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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. The Lower End

  2. Pissah

  3. The Magic Pan

  4. Build My World

  5. The Food of Italy

  6. Charlestown

  7. Miss Kitty’s Salon

  8. Other Doors

  9. Turning Tables

  10. The South End

  11. Fort Point Channel

  12. Quenelles of Steel

  13. Gloucester

  Recipes

  Irish Soda Bread with Caraway and Currants

  Lamb in Yogurt with Juniper and Red Wine Reduction, and Roasted Crispy Potatoes with Rosemary

  Focaccia with Olive Oil, Rosemary, Prosciutto, and Vin Santo–Cured Chestnuts

  Roast Pork with Fig Sauce

  Ligurian Potato Salad

  Parmesan Soufflé with Porcini and Chanterelle Sauce

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my beautiful daughter, Marchesa, with love and protection

  PROLOGUE

  “Where did you come from?” my mother shouted, Benson & Hedges twitching between her fingers. She meant, “Didn’t I raise you better than that?” She wished.

  My friends and I were canning—knocking on doors in Old Harbor, our South Boston housing project, with tin cans labeled BAND UNIFORMS, to score spare change. Then my pain-in-the-ass neighbor stuck her nose in: “I didn’t know Barbara played an instrument.”

  “She doesn’t,” said my mother. “What the hell? What band?”

  Busted. We were scrounging cash to get the fried Tendersweet clams at Howard Johnson’s, which I loved. My mother dumped out my hard-begged loot and made me give it all back. I burst into furious tears at the injustice. “It was all my idea!” I raged. “And now everyone but me is eating clams.”

  Years later I learned the secrets of those HoJo’s clams from the chef who perfected them: Jacques Pépin.

  • • •

  Old Harbor—and most of Southie—was solid Irish. My one non-Irish friend, Tina, who is Italian, lived in Old Colony, the adjoining project. All of us project rats grew up hard and fast. From ages twelve, thirteen, fourteen, we were drinking, drugging, and stealing. My friend Tina’s mother forced her into Alcoholics Anonymous, fearing that, even by Southie standards, she was too wild.

  I’d tag along to meetings to check out the better-looking guys, who, unlike my friends, were sober (more or less), seemed old enough to have jobs (cash), and had no missing teeth. To get to know them, we planned a little party. I wanted to make pesto, which I’d never tasted but must have come across in my mother’s treasured stash of women’s magazines.

  Fresh basil—the main ingredient—was exotic in Southie. To buy it I had to go to the Italian neighborhood, the North End, where I also got olive oil, boxed spaghetti, and a hunk of Parmesan cheese. Then I needed pine nuts. Christ, were they expensive. I palmed a few packets and shoved them down my pants.

  When I served my spaghetti with pesto, all the guests went, “Ewww! What’s the green shit? You eat that?”

  The brave ones tried it and were shocked. They loved it. That was an aha! moment, when I first realized that I could surprise, even excite people with food. But no way could I revel in the victory. No one ever let you get too “jumped up” or full of yourself in Southie. The tone was more, “Lynchie, who the hell do you think you are?” “Where did you come from?” someone cracked.

  When I got established as a chef, I went back to J. Pace & Son to pay for the stolen pine nuts. I apologized, and we laughed. But that was just one stop. I also had to confess at the shop where I boosted a rolling pin and pie pan—no way could I bake a pie in some tinfoil piece of shit—and few other stores where I sticky-fingered this and that . . .

  • • •

  When I got a James Beard Award nomination for Best Chef: Northeast, I was reminded of where I come from (as if I could forget). Dying to tell someone—maybe celebrate—I went down to the Quiet Man, a classic Southie pub co-owned by my brother Paul. It was right across the street from Triple O’s, the bar where Stephen “the Rifleman” Flemmi, a partner, ran crime boss Whitey Bulger’s loan-sharking operation, along with deadlier schemes. Once, Triple O’s bouncer Kevin Weeks, a Bulger mob enforcer, flung an ax into the back of a brawler with what Weeks called Irish Alzheimer’s—the disease that drives out all memories except grudges. The place was packed, but Southie Alzheimer’s, the code of silence, kept patrons from calling an ambulance or the law. The guy survived.

