Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
The weather in October in Hackensack, N.J. can be fickle.
In 1995, the year my mother underwent experimental treatment to try and stop the cancer that was no longer responding to traditional chemotherapy, it was cloudy, cold and dreary. Fifteen miles separated our family’s Manhattan apartment from the Hackensack University Medical Center where she was hospitalized. Early each morning, I’d make my way there, where along with my siblings and father, we’d spend the day, taking turns staying overnight in a sterile blue recliner.
My family has always marked life — both its highs and lows — with the comfort of a good meal, and in Hackensack, it was no different. Having sampled the mediocre hospital cafeteria food, we expanded our reach to an Italian American family restaurant across the street specializing in pizza and a handful of pasta dishes. It was nothing exceptional, especially coming from New York City, where visiting trending Zagat-rated hotspots had been elevated to a family sport. But the food came out fast, was fresh and hot, and we always received a warm welcome from the owner, Johnny, a hard-working man for whom the restaurant was named, who couldn’t have been older than 35.
Johnny’s became a refuge for my displaced family. We’d make our way there in between Mom’s treatments, after the nurses would gently encourage us to get a bite to eat or some fresh air. Johnny would see us coming, open the door and greet us, asking how my mother was doing that day.
Each meal ended with a plate of mini cannoli, a dessert I’d previously thought little of, but grew to love there. The dough was crisp and the filling rich and creamy. Biting into one had a restorative property I’d imagine a loving Nona could only provide.
Johnny never charged us for the cannoli. He simply brought them to our table as an unspoken wish that tomorrow would be a kinder day. As October wore on, it grew bleaker, both in my mother’s prognosis and in the bitter fall air.
Eventually, we stopped going to Johnny’s restaurant, and Hackensack all together. There was no longer the need. There was only a gap that would never be filled. But to this day I remember that man’s kindness, his unwavering hospitality and his instinct to nurture and care for us — strangers that in a time of deepest need, gratefully fell under his wing.
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com