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So
Scene editor Pete Kotz and I are eating lunch with the
Savarino's Sandwich Gang a couple weeks ago, when out walks Corrado Savarino with a tray full of
sfingi, an Italian pastry of fried dough filled with cannoli cream typically served around St. Joseph's Day (March 19). Naturally, the discussion moves on to the impending arrival of St. Patrick's Day, when suddenly, Savarino's fixture Mike Figlio says, "Hey, you know St. Patrick was Italian," and launches into a detailed analysis of the patron saint of Ireland's Italian roots. (Well, Roman roots, to be exact.)
(A little background on Figlio: Not only did he enjoy a storied career as a recording engineer--he worked on Bob Dylan's
Highway 61 Revisited and Tony Bennett's "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," to name a few--but his uncle was Jilly Rizzo, Frank Sinatra's best friend and bodyguard. In fact, he got to hang out with Jilly and Frank on several occasions back in the day. In other words, when Mike Figlio talks, I listen.)
Editor Pete and I sit there awestruck as Figlio regales us with an elaborate 10-minute exposition on St. Paddy that includes family members, dates, locales, you name it. I can't even remember what I had for lunch yesterday and here
he is reciting an
Encyclopedia Brittanica's worth of background information, for Christ's sake. (Pun intended.)
So I go back to the office and do a little Googling, and lo and behold, Figlio's right. (Hey, if it's on the Internet, it's got to be true.) According to most sources, Patrick was the child of Romans living in Britain--Calpurnius (a military officer) and Concessa. (Of course, back then, the Roman Empire included nearly all of what is now Europe.) At age 16, Patrick was kidnapped by Irish pirates, taken to Ireland and forced into slavery. After six years he escaped back to Britain, then studied at a French monastery, then moved
back to Ireland as a missionary because he had a dream that the Irish were calling on him to tell them about God. (I had a similar dream last week, though I think it was just the MSG in my kung pao chicken.)
On a side note: Is it just me, or does this whole story sound like a classic case of
Stockholm syndrome? You know, that Patty Hearst thing where kidnapping victims start to sympathize with their abductors?
But what do I know. I'm just a landlocked Hebrew from what my neighbors refer to as "the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line." All I know from the Irish is that they cook corned beef wrong. And Italians? I know that Italians and Jews have the same mothers, and built Las Vegas together. (And they cook better than the Irish
or the Jews.) So goes my nuanced comprehension of European cultures.
Happy Saint Patrick's Day. What any of this has to do with green beer, U2, leprechauns or the New York City Police Department, I have no clue. Now pass the
sfingi.