The day after David and I got married we spent the day hanging out with our friends and family in Boston’s North End. We had a leisurely lunch, got drinks on the patio, and strolled through the streets of the St. Anthony’s festival. As the hours passed, our group dwindled as people left in groups and pairs to catch their trains, head to the airport, or pack up the car and hit the road. By dinner time, everyone had gone, and David and I found ourselves alone, enjoying married life together in our neighborhood for the first time. We found our way to a cookout hosted by one of the neighborhood restaurants. I’d been invited by one of the owners: an elderly man who drinks his coffee on the sidewalk outside his restaurant in the early hours of the morning, when I’m heading off to work. We’re two of the only people on the streets that early, so we recognize each other, and though we don’t know one another’s name, we say hi and wave. The week before the cookout (and the wedding), he called out to me across the street, mentioned that he was throwing a party, and suggested I stop by.
The street was full of people, and a large grated grill was set up outside. Inside, a small band was set up in the corner, and there were coolers with beer. They grilled the pork chops in rows, slicing the meat into strips when they were just cooked through, and piling them on a large platter. People gathered around the grill with each fresh batch, taking a share, then making their way back to their beers. This was some of the best, juiciest meat I’ve had in ages. It wasn’t overcooked or tough, and it had just a touch of an oily citrus sauce that boosted the flavor just so. We felt lucky to have been invited.