Sometimes life is like a butterfly and a bakery. No one means to do it? But like the great scene with Robert Di Niro where he steals a gob of frosting thru the peep hole into the dusty store room scented with onion sequins of a mis-hap turn of the century Jewish deli in Once Upon a time in America by Sergio Leone. My long time cherished film so engrained in my psyche like a sepia tattoo made of the ink of chicken soup. Ahh but it was so delightful, so delicious and so, oh so bloody. Hanging sides of beef to be corned, the Matzoh Ball mafia shaped and glazed those long spider leg bridges with freckled smaltz, chicken feathers and a dizzy actress Tuesday Wells on the half shell. Yet all the goreyness set and panned into the distance like a delicious broth made of bones baked of Creatures from Max and where the Maurice Sendak’s wild things are. If we knew what was within the broth of this toerrential pin ball busting, twirling, whirling History of New York? We would not dare dip our salty bread within it to commune.
Alas tHere still is the serene twirling cup cake ballerina pirohuetting. A magical being with a dream dancing on hallowed eve of the Jewish sabbathM 4he dreans and Robert Di Niro the pre !ugsy seagels of the world is having a Solomon’s canticle, a Psalm salvivic vivifying reverie. He sticks his fingers into the frosting of her hopes and steel willed dreams.