Read an Excerpt from Daniel Paterna’s Book

Read an excerpt from page 124 of Daniel Paterna's "Feast of The Seven Fish A Brooklyn Italian’s Recipes On Food And Family"

Standing Vigil 

In most Southern Italian American homes, The Vigilia di Natale (Christmas Eve) is one of the most solemn celebrations of the year. Families wait for the midnight birth of the Infant Jesus by sitting down at an elaborate meal. Traditionally, seven different dishes are prepared, representing the Seven Sacraments or the seven days of creation. Some families, like mine, have been known to prepare nine dishes

The two culinary cornerstones of our holiday meal are the stoccafisso (stocco) and baccalà. Baccala is dried and salted codfish. Stoccafisso is also cod. The difference is that it has been solely air dried in frigid arctic air -no salt is used. There was a time in history when these basic food staples, could be easily stored in any dry place in your house or ship's cargo. It was the least expensive fish you could buy. The fish would be brought into our house two weeks before Christmas Eve; preparations would begin. 

As an imaginative child,  I interpreted the elaborate process of turning petrified fish into tender, white flesh to be just short of a miracle. My mother and grandmother would always use the same porcelain enameled pan to hydrate the fish. Our downstairs faucet would be turned to a mere trickle. Slowly rinse the salt away from the baccala and soften the stocca. The slow, incessant drip of the faucet would turn unbearable, a form of water torture that inspired my father’s inventiveness. He realized that by tying one end of a string to the faucet and placing the other end of the bowl, he could guide the drops of tap water along the curve of the string without a splash. 

This crude but smart process would go on for two solid weeks as the fish released its rich odor as it softened. The pungent smell filled the kitchen and shocked my budding olfactory senses. I was perplexed that our more senior members of The family seemed unaffected. They knew too well this suffering would lead to pure nirvanic deliciousness.

The preparation of the stocca also served as a two-week Advent Calendar. The time it took to prepare the codfish coincided with the time leading up to December 24th. Over the years, that olfactory overload became associated with the luminous arrival of Christmas, electric trains, joyous music, and the communal joy of preparing a feast! 

The tracks to my electric trains could not be laid until every square foot of our house (the cleanest house on our block) received additional “holiday cleaning.” 

As the youngest of my Mom’s two boys, I had to assume the house cleaning responsibilities. I helped polish floors, wash windows, pleat, and hang curtains in both our and Grandmother’s apartments. I endured the humbling domestic labor in anticipation of the moment when,the housework complete, I could finally fire up my wonderful, electrified scented, analog Lionel trains.

Day after day, drop after drop, water continued to stream from the faucet as the stocco metamorphosized, and so too would our apartment. Heavy-weight curtains were raised, keeping out the cold drafts that crept through age-old window panes. The low angle of the refracted solstice sun through crystals of my mother’s dresser shed rainbows onto the now gleaming linoleum floor that was freshly waxed every Saturday afternoon. 

Soon, beautifully packaged and yellowed corrugated boxes were paraded out of the garage and pulled from overhead closets. Each is filled with ornamental history. In a matter of hours, the house was ablaze with our own Albero di Natale. This signaled the next big event rivaled only by the birth of the Savior himself -writing the Christmas Eve menu! 

SHOPPING for the Christmas Eve dinner was (and is) the most revered and strategic part of our ritual. Mom could always be found editing her grocery list from the one she saved from the previous year. Before the hunt went full swing, there would have to be a family summit. It was ALWAYS held at Aunt and Uncle Joe’s cozy two-bedroom 600 sq. ft. apartment over coffee and Ebinger’s cake to discuss which fish market had the freshest fish.

They would argue, “Henry’s shrimp stunk last year although their baccala is always the best.”

“Maybe it better to buy them frozen from the new Chinese place on 20th Avenue.”

“Have you tried Sea Breeze? Why should I go all the way to 85th Street when Henry’s is right on 18th and 61st ?” Traveling more than a 10-block radius didn’t sit well with a family who took “buying local” literally.

