(Originally
published 6/14/13)
Growing up
in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge, I faithfully attended Sunday Mass—and Mass on "Holy
Days of Obligation," too—at St. John’s Church. It was an impressive-looking
place on the inside in the 1970s, but I can’t honestly say I got much out of
the repetitive Mass thing. There was no Mass appeal, if you will. The sermons
from the various men of the cloth were largely uninspiring and certainly unmemorable. But
to paraphrase comedian Jackie Mason: “I say this with all due respect.” My
mother always said, “You get out of it what you put into it.” I didn’t put much
into it, I guess.
What I recall
from this generally benign but monotonous rinse-and-repeat experience was
Sunday morning breakfast. That is, getting to Pat Mitchell’s Irish Food
Center—aka “Pat’s” on W231st Street—before the Mass’s masses. In stark contrast
with the parish priests’ sermons, Pat’s chocolate frosted donuts, miniature
jellies, crumb buns, and fresh rolls were unforgettable. They meant an awful
lot to an awful lot of locals, which explained why hightailing out of the
church at Mass’s end as quickly as humanly possible was the order of the day.
Long lines and a survival-of-the-fittest jostling in this cramped, but iconic
neighborhood delicatessen were the Sunday morning norms after the various
Masses.
But this essay
isn’t about Pat Mitchell’s and his coveted donuts and rolls. (I’ve tackled this
important historical and culinary topic before.) It’s about a
road not
taken. A special announcement—a footnote of sorts—was regularly made at the
end of the Sunday morning Mass that I typically attended. The faithful in
attendance were informed that coffee and donuts would be served in the church’s
adjoining “pebble patio”—on the house of worship, as it were—immediately after
we all shook hands and
went in peace.
Foremost,
I was intrigued by the moniker—pebble patio. It somehow struck me as
funny—Lorenzo Semple-esque—and I wondered, too, what kinds of donuts were
served there. Were they Pat Mitchell’s, which were delivered from a wholesale bakery
called Willow Sunny, or were they from nearby Twin Donut? While appealing to the
palate, the latter’s donuts left an aftertaste that often lingered for an
entire day. Could they possibly be from the neighborhood bakery, Shelvyn's? No, not a
chance—the bakery’s donuts were considerable in size, comparatively expensive,
and thus unsuitable for any of the parish’s come-one, come-all freebies.
What I
feared most of all, I think, was that the pebble patio donuts came from a
supermarket. You know—the old-fashioned, powdered sugar, and cinnamon-coated
varieties churned out by Hostess, Entenmann’s, and various generic bakers. But,
alas, I never visited the pebble patio even once for a cup of joe. There’s an
important life lesson here, and I believe it’s that we should call upon
pebble
patios whenever possible, because there might be more gained than just a pebble
in a shoe.