  The Quiet Man served a less volatile, cop-and-politician clientele, as well the Triple O’s riffraff. It was a beloved neighborhood joint with America/Love It or Leave stenciled on the windows. Its food was great: incredible steak tips, roast turkey, and twin boiled lobsters stored in a white Igloo cooler on the floor. For serious eaters, there was the John Wayne Platter, with three meats—grilled sausage, chicken, and steak tips—hot pickled cherry peppers, and thick-cut steak fries.

  But mainly it was a homey neighborhood pub, where guys hung at the bar reading the Herald and drinking “beers”—always with an “s”—from plastic cups. You could get your cup “chilled,” meaning that the barman would shove it down in the ice bin and give it a twist. On Fridays, when I took my aunt Mary there for lunch, she’d bring her own vodka so they could make her a martini, and I’d lug a bottle of wine with my own glass.

  As we ate, union guys would come by to pay respects: “Hello, Jim Kelly, Sheet Metal, Local Seventeen”; “Mrs. Lynch, Billy O’Donnell, Iron Workers, Local Seven. I know Stephen. Say hi for me.” Stephen Lynch, my cousin, was their hero—the youngest-ever president of the Iron Workers Union before he went to law school and then to Washington as our congressman from Southie.

  When I got to the Quiet Man the night of the Beard nomination, half the neighborhood was there. It was all kisses and backslaps and “Hey, Barbara, what’s going on?”

  “Well,” I said, “I think I’m up for a James Beard Award.”

  “Beard—I don’t know him. Did he live in Old Harbor?”

  “James? Jimmy? What? Some guy you slept with?”

  “I think she said Jimmy Fucking Beard . . . right?”

  “Who the fuck is this Jimmy Fucking Beard?”

  I had to laugh.

  • • •

  The Quiet Man was the place where, a few years later, I staked my claim to Southie. Over lunch, my landlord asked, “Is it true that you’re opening a restaurant in New York?”

  “God, why would I do that? I have five restaurants now. I don’t need any more.”

  “That’s a shame,” he told me. “Because I have more than a million square feet of warehouse space in Fort Point Channel.” It was a stretch of Southie waterfront that I hadn’t explored in years. In spite of myself, I was curious.

  Fort Point Channel was once the textile district, though most of that trade had dried up. The most thriving business left was Gillette World Shaving Headquarters, one of Southie’s major employers when I was young. Artists had carved lofts out of the beautiful vacant factories. A lot of those buildings were designated landmarks: elegant examples of industrial design from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. After dark, the area had an eerie frontier feeling. The streets were desolate.

&nbsp
; As we set out on foot, I flashed back on walking that route with my mother: from Old Harbor down Old Colony Avenue to A Street. Then we stopped in front of a building that I knew well. It was the point where my mother and I would turn left for Downtown Crossing and the big department stores: Filene’s, Gilchrist’s, and Jordan Marsh. On a good day, she’d buy me a Jordan Marsh blueberry muffin. They were legendary. I’d pick at my muffin all the way home, savoring every crumb.

  The building my landlord owned had once housed Boston Costume, which moved long ago. When I was a kid, the windows had thrilled me: jeweled masks, mannequins of Big Bird and Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. It was like a fairyland.

  “How many square feet?” I asked.

  “What do you want? A thousand feet? Fifteen hundred?”

  “No, all of it,” I said. All fifteen thousand square feet—a whole city block.

  It was a vow of commitment to Southie, an act of love.

  • • •

  Now I’m embedded, more deeply than ever, in the place where I was born. I built out the space into a sporty Italian trattoria, an artisanal cocktail bar, and a French/Italian fine-dining restaurant, where I continue (I hope) to surprise people with food. My full-block nightlife destination helped spearhead the revitalization of an area that, for decades, had been a derelict wasteland, left for dead.