Depending on when you arrived at Sea Breeze II Fish Market, you could expect no less than a thirty-minute wait before being waved in by one of the illustrious fishmongers at Angelo’s market. There was a certain vibe and anticipation waiting in line in the brisk December air. I’d often hear “foodie” conversations, comparisons, and advice. No matter the difference in a family’s way of preparing the fish feast, we were all on the same page. Sound bites of advice filled the time, personal footnotes from relatives: “Grandma... made it that way for as long as I can remember.” We of the younger generation simply listened, wondering if we’d someday have stories of our own. 

Unannounced, Angelo would visit his patrons. Swathed in his white, fish-splattered coat and using animated hand gestures. The always animated Angelo was a maestro of the telephone—using it as a tracking device, guiding gridlocked delivery men along the best route from Hunts Point Market—while his wife calmly tended to business inside. Being there, waiting, and absorbing the energy reinforced the commitment we all had to tradition. 

My father, who was probably the greatest agnostic of his generation turned into Papa Natale that night. During the days leading up to the Eve he would devise all kinds of grab bag techniques and machinations for distributing his Job Lot oddball presents. Each misfit gift was wrapped and then attached to a piece of twine with the name for whom the lucky gift was intended at the other end. To keep it fun he then snaked all the twine through a cardboard tube out of which you pulled your string. One by one we drew our crazy useless gift,  trailed by belly laugh after belly laugh from the sheer uselessness of what you unwrapped.

Opening the door to the house coming from rounds of last-minute shopping with my father on December 24th I noticed the air was distinctly different. We were greeted with a warm aromatic wave of savory, salty, saucy goodness from fried peppers that were smothered over the now succulent baccala. Words fall short to describe the impression that the alchemy of taste and aroma made on me. As if by magic, mom sculpted those once-petrified odorous pieces of fish into works of art alongside her magical recipe box. I became my visual hook and memories bank of what my family has meant.

The sensation is the same for me today as it was 50 years ago.

Dinner would not start till 7 PM or until Compare Mezza Notte ( godfather who seems like he arrives after midnight ). My aunt gave that name to my brother who was forever late, implying we wouldn’t start eating until after midnight if we waited for him to arrive. Our first dish or antipasta is always Frutti D'Mare, the fruit of the sea. An enticing blast of salt, lemon, and olive oil marinated shrimp, scungilli, squid, and octopus nestled amidst crisp slices of refreshing celery.

Had it been any other day it would have been a single meal. Second or primi piatti was an octopus-based sauce served over linguine pasta followed by two or three whole succulent octopus served on a platter.  It always inspired screams and squirms. I remember the unfathomable realization that the octopus lying on the platter in the middle of our dining room table was for eating. 

The last of the seventh dish comes out of the kitchen was as late as ten o'clock depending on how long it took the children to open Christmas gifts; providing us a break from sitting in our seats at the table as the night went on.

Once they were satisfied with fresh clean dishes and new table settings instantaneously returned back on the table from the kitchen and dining would resume without a hitch. Dinner spanned anywhere from five to six hours. I remember sitting at a folding table by sliding into my stool like a contortionist, straddling the corner while feeling my aunt's newly starched white tablecloth against my chin. Year by year my stamina would grow to experience playing cards or going to midnight mass. and record my mom's church choir on a Realistic tape recorder. Upon our return, the night was capped off with the last dish (snack!), Scungilli (only recognized on the East Coast) Marinara at about 2 AM Christmas Day. It is served over a double-baked type of bland biscotti called frissele that is specked with black pepper. 

Since my father's passing my brother and I assist my mother's lead in preparing our Christmas Eve dinner. I chauffeured her to many different food shops because different ingredients required a different store. What is now considered shopping for "artesian' ingredients was and still is the way of life. My brother Robert has taken the charge of purchasing the stucco; I have hauled as much as 34 pounds of fish into my mother’s fridge on a certain cold December night.

Volumes of culinary heritage live in the coziness of my family's kitchens. Simple assumptions I made then as a young man about the meaning of food in celebration of the passage of time with family and friends, has never been more precious. As my own children now grow with each harvest of festivity they too are now experiencing what no institution could have taught me.

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