Polpo’s distinctive drawl in his ear again.

“And miss out on a beautiful afternoon in the park with two of my oldest friends, who I have so much to talk to about…” Il Polpo tapped on a weathered, tan leather satchel, clearly indicating whatever was within would be of interest to Enzo and Mickey.

A lithe figure, Il Polpo stood tall behind the pair, placing the satchel in between them both on the bench and tapping it three times for emphasis. His manicured hands out of place with the barbaric nature of their former work. His face was undeniably striking, not dissimilar from the sort of look one would associate with a ’50s Hollywood staple. All slender cheekbones and jawline, the charm of his deep brown eyes enough to put you at ease with a single glance, yet belying the horrors they have witnessed. Mid-length black hair was precisely slicked and styled as if prepped for a GQ shoot, this was a man exuding confidence without the need to broadcast it. He rested a hand on the shoulders of Enzo and Mickey.

“Mr. Benjamin Walters, Mr. Giuseppe Rigallino, every single one of their associates, their motives and the whereabouts of the DeMarco brothers…” Il Polpo pointed at the definitively at the satchel.

“…So gentlemen, once your little bit of light reading is complete, that leaves me with only one more question… What next?”

*** The accompanying playlist for this episode can be enjoyed on Rizzo’s Slice Shop’s official Spotify HERE ***