Part 2 – The Man Who Remembered
The door swung closed behind him, the bell above giving one last tired jingle.
I stood still, holding that greasy old tray like it weighed a thousand pounds. The room kept moving—cutlery clinked, chairs scraped—but everything inside me stopped. A stranger just told me my father saved his life with a plate of chicken Parm.
I didn’t even know his name.
Later, after the last guests had gone and the aluminum trays were picked clean, I sat on the back step of the kitchen and read the four lines in Pop’s notebook again:
It’s only a short trip.
Feed people.
Love them.
That’s it.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the restaurant, lights dimmed, smelling the sauce still clinging to the air. The booth where Pop used to sit and sip espresso late into the night was empty. But it felt like he was there. Watching. Waiting to see what I’d do next.
A week later, I opened Vito’s again.
Full-time.
It was quiet that first Monday. A few old-timers trickled in for meatballs and coffee. Miss Carmella asked if I was okay. I told her I didn’t know yet.
Then, around 3 p.m., the door creaked open and in shuffled a man I’d never seen. Worn coat, too big. Beard like salt and pepper left out in the rain. He sat down in the back booth and didn’t ask for a menu.
Just sat. Looking around. Breathing deep, like the place itself was feeding him.
I walked over with a plate of Parm.
“On the house,” I said.
He blinked. “I didn’t order anything.”
“My father would’ve served you anyway.”
He looked at me. Then at the plate. His lip quivered.
“You sure?”
I just nodded.
He didn’t say thank you, not at first. He just picked up his fork like it was something sacred and started eating. Slow. Deliberate. Like the dish was a memory he couldn’t afford to rush.
And when he was done, he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re doing something good here.”
That’s when I decided.
Every Tuesday from then on, one plate of chicken Parm would be free to whoever needed it most. No questions asked. No receipt printed. Just feed them. Love them.
That was what Pop would’ve done.
Of course, some people laughed.
My cousin Gino called it “stupid nostalgia.”
“The place is dying, Tony,” he said. “You don’t fix that with charity. You fix it with Wi-Fi, QR codes, gluten-free this and keto that. We need influencers, not free lunch.”
He wanted to turn Vito’s into a bistro. Exposed brick, reclaimed wood, truffle oil.
I told him to reclaim his mouth and get out.
I kept the old menu. The same font. The same spelling mistakes. “Mozzarella” still had one too many Zs, and “lasagna” was missing a G.
People noticed. They smiled.
Every now and then, someone would leave a little extra at the counter. Not a tip. A note. A Polaroid. A clipping. A memory.
One old woman brought a folded napkin with “Vito’s ♥ 1983” written in lipstick.
“I had my first date here,” she whispered. “He passed two years ago. But this was our place.”
A retired mailman came in and told me my grandfather used to slip him espresso in a to-go cup with a biscotti taped to the lid.
“It got me through the snow,” he said.
Even the cops started dropping in again. Not for flash or PR, just to sit. Just to breathe.
One of them said, “Feels like time slows down in here.”
And maybe it did.
