Football for Foodies

Tonight the heavily favored New England Patriots lost their playoff game to the New York Jets. Aside from the feeling some empathy for football fans here in Providence, I am especially upset that my free January feasts have come to an end.

Let me explain.

When the Patriots remain in the playoffs, two of my local bars become the answer to cooking at home.

This afternoon I started at a social club – a drinking club, really – run by the Portuguese of the neighborhood. You have to be Portuguese or Cape Verdean to be a member, but you can be anyone to go and drink there. The members, as far as I can tell, are all men – cops, firemen, contractors, electricians, carpenters and a reliably deranged contingent of house painters. The lighting is naked fluorescent, the décor non-existent. These guys have grown up together, so it’s not unusual to hear shouted conversations like this:

“Hey, remember where Joey’s wife is buried?”

“Yeah.”

“Well yesterday Billy was buried just two graves over.”

“No fuckin’ kiddin’!”

Where there is a women present, which is very rare, there is a sort of unspoken chivalrous agreement to tone it down. Tonight there was a sweet redhead there, maybe thirty, which is a rarity of a rarity, so when Tom Brady threw an interception, the tall vociferous, Viking-gone-to-seed house painter who seems to live at the bar stood up and shouted, “Asshole! Douchebag!” Everyone was impressed that he had the presence of mind to leave out the normal adjective such occasions call for and remain polite.

But I digress… As this is a fraternal Portuguese place, and as this is a Patriots playoff game, there is always good food prepared by one or two of the members. Tonight there was a Mediterranean chile, lots of olives and some squid, and a light, not overcreamy seafood chowder.

I took two small bowls then watched the first half. The chowder was sublime. I considered going back for seconds, indeed was encouraged to, but I had other plans.

At half-time I left and went for a walk through the silent, snowy streets. Everyone was inside watching the game. I had to work off my first course.

Just a few blocks away is another communal bar. About twenty years ago, it had to be closed down because the building it occupied was condemned. About 40 guys from the neighborhood – called Fox Point – chipped in and bought the building around the corner. The bar was christened Around the Corner.

Fox Point is a working-class neighborhood of African-Americans, Cape Verdeans, Italians and Portuguese. In front of the bar is a parking lot that can accommodate perhaps six cars. On game days, there are usually eight black Cadillac Escalades jammed into the space.

That is because much of the clientele are big, and I mean big, black guys. They all seem to have PhD’s in football. The always shouted conversations run something like this:

“Look, the man is limpin’! That’s from that hit he took in third year at Tulane!”

“That was fourth year, brother.”

Pause.

“Yeah, right.”

There are black women present, lots of them, dressed to kill. And a lot of slobby white people. Everybody knows everybody. The bartender is a sixty-something bottle blonde shaped like a chest of drawers. She’s very friendly.

And during Patriots playoff games, there is serious cooking going on. Tonight was a choice of Philly cheese steaks or seared pork tenderloin, with baked beans, okra and a crispy salad.

I dug in at the start of the fourth quarter. Delicious.

I am so annoyed that the Patriots are out of the playoffs.

Douchebags.