2.

Breakfast was like any other meal in our houses—very serious business. There were easily fifteen to twenty of us at the table, between our families and all the friends and girlfriends and boyfriends that were always sleepin’ over. A lot of times we’d end up at Sal’s, where our grandparents were living. They’d wake us up in the morning by ringin’ a bell from the basement or bangin’ a fork on a plate. We’d all go downstairs and it’d be like a diner, with our grandfather workin’ the line in his Continental slacks, white Fruit of the Loom tank top, and big gold chain with a big gold anchor hanging from it (not to mention the glasses with lenses like the bottoms of old-fashioned Coke bottles): “You want eggs? You want French toast? Waddya want?” He’d get up at four a.m. just to start cooking, and by the time we were all eatin’ breakfast, he’d be sitting down to a bowl of macaroni for lunch.

On the table there’d be a big pot of melted butter and doughnuts—because no matter how huge breakfast was, somebody would always go out and get the doughnuts. They were like the eggplant of breakfast. If Uncle Greg was over, you could bet Court Street pastry would be there. If it was the weekend, there were bagels. Always bagels. Also, fresh eggs from the backyard. Sal’s father used to say, “You want eggs? Get ’em yourself.” We still remember going out to the coop barefoot in the wet grass and gathering the eggs in a basket. They’d still be warm, they were so fresh. Covered in turds, but fresh.

Since we were usually heading out to school, the food was easy to make—sauce and eggs, mortadella and eggs, potatoes and eggs, peppers and eggs. See where we’re going here? Our grandfather’s hero shop made a business outta those kinds of dishes. He used to write ’em up on a chalkboard and it was all, “Potatoes and Eggs,” “Peppers and Eggs,” and “Eggs and Potatoes.” One time a guy came in and asked, “What’s the difference between Potatoes and Eggs and Eggs and Potatoes?”

Our grandfather responded, “Nothin’.”

“So why did you write it twice?” the guy says.

“Because I needed to fill the board.”

They were all different variations on the same thing, but they were always delicious. And all you had to do was throw everything in a pan for the kind of gut-bustin’, satisfying meal that the truckers and factory workers and longshoremen from the piers would go nuts for.

If it was Saturday or Sunday, by the time we cleared the breakfast table we were already getting ready for dinner, makin’ the sauce, rollin’ the meatballs. But if it was during the week, our grandfather would be taking everyone’s orders for when we got home—baked ziti, chicken cutlets, you name it. “Who’s comin’ ova?” That was always the question. You can bet we made a lot of friends that way.

2.

A NOTE ON OUR SERVING SIZES