  I’ve never left Southie, and I can’t: Southie is in me, in my fuck-you, make-me, prove-it attitude; in my wicked foul mouth, accent busting out if I don’t control it. Its rhythms stoke my fierce stamina and drive, my sense of honor, the ironclad allegiance of my lifelong friendships. It throbs in my veins in brash, daredevil impulses that I can’t shake—for better or worse—in life and love.

  That’s Southie: where I come from.

  1

  THE LOWER END

  South Boston or Southie is an island connected to Greater Boston by a double handful of bridges and a few tunnels. Only seven minutes away from anywhere in Boston you’d want to go, it’s a separate, self-contained world. It got a bad name during the Boston busing crisis of the 1970s, when the federal court forced students from two equally proud, isolated cultures (white Southie and black Roxbury) to switch schools. Images of screaming white parents mobbing school buses of black children, spitting at the intruders or throwing stones, ruled the TV news, matched by reports of stabbings and black kids dragging a white driver out of his car to beat him, crushing his skull. The mix created a classic case of “contents under pressure,” with predictable results—Boom!

  Today, Southie’s congresswoman is homegrown, but Irish-by-marriage and African American. So times have changed, but still, there are scars.

  • • •

  The Southie of my childhood had been overwhelmingly working-class Irish American for generations. One of the oldest neighborhoods in America, it was settled by immigrants fleeing Ireland’s potato famine in the 1800s. So it’s not surprising that Southie is spiderwebbed with social connections. The first question anyone asks when you meet is, “Are you related to . . . ?” I got to know Mary, one longtime friend, on the Southie Riviera—Carson Beach—when she hit me with, “Hey, are you related to Kenny Lynch, my brother’s friend?” And the second question you always get is, “Where do (or did) you live?” The answer brands you because different stretches of our two-mile-long spit of land—not to mention, nearby Dorchester—were like different villages, each with its own character.

  The east or “city” side of Southie—the section fronted by Boston Harbor that faces downtown, full of historic warehouses resettled by Fort Point artists (and now, techie startups)—has gentrified beyond imagination. Even when I was a kid, though, being from City Point on the east side meant money. My home turf was the west side, called the Lower End. It’s dominated by housing projects, Columbia Point (mostly black), D Street, and most important to me, Old Colony and Old Harbor (renamed for housing advocate Mary Ellen McCormack, mother of the speaker of the house in the 1960s). The last two each had twenty-two large three-story apartment buildings, and for big families, Old Harbor also offered about 150 two-story row houses.

  My family qualified for a row house at 51 Devine Way, near the rotary separating Old Harbor from Old Colony. I was the youngest of six children born to Barbara Kelleher and Philip “Yapper” Lynch. From what I hear, Yapper was a hard-working taxi driver. He’d been class president at South Boston (Southie) High, which is where he met my mother. He loved to play baseball, and he loved to drink. Even on benders, though, he was charming, with the gift of blarney his nickname implied. He died at age thirty-four, shortly before I was born, so I never knew him. Still, whenever I said the Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .,” I imagined that I was talking to him, as well as God, asking for his help and protection.

  As a child, I believed that my father had a heart attack. As an adult, I learned the truth: that at some point my mother had to throw him out, and he’d spent a year in a halfway house, fighting to get sober. He’d died of alcoholism, the Irish scourge.

  That left my mother with six kids to raise alone. Phyllis, the oldest, was born when my mother was just eighteen. Three boys followed—Paul, who would co-own the Quiet Man; Gerry, nicknamed Jazz, who became a bookie then a cop; and Kenny, the cute one, who loved cars, especially BMWs, and is a truck driver. Then came Beth, my troubled sister, and, four years later, me. By the time I was old enough to know my siblings, Phyllis was nineteen and married, living in her own house in Braintree.

  With Phyllis gone, the burden of childcare must have been crushing for my mother. Since she refused to go on welfare, unlike many of our neighbors, she also had to support us. How the hell she managed, I can’t even guess. For as long as I can remember, she worked two or three jobs: waitressing by day, collating from 7:00 p.m. to midnight for Winthrop Press, a company that made flash cards; and on the side selling Avon or Mary Kay cosmetics. She and her friends often met at our house, scheming ways to boost profits. They all aspired to Grand Achiever status at Mary Kay, hoping to score the top sales prize: a pink Cadillac.

