Everyone is Welcome At the Table

The long wooden tables traveled the length of the white, sandstone basement. Still reminiscent of the faint smell of coal and fermenting grapes. Navigating the steep cellar steps, at seven, carefully carrying one bowl then another. A platter laden with tender, slow-cooked pork. Savory meatballs hand rolled before the sun, now generously covered with steaming rich sauce. Noodles fragrant with garlic and the treasured olive oil my grandfather had brought from his last trip home, Thick Mancinibread still warm, picked up on the way back from church. Everything was familiar.

My grandmother always by the stove in a floral smock and apron. Pots were stirred and re-seasoned. We rushed out for Sunday mass, returning back to an indescribable aroma etched in my memory. A row house in Westview, transported to the vineyards of Sicily. Dark purple grapes, with little seeds lined the walls and clung to iron work arbors. Running under them as a child was shade from the heat of the day. The smell sweet and clean. Plum tomatoes bursting through their skin lined the patch of fenced backyard. Everything was delicious. Everything was safe.

I watched as zucchini was sliced on the mandolin and parmesan was grated. Grapes were baked into pies or wine. There wasn’t a Sunday without a feast. All people came, she welcomed them all. My mother was an only child, and I had the privilege of grandma’s undivided attention. Later in life as I came into my own as a chef and attended culinary school, I discovered cooking was much more about grandma, than school. Everything was flavor.

Always on the stove. Welcome in the air.

I couldn’t tell you what I loved more… family gathered around the table, laughter, conversation, plates passed or the delicious taste of the food.

Everything was family.
Beginnings.

Nikki Heckman
Chef & Founder, Bistro To Go Café and Catering