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PANSY'S MUFFIN
My Papa named me Giorgio, perhaps after the King of England? He never told me why. We were too busy earning a living to get into useless conversations.
Back in the swinging 80s, I was hired to be the night baker for Pansy's Muffin Shop on Broadway near Times Square in New York City. I had come to America to look for opportunities. I was 20 years old with a hard-on to succeed.
I was accompanied by a mutual friend, a 'cugino,' who had recommended me to the bakery. We arrived by subway early in the morning. I saw the large white wooden sign swinging in the breeze--Pansy's Muffins. It seemed like an odd specialty, but I was told Americans liked cupcakes and that muffins were in the same family. Having learned English from vulgar friends, I was amused. My understanding of what a muffin was, was quite different.
I was surprised, there were so few customers at that early hour. The variety of bakery products in the glass showcase was very limited. There were no breads or rolls. As for cakes for birthdays or fiestas, there were none. Just a plain 'Pansy Muffin' with white powdered sugar sprinkled on top or the same muffin with a cherry jam center.
The owner, Mrs. Pansy, an attractive lady, offered me a muffin to taste. It was uninspired, but I said, "Thank you," and asked for a napkin to remove the powdered sugar that coated my heavy beard. Even after shaving the bristles remained.
I said, "Oh yes muffin, very nice," not wanting to be critical. I knew I could liven up the bakery offerings assortment if I was hired.
Mrs. Pansy, dressed in a white coverall with an apron looked like a novice but her big eyes and broad smile were attractive. American women seemed to have such white teeth.
She said, "Come give us a trial, two weeks. If at the end of two weeks, we are pleased with your performance, we will make you a permanent employee. If not, we will let you go."
"What were you expecting for a salary?" she asked.
"I tell you what," I said, "I work for free for two weeks. If you are pleased, we figure out what the salary should be. This way you lose nothing."
"My 'cugino,' who accompanied me said to Pansy,
"It's a no-brainer, you can't lose. Giorgio is a good man."
"I don't want to be unfair," said Pansy.
"Don't you a-worry about nuthin. I'm a gonna make you a big success and lots-a money," I said in my broken English.
The deal was sealed with a handshake.
"Thank you, Madam, all I want is a chance to make you happy. I 'promiso' that I will."
And with the interview at an end, my 'cugino' and I returned to the subway platform. While we stood there awaiting the noisy train, I said to him,
"She has the Italian nose that I love."
The no-noses that were popular in photo models back then left me cold. "If only she were single, with that beautiful Italian nose, I would consider marriage."
"Well Caro, she has a husband but I think the marriage is not so good. You'll 'comprenderi' quando you meet him," said my 'cugino.'
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I'll tell ya right away I knew more about being a baker than Pansy or her husband Marco would ever know!
From the time I was born, I'd spent my whole life inside a famous bakery in Naples. My mother gave birth to me on the glass counter where they rolled toffees and candies. I was born a half-hour after the store closed. Mama and Papa went back to baking bread for the Easter holiday while I was sucking tit.
My family have been bakers since the 1600s, with a special dispensation to serve the court of The Royal Palace, in Piazza del Plebiscito, the heart of historic Naples. The entire complex, which dates back to 1600, is made up of several buildings and smaller commercial spaces where our bakery stood.
A family squabble in the 18th century led to a famous duel between two ancestral baker brothers. Just before Antonio and Enrico were scheduled to kill each other, the Archbishop found a solution. Antonio was to stay as the chief pastry chef at the Royal Palace in Naples. Enrico would transfer to the Royal Palace of Caserta, an eighteenth-century palace in the Baroque style built to rival the French King's palace at Versailles.
I had spent my childhood learning every facet of baking. My mind was like a sponge, but as smart as I was, I could not defy the age-old tradition that the oldest brother would inherit the business. Of course, the royal family was no longer ruling Naples, but every citizen tried to keep some part of that tradition alive. Everyone except me.
I turned my back on tradition and refused to be my brother's lackey. I set out to find success in the new world. Little by little I learned to speak English. I worked odd jobs, often in construction, until my 'cugino' introduced me to Pansy.
He said, "She's a good-looking Italian girl born in Brooklyn, tall with large erect breasts, and a nice curvy ass. She owns a bakery and needs a baker. She doesn't know shit about running the business."
It turns out that with a small inheritance from her father, Pansy had purchased a working bakery business at a time when handcraft made one think that God had laughed at the baking industry. Since she could use Bisquick to make a decent waffle, she thought she could succeed in the kitchen. She purchased a bakery from a retiring owner who furnished her with a box of paper recipes and little else. Pansy and a worker struggled to produce a viable product centered on her designer's muffin. Success seemed a long way off.