  The pressure on my mother never let up, even after she got a new husband. Still young when she was widowed, she was a looker, with twinkly green eyes (and a green trench coat to match), high cheekbones, a perfect bouffant, and stylish cat’s-eye glasses. Her boobs were huge from having so many kids. When she got off work and settled into her fabric recliner chair, after tuning in to her police scanner she’d snap off her bra, which fascinated me. Once I tried it on and was shocked to find that each cup was about as wide as my whole body.

  When I was three or four, she met Steve, an ex-navy man who wasn’t daunted by her houseful of children. When they married, my sister Phyllis begged, “Ma, get the Pill or something. Six kids is enough.” But for CIAs (Catholic Irish Americans), “rhythm” was the one form of birth control allowed. At Phyllis’s wedding, my mother walked down the aisle pregnant, and she and my sister both had babies in 1971, just months apart.

  My baby brother, John, was cute and so chubby-cheeked that I’d stuff his mouth with Oreos just to see how many would fit. He seemed to awaken some buried tenderness in my mother that the rest of us never got. Maybe John was more of a novelty, coming from a different father. I loved him, but I thought he was spoiled.

  If Steve had any fatherly instincts, I never saw them. He was a drinker but, unlike Yapper, had a mean streak. Mostly, we tried to avoid him. He worked as janitor at the John Boyle O’Reilly School, contributing little family income. So money was a constant worry. Between her paying jobs, the housework, and keeping a half-assed eye on us kids, my mother always teetered on the edge of burnout.

  • • •

  It strikes me now that I barely knew my mother, though I lived with her into adulthood. I stayed because I was broke, working to get a toehold in the world. My mother’s dependency was the trade-off. Once, when I bullshitted my way into a chef’s job on a cruise ship, she wrote me a seven-page letter—basically a rant. How dare I just leave? Didn’t I kn
ow how hard it was to have six kids and be abandoned by them all? Who would take her grocery shopping with her friends (meaning, who would drive them home after shopping, then stopping for a few martinis)? On and on . . . We didn’t speak for months.

  By then, Steve was gone. When I was about thirteen, she threw him out, probably for lying around drunk half the time, cradling a huge bottle of port, with his Irish music playing, in his wife-beater, shorts, and sandals with white socks. So she relied on me for everything. I was always telling friends, “I’ll catch up with you later. I have to run to the druggie”—the corner store, to buy her lottery tickets or one of her three daily papers: the Boston Herald, the Boston Globe, and the South Boston (Southie) Tribune; “and then the deli,” to get her favorite Land O’Lakes cheese, sliced off the block on Number 4, just the right thickness. Or I was off to D’Angelo’s to pick up her favorite sub, Number 9—steak and cheese with mushrooms.

  Christmas was a nightmare because I had to buy and wrap gifts for all my siblings, their spouses, and the grandkids, whose names and birthdays were recorded on a white card taped—and retaped, in yellowing layers—to the bottom of the wooden napkin holder on the kitchen table, her command post. Also on the table, which was draped with patterned vinyl to protect the fake wood, were stacks of the magazines she loved, like Good Housekeeping and Reader’s Digest, interspersed with unopened bills; multiple half-used bottles of mauve-brown nail polish; and the syringes she used for her insulin, since she was diabetic.

  But when I was a child, she was a whirlwind, sassy and capable—sewing, ironing the hand-me-downs we wore, sticking a bowl on our heads to cut our hair. Every couple months, she’d subject Beth and me to Toni perms, rolling our hair up on dozens of tiny rods to give us masses of curls. To this day, I gag when remembering the chemical stench of a Toni perm.

  My mother was proud that instead of an apartment, we had a proper house, with a tiny fenced-in yard. Like all the row houses, it had a steel-topped sunken trash barrel out front that seemed to breed huge slugs, which freaked me out. To beautify the space, my mother planted roses and a lilac bush. If kids tried to pick the flowers, she’d poke her head out the window and shout, “You touch that and I’ll boil you in oil!”