Memorial Jaunts

A glass case guards cheese and cold cuts like engagement rings at a jewelry store. Beautifully laid out on paper doilies, logs of soft Vermont chèvre wait next to batons of salami and legs of prosciutto for me to make up my mind. The guy at the counter is friendly: “Take your time. Lemme know if you need help with anything.”
I’m flooded by memories as I survey the contents. Here’s Lucía, who once stuffed us full of Spanish rice and cured meats on New Year’s Eve ten years ago, winking at me and cutting slices from the lomo ibérico on the left. Sophie and Jean-Michel proudly hand over their going-away-gift at my parents’ farewell party in Bordeaux: an entire p’tit basque that sits near the back. I keep scanning the case and bumping my nose against the glass, as eager as a passenger searching for city lights from the airplane window. As I skim over the last of the mortadella, I find who I was looking for.
“Can I have about a dozen thin slices of the bresaola?”
A few minutes later, after slobbering over crowded shelves of real olive oil and salty liquorice, I leave the shop with a small parcel in hands—perfect park bench fare. My steps ring out over the red-bricked sidewalk and Victorian row houses, and I start wandering the neighborhood for a good place to enjoy a meal. Several dogs on leashes try to win my friendship, but I know they’re only after one thing: lunch.
I find a small park with a playground at the back and broad, clean benches in the dust paths. Once seated, with my Acqua Panna held tight between the ankles, I unfold the butcher paper to reveal the deep scarlet of salted beef—I peel off a slice and tuck it into my chewy bread roll. My mouth waters in anticipation, and when I finally bite in, it’s as good as I can remember my uncle Giacomo saying it would be.
He pats my head fondly as I tuck into la zia’s freshly made pasta and grumbles in Italian I have yet to learn, chiding my mother for never having fed us properly. Have we really never had bresaola? From the head of the table, he ceremoniously deals out slices of what appears to be prosciutto, like playing cards. I roll up mine, and it’s better than any lunchmeat I’ve had before: soft and velvety, earthy but not too salty—just like it is now, in this park, in the South End of Boston.
I think of lo zio as I roll up the parchment paper and throw out the glass bottle, strolling out of the park back towards Tremont St. A couple goes by with a parcel just like mine. I look back at them and smile.