Being one of nine grandchildren born into a traditional Italian family, my first memories of cooking began at a very early age with my grandfather while he taught me how to make some of my favorite childhood foods. From the time I was in the fifth grade, I was whipping up my own breakfasts–Pastina, pan fried bacon or patty sausage, eggs, and skillet toast. Over the next couple of years, my interest in cooking continued as I mastered a number of my grandfather’s more “exotic” dishes–old-fashion homemade Italian sauce, potato croquettes, riceballs, and even an occasional Rainbow cookie, Italian cheesecake or pie–some with admittedly better success than others. I remember the first “scratch” cake I ever made, a black and white marble layer cake. The layers came out like giant cookies and so incredibly rock hard that they actually bent the knife while trying to cut a slice. Being totally embarrassed by the experience, I wanted to throw it away, but my childhood friend and next door neighbor said it tasted good. He took it home instead. Several times over the next few days he was seen outside munching on a chunk of my failure of a cake.
My first experience in a commercial kitchen (if it could be described as such) was at the age of twelve, when I went to work at my grandfather’s restaurant in Brooklyn. After only a few weeks, one of my uncles I worked for decided to try me out as the store’s official short-order cook. I loved working beside my grandfather. I’ve
