Father's Day

I met my father when he was fifty, I was a newborn and he was in the twilight of his life. He attached like a lion protecting his fold and he never let go in a tender and loving way. My dad was a paradox. He migrated from Albania at the young age of 5 with nothing to carry because they had nothing and anything was an improvement: simply arithmetic. James Anthony Athanus was a force to be reckoned with, he knew who he was and he knew what he wanted out of life. You either loved him or not, but if you didn’t embrace him believe me it was a fatal judgment call on your part.

My Father was all of 5’8” but he ‘operated’ like he was 6’4” with all the trimmings. Charismatic, handsome, impeccably dressed, full of common sense, fine manners and always right - oops, did I say that? Well that has taken a while to admit it slipped out and I fear his wrath if I delete it.

He was a delight and he was MY dad. Older and a whole lot wiser than all my friend’s fathers and he was a true hedonist of the old-fashioned kind. No, not a Diamond Jim Brady but he knew good food and critiqued a dish until it was ‘proper’.

So, the unanswered question still - how did a five year old migrating from Albania who struggled to find food since birth, which continued for a few more years in America, be SO discerning? Don’t look at me, I still haven’t any answers but he has my respect and admiration after all these years. I still don’t understand him - he was a royal maybe not in this life but definitely in his last one.

My father, James Athanus, came with his Mother to America in 1914 from Albania, escaping from the torture and repression with just what they could carry and a whole lot of hope for a better future. They landed at Ellis Island and made their way to a small mill town in the center of Maine. My Grandfather followed them in the next few months and they set up a new life just like many in this factory town.

My grandfather was a baker so he baked bread, my grandmother pulled teeth so she was on call for those that couldn’t afford a dentist and there were many, and my father, as a 6-year-old, started shining shoes to help support his family. Life was hard, a new culture had to be learned, a new language, new food, new fears, new everything!  My Grandfather died a couple of years after arriving in America and my Dad was alone again with just his Mother. He shined shoes more hours a day to keep their life afloat. 

He soon hired other young men to help him out at his other “locations” outside factories and businesses. Shoes were a big investment and no one would have dreamed of wearing dirty, unpolished shoe so this young emigrant had a captive market and he could work! 

With Father's Day coming up it was time to consider what barbecue sauce we are going to use to slather-up the "man food". This one is definitely in the running!! This was also a great way to reuse my Republic of Jam jars...I love them. Anyway, this sauce is pretty awesome and it keeps a definite taste of Dr. Pepper...I love that. The ancho chile powder also adds a nice depth of flavor. Make this for the man in your life....he will love it. Oh yeah...the women will like it too.

 Dr. Pepper Barbecue Sauce
Adapted from Saveur

4 Tablespoons unsalted butter
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 large yellow onion, minced
1 cup ketchup
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
1/2 cup light brown sugar
1/3 cup Worcestershire sauce
3 Tablespoons tomato paste
2 teaspoons ancho chile powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground white pepper
1 (12 ounce) can Dr. Pepper soda

Heat butter in a 4 quart saucepan over medium-high heat. Add garlic and onions; cook until soft, 4-6 minutes. Add ketchup, vinegar, sugar, Worcestershire, paste, chile, salt and pepper and soda; bring to a simmer. Cook until thickened, about 30 minutes.

– Recipe courtesy of The Noble Pig

For more than 20 years, my dad, Howard Johnson, owned a very popular restaurant on the Upper Westside of Manhattan called the Cellar. The Cellar was a special place and at the time of its inception in 1973, there were very few, if any, black-owned restaurants outside of Harlem below 110th street. Ironically, my father bought the Cellar from another Black man, who owned it for a few years but decided to sell after having lost his appetite for the place. Despite its location in a multi-ethnic neighborhood, the clientele had become “too Black” for him.

In the early ’70s, my father was working for Paul Stewart a well-known men’s clothing store and hanging out at some of the popular watering holes of the day, Vic and Terry’s, Jocks and Teachers, among others. Those that knew my dad would be quick to agree he had great taste, and a certain social prowess, easily mixing in any group. This combination made him a natural for his new venture as a restaurateur.

To say my father was a risk taker would be accurate, both in his private life—he married my mother Phyllis Martha Notarangelo, an Italian woman, when interracial marriage was still illegal in most states—and in business, where he jumped head first into an industry that other than a fondness for Jack Daniels, he had no experience in.