Downtown Bouillabaisse

Comfort can be found in a bowl with a spoon.

Without fail, almost every time we would arrive at my grandparents apartment in El Segundo, we could hear Bing Crosby wafting through the air, accompanied by the divine bouquet of my grandmother, Carlota's cooking. Upon entering their tiny apartment, we would be greeted by tight embraces and kisses all over our faces from grandma, while my grandfather, Ross, sat on the sofa, where he was endlessly watching PBS. It was a scene that looped around my childhood from birth until I was twelve.

While my family would settle into conversation in the living room, I could be found in the kitchen with grandma. The kitchen was a magical place. Tightly cramped, not even enough space for two people to stand comfortably, together. I would stand with my back against the wall so I could face grandma, while she worked at the stove.

She would tell me stories about where my great grandmother, Marie, came from in Sicily. Oh how those stories about that little seaside town would swim in my head! My great grandmother's maiden last name, Noto, was also the name of the town where she was born and raised.

Marie had immigrated to the United States when Ellis Island saw a surge in people coming to the U.S. in search of a hopeful future. Marie carried with her a single suitcase, with a notebook her mother had given her before she boarded the ship for the states. Encased in the notebook, were my great great grandmother's words of encouragement, and also many of the family recipes that Marie had made countless times with her mother in their tiny kitchen, on an island in Italy.

That notebook was passed down to my grandmother, and by the time I was old enough to be trusted with this sacred notebook, the edges of the pages were well worn, and the sheets of paper inside it were blurred and discolored by decades of spills and food stains, with words I could not understand, as it was written in Italian. Nonetheless, I cherished any chance I had to hold this piece of history in my hands. I would ask my grandmother what she was cooking for Sunday supper for the whole family, and she would take the notebook from my hands, carefully turning pages, and settling on one offering and hand the book back to me, pointing to the page and without saying a word, I knew whatever it was, it was going to be delicious.

On one particular Sunday, our usual routine was playing out. I was standing in the kitchen, having just stolen an overripe plum from the dining table fruit bowl, grandma still in her church outfit, with an apron over her Sunday best, for good measure. She was standing over the stove, stirring a tall pot, with an old wooden spoon, almost as long as my legs. I sniffed the air, and the scent of seafood danced into my nostrils. Then came the requisite question from me, "Whatcha makin' grandma?"

Without even turning around, she picked the book up from the counter, thumbed through the pages, landing on one, and handed it to me. "What's boolabase?" I asked. My grandfather guffawed from his seat on the couch. Grandma stopped what she was doing, and turned to face me, a wide smile on her face, the kind of smile that makes your eyes squint. "Oh, Sami, bouillabaisse is a stew from France," she said. "We're from Italy, why is there a French stew in here?" I asked. "That's quite the story. Would you like to hear it?" she asked. I nodded enthusiastically.

"Your great-great grandmother, Lucia, was once a traveler. She went all over Europe, by train, by boat, didn't matter how she got where she wanted to go, she just went. She was known to have an adventurous nature, which her parents didn't approve of. But Lucia was headstrong, and did what she wanted, when she wanted. So on one of her trips, she went to France. She told her family she would be gone for a few months, but would send letters along the way."

Grandma continued, "While she was in France, she stayed at an inn by the sea. It was owned by a family, and the father and sons worked the grounds, and the mother, Serafina, and her daughter, Allegra worked in the kitchen, feeding their lodgers simple but satisfying meals. Lucia had extended her stay twice, as she had become fond of the family, and Serafina and Allegra offered to teach her how to cook the dishes that had been served to her and the others staying at the inn. Lucia wrote many of these recipes in this notebook, so she would never forget the dishes she wholeheartedly enjoyed. On the last night of her stay, the family prepared a farewell feast, and they had Bouillabaisse that evening. The men of the family had gone down to the shore early that morning, and caught what seafood they could on their own, and purchased the rest from the market, not ten feet from the ocean. It must have left quite an impression on Lucia, because it is right here in this little book."

I listened to grandma's story intently, eyes wide with the idea of a grand adventure. She said, "And now I am cooking that stew for supper. Aren't you excited?" "Yes grandma!" Let me tell you with every ounce of sincerity I have, that that stew, and the story behind it, left an indelible mark on my soul.

A couple of decades later, I was standing in my classroom, where I taught preschool, when I noticed I had a missed call. It was from my aunt, Florine. I stepped out and called her back. "Honey, we were debating telling you this with your mom being in the ICU and all, but we decided it was best that you know that grandma died a few hours ago." I was gutted. But I did not even have the time to grieve before my mom died, just seven days later. The family made a decision to not hold memorial services for grandma, until after we had my mother's funeral.

At my mom's memorial service, my aunt Melissa, asked me to go to her car, as she had something to give me. She opened her trunk, and there were small bins of cherished items from my grandmother's apartment. Melissa said, "Take whatever you like." I dug through those bins, but that little notebook, that had travelled the world, was not there. I asked, "Where is that little recipe book grandma kept in the kitchen?" She replied, "Oh, we gave that to your cousin, Lucia. We thought with the name thing, it was only right." "You gave it to a five year old?" I asked. She nodded. That was a bit too much for me, so I pretended to be interested in a few pieces of costume jewelry amongst hundreds and thanked her before walking back into my mom's wake.

After a week or two, I had mostly let the interaction and my father's sister slighting me by giving an item that I wanted to a small child who had ages before she could possibly comprehend the importance of that notebook, go. In my grief of losing not one, but two matriarchs, in a one week span, I decided to take a little time off for a staycation, and planned on playing tourist in Downtown Los Angeles for an entire weekend.

I wandered the streets, floating in and out of clothing stores, museums, and coffee houses for an entire day. By evening, I was exhausted, and very hungry, and decided to try my luck and find a random mom and pop café to have dinner. I was walking along, when I heard something hauntingly familiar. A melody that called me from the past. I followed the tune as it got louder and louder, and I realized it was a Bing Crosby song. One of the songs that my grandparents had played for us, probably at least a few dozen times.

I found the building it was coming from, and as I approached the entrance, I could smell something that took me right back to grandma Carlota's kitchen. I looked up and saw the sign. "Le Bel Océan Café, Family Owned and Operated Since 1986." The synchronicity contained in that moment almost knocked the wind out of me. I had to go in.

A very sweet woman, who looked to be my age, welcomed me and walked me to a table and seated me, while handing me a menu. Then she said the words that struck me so hard, I was rendered teary eyed. "The soup du jour is Bouillabaisse." I handed her the menu and said, "Great! I'll take it!" Remembering my grandmother's story, I asked, mostly in jest, "Next you're going to tell me that your chef is from Italy." She sheepishly smiled and said, "Actually, he's from Sicily."