PROVedge: Sometimes You Gotta Wipe Your Nose

“Can you please go inside?” I begged toward the rooftop, where a soon-to-be 70-year-old man was slouched over in a defiant hunch, his Ryobi chainsaw revving.

“No, get the lah-duh!” he hollered down, in that patois ubiquitous within the urban-core of RI – an accent that I have self-consciously conditioned myself to be aware of and have labored to remove entirely from my own speech.

His request for a ladder was more an invite for me to assist him way up there in the clouds. Our collective goal was to gouge out a melting channel in the eight or so inches of solid ice dam that had accumulated in layers, just above my parents’ living room. It was shaping up to be a typical Thursday with the senior citizen whom I affectionately refer to as Pastrami. My progenitor. My old man.

After a bit of back and forth a deal was finally struck – I would take over, chipping things away with a rusty, dull hatchet. It would, however, be necessary for him to supervise, while he remained perched on the slippery, pitched incline of frozen shingles. If he agreed to relinquish the power tools, I promised to treat him to lunch.

“Not like that, like this – use the caw-nuh!” instructed the geriatric to the now fully drenched, yet able-bodied, grown man who found himself balancing atop an aged aluminum apparatus and whose beard was now speckled with salinous shards of sleet. Unbeknownst to me, Pastrami had decided to spread about half of a 40-pound bag of halite to help break up the troubled area. He sometimes has a tendency to over salt.

After making some headway, I spit out a final mouthful of what tasted like high-tide at Scarborough and made a final plea, “Can we get something to eat now? My choice.”

Of course it had to be a location where we had never dined. With my sudden hankering for some bitter greens (to balance the higher-than-suggested daily sodium intake that was just forced upon me), the ideal location would probably need to be within an Italian-American enclave – while also catering to our divergent carnivorous and herbivorous eating habits.

Charles Street, Fed Hill, Greater-Atwood Ave. – those choices were all too obvious. “What about Knightsville?” I threw to the wind. My father changed his clothes and styled his hair with some L.A. Looks, level-10-hold. A product he insists on using.

Positioned just after a funny curve where Cranston St temporarily becomes Haven Ave, Mario’s is an old-fashioned kind of place. A throwback to the days when grinders were traditionally served with french fries and soda was always drawn from a fountain.

A narrow dining area, prominently featuring oak tones and deep burgundy walls, serves reminder that you didn’t see nothing, you didn’t hear nothing. Despite the lack of visible evidence, one might swear smoking was not only permitted, but somehow encouraged. That is to say this Resto/Lounge is quite charming, but in a masculine, albeit barely-Cranston, sort of manner. Regulars come here not because they want to, because they have to – it is their job.

Our server was all business, but accommodated our needs splendidly. The establishment’s namesake, Mario himself – a true Chef with a capital C – came out from the kitchen to ensure that my modified order would be made to my satisfaction. It is that type of establishment.

If the great poet and prophet of hip-hop, Guru (RIP) of Gangstarr fame, attributed his lyrical successes to “mostly the voice,” then Mario’s should be able to lay a similar claim to their made-to-order offerings – a lot of chefs got flavor and some got skills but if your food ain’t dope you gotta chill…  Mario’s food is dope.

Pastrami opted for an appetizer special – artichoke hearts stuffed with pepperoni, rabe and provolone. As has become common practice, Pastrami gave Mario a wrenching-hand-to-jowl sign – complete with a wink – signifying his approval. A thin stream of liquid ran from his left nostril, like a solitary tear – yet another non-verbal sign that the meal was made to his satisfaction.

I had a wonderfully rustic, thin crust, grilled pizza, topped with tomato sauce (plain gravy), mushrooms and fresh basil. And of course, the cause for our venturing out in the snow, a huge side of rabe. They were green and fresh, perfectly peppery, garlicky and seasoned just right. And the bread from Calvitto’s – nice, nice. Everything was out of this world.

After sampling a “thank you portion” off of my plate, Pastrami made for one of the glass shakers on the table. “Don’t even think about it – and would you please … wipe your nose.”

Mario’s Risto/Bar, 20 Haven Ave (at Cranston Street), Cranston; 401.942.1009