As the title suggests, this series on Dubsism is about how we all have songs inextricably linked in our minds to certain memories. Among advanced-theory psychologists, molecular neurobiologists, and other extreme brainiacs, the prevailing opinion has been the nose is the most common trigger of memories.  But what do they know? 

Brainiac that out all you want; this is all about memories being a vector for story-telling. Instead of taking the nasal route to the brain, I’m using music as the means for getting to the memories. If that doesn’t explain my cribbing a bad line from a Barbra Streisand ear-worm to make that point, so be it. After all, don’t even try to lie.  We all have those memories; the difference is I’m willing to share mine.

Speaking of writing prompts, WordPress must be on it’s 200th example of it’s similarly-named feature, because 99 times out of 100, I pass right by them. But since this is the second time I’ve taken the bait…well, you don’t need to be a brainiac to do that math.

To minimize the need for math, let’s start today’s tale with a simple statement. I love to cook. That’s likely the reason why this prompt drew my attention. But just blurting out which I feel is my culinary “best foot forward” ignores the story of how I got there. In terms of the music, it’s a journey through 1970s “Southern Rock” to 19^th-Century Pagliacci. You’ve got to admit…there’s not many other places that are going to have a story like that.

Ramblin’ Man was a gigantic hit for The Allman Brothers in the summer of 1973. When there wasn’t California Angels’ baseball coming from my transistor radio, it was probably playing that song. That was precisely the case one day when somewhere in ex-urban California (there’s so much more to the “Golden State” than the “Southland” and the “Bay Area”), the kid holding that Ramblin’ Man-blaring radio was noticing a house down the street that had eight Winnebagos parked in front.

Naturally, I had to check it out. From the cul-de-sac’s version of “international waters” otherwise known as the sidewalk, I could see the garage was full of refrigeration equipment, some industrial-grade kitchen gear, stacks of boxes, and a big-ass radio set complete with a 50-foot antenna that wasn’t there two days ago.

Even over my little-ass transistor radio I could hear a booming baritone voice belting out what I would discover was opera; the aforementioned 19^th-Century Pagliacci. Then I spotted the source of the singing. Behind the steam wafting from gallons of simmering tomato sauce in a pot only slightly smaller than an inflatable kiddie pool stood my neighbor “Mr. DeGenova” (not his real name).

“Hey kid…come over here, I’ll teach you how to make marinara!” he offered with a beckoning gesture. In no time at all, I was Michael Corleone in The Godfather getting a cooking lesson from Clemenza. Thus began my trek into the world of Italian cooking.

Much like Clemenza, “Mr. DeGenova” was a portly, balding, middle-aged Italian guy. But instead of having side-bar conversations about killing people, my neighbor sang opera while he cooked. While I never quite picked up the knack of opera, I sure as hell learned the secret to “real” marinara sauce, the “old world” way to make a meatball, and discovered the universe of Italian cooking beyond the “Olive Garden” world of red sauce and some form of noodle.

But I also learned what “Mr. DeGenova” was doing with all that stuff in his garage…and more importantly what the eight Winnebagos were all about. “Mr. DeGenova” had started his own pizza place…in a big, two-car garage. If that alone didn’t tell you this wasn’t your average pizzeria, ordering from Al’s Pizza would completely change your delivery pizza experience.

First of all, you couldn’t stop into Al’s and buy a slice; nor could you place a pick-up order. Secondly, there was no dining room; no tables covered with checkered cloths. Al’s was a “delivery-only” operation. Despite those differences, none of them were immediately known to the first-time caller to Al’s Pizza. They didn’t know when they called that the phone rang in “Mr. DeGenova’s” garage. Somebody would take the order, then get on the radio to contact one of the Winnebagos…which were actually mobile pizza kitchens.

That’s when it’s unique nature became apparent; a Winnebago emblazoned with “Al’s Pizza” pulled up in front of their house. The door would pop open, and a guy would hand you a pizza that was still in the oven 30 seconds ago. To this day, there are sit-down restaurants that can’t deliver that fresh out of the oven.

It really was a brilliant operation. They used a map to divide the town into quadrants; each of which were serviced by two Winnebagos. Each one was equipped with refrigeration to store the dough, sauce, and toppings, a propane-fueled oven, and a radio. They were also a two-man operation; one to drive and take orders relayed on the radio from “Mr. DeGenova’s” garage; the other to make the pizzas.

While the Winnebagos did the deliveries, the garage served as the support base; it relayed all the orders and kept the rolling kitchens supplied. Also like Clemenza, “Mr. DeGenova” and his crew were comfortable with guns; each one of those Winnebagos was equipped a .357 magnum revolver and a 12-gauge shotgun just in case anybody thought robbing the rolling pizza kitchen was a good idea.

“Mr. DeGenova” was ahead of his time. He invented a combination of the “Uber Eats”-style delivery service and the food truck. As amazing of an idea as it was, it had one major flaw. A Winnebago isn’t exactly a “fuel-efficient” vehicle, especially not one loaded with power invertors and propane tanks to make it a mobile kitchen. So later in 1973 when the Arab oil-exporting nations stopped selling oil to the United States for it’s support of Israel during the “Yom Kippur” War, one’s of the casualties was Al’s Pizza. It simply couldn’t survive the fuel shortage that embargo caused.

Time moves forward, which means the last vestiges of Al’s Pizza might just be the ones left in the recesses of my brain where they are unlocked by a 50-year old Allman Brothers jam. You would think that later today wile I’m making a stockpot full of “Mr. DeGenova’s” marinara, I’d be belting out Pagliacci, but like I said, my skeleton never grew an opera-singing bone. That’s why The Allman Brothers are my “go to” while I’m grilling some Guanciale.

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You can see all my WordPress Daily Prompt responses here.

You can see all the Misty Water-Color Memories here.

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