A Slice of Cambridge at Formaggio Kitchen
4/23/2022
It’s a gorgeous day. April 23rd, the seventh anniversary of when our Dad died, so I want a day that he would enjoy, too. He was a guy who liked to indulge himself in the things he loved. Like fishing, talking, and dim sum. Once, when he and Mom came up to celebrate his birthday (he was not big on celebrations but was well into his late 80s by then) I said we could go to his favorite dim sum place, China Pearl, on Saturday. Without missing a beat he held up two fingers. “Saturday and Sunday,” he declared. So we did. He was passionate about chicken feet and tripe.
Today I am looking forward to driving into Cambridge early, all the better to get the pick of Formaggio Kitchen’s BBQ yumminess that they sell out on the street on weekends. I’ve heard a lot about this BBQ. I’ve heard that you should get there early because a line forms. I arrive a half-hour early for their 11 am start time, find a great parking spot, and take a leisurely stroll to where I see the white tent in the distance. The smell of wood smoke tingles my nose. I’m getting excited.
It’s only 10:30-ish but all the food seems to be set out: great vats of macaroni and cheese, fennel salad, Texas potato salad, baked beans, Mexican street corn off the cob, collards. Further down are racks of ribs (beef and pork), short ribs, fried chicken pieces, and more. Then, the mother lode ─ vats of chopped brisket, pulled smoked chicken, humongous special hot dogs, various sauces. I am in serious foodie overload but the kids dishing out food are fun and chatty and hairy and funky. Before I know it I am sharing my special recipe for collards using Chinese sausage instead of smoked wings with one of the guys. I could stand here and smell the place and watch people for hours. It feels like the center of the Universe.
When it’s my turn, I spend an inordinate amount of money on fried chicken (one dark meat one white) and chopped brisket, the pulled smoked chicken and many sides. Earlier, I had spoken sternly to myself, deciding simply to order a couple of things. Show some restraint. But it’s a GLORIOUS day. And I’m thinking of Daddy and what he would have liked, so I go to town. Inside Formaggio I wander around, dodging between the Cambridge-y couples and their kids. I treat myself to a couple of wedges of interesting cheeses: Sternberger Bergkase cow’s milk from Switzerland and Strach’in from Piedmont, Italy, an ice coffee, and a fig and bacon scone, of course.
Walking back up Huron Avenue to my car, I encounter a young couple with their bubbly toddler. She’s wearing the kind of cotton dress I wish they made for adults, blue and white striped cotton with powder blue tights. I tell this to the Mom and she agrees. Toddler’s got two pony-tails and is bouncing around, pointing at the closed toy store with much anticipation. Mom is trying to explain that the shop is closed. I lean towards the little girl and say, helpfully, “Maybe you can come another day,” with a bit of a hopeful upward lilt. (Talking to kids is also something Dad loved to do.) This is the point when the previously gleeful toddler’s lip quivers and she breaks into howls of disappointment. I have made the child cry.
Cambridge being Cambridge, as I wave goodbye and continue towards my car, I overhear the Mom patiently say to the still wailing child, “Now Oona honey, tell Mommy where the sad hurts…”
I have plans to noodle around Cambridge because it’s windy but lovely, flowering trees abound, the Cambridge cognoscenti are out and about. Tight-assed bicyclers in black Spandex are whizzing by.
But then in my head I start to write a piece about my day (well, morning) in Cambridge. And I can’t wait to write it. So I leave Cambridge and make the short drive home, listening to the genius of Randy Newman on a cd in my car. And now here I am.
Not even going to unpack the bags, take out the extra trash, or empty the washer and put clothes in the dryer. I head straight to my computer, ice coffee and scone in hand. Dad and I are both writers. I know he’d understand.
