didaink

Released images of Cavalcante, after & before escape

Residents of Kennett Square and Chester County, who haven’t yet pulled out their hair, are trying to enjoy our annual mushroom festival this weekend in downtown Kennett. After all, we are “The Mushroom Capital of the World” as our water tower brags, and the annual festival is the biggest event of the year in our little town. My 17-year-old son is a volunteer at the festival, selling fresh mushrooms directly to the public as part of his responsibilities for a National Honors Society student at Kennett High School. All good for the town, school, and festival, even with a convicted killer on the loose, but here’s the thing: my son is Brazilian-American, and his features and coloring look just like escapee Danelo Cavalcante, right down to the dark, curly hair and mustache (I almost asked my son to shave it off this week). The only thing that sets my son apart, gratefully, is his height. He’s ten inches taller than Cavalcante.

As a mother of a teen who looks like this convicted murderer, I worry about the stares he’s receiving from people in town and at the festival. Our community is still walking around on edge with a brutal killer on the loose, although we may be pretending to look and act cool as cucumbers while peddling and buying all things mushroom. In past years, tens of thousands of people have attended the festival throughout the weekend. At least, that’s how many have attended when no known killers were lurking in the woods and farmland that surround our town. This year, I have no idea how many people will attend, but I can’t help but wonder how many festival-goers will shout, “Oh, shiitake!” when they see my son. “You look like the murderer, only taller!” I imagine them saying, as they drop their shiitakes, cremini, and oyster mushrooms all over the ground.

It makes me sick to my stomach to think that a Brazilian or Latino in our community who looks like Cavalcante, and wearing a hoodie or hat, might be mistaken for him, and some of them may be adolescent boys because of Cavalcante’s compact size. With helicopters flying overhead yesterday morning, my husband took out the trash as I stood outside in the 92-degree, staring at our dying plants, and yelled, “Come on, hurry up! Let’s get back inside,” waving me over to the patio door, “I don’t want them looking down and thinking I’m him because of my white t-shirt!”

We both haven’t slept well since the helicopters began patrolling five days ago, and I don’t know anyone who has over the last week. Our home is located very close to Longwood Gardens where countless police cars and helicopters have become part of the landscape. So how is law enforcement sleeping? With the 24/7 effort they're putting into this hunt, I can't imagine they are catching any quality Z's either, which can't be good. But bad and unexpected things happen all the time, don’t they? People are mistaken for others. Mini murderers slip through cracks and scale “secure” walls when prison guards make mistakes.

We’re grateful that no one has been additionally attacked by Cavalcante since his escape, especially when he broke into homes in our area. We’re also grateful to law enforcement who have kept residents and their children safe these last ten days. We hope and pray that these same officers, state troopers, and even residents, in our culture of guns and Second Amendment enthusiasts, don’t lose their patience after two weeks of searching for Cavalcante, growing more desperate to “catch a killer” but catch or kill a lookalike instead. Because then my family and I would lose our shiitakes.

Where does a self-proclaimed "metropolitan foodie" from San Francisco, an Italian girl who’s mostly mistaken for a Jewish girl, find a proper cappuccino in Arkansas? And what if she craves a warm, out-of-the-oven bagel, smothered in cream cheese, piled high with fresh lox, capers and a smidgen of red onion? She wants to construct a bagel and cream cheese (almost) the same way her Jewish friends from New York construct theirs. But where? She is standing in the “deep” South, as one of her San Francisco friends put it, but she is suddenly optimistic and summoned by her conviction.

She jumps off her porch in The Heights district of Little Rock, Arkansas, pocketbook in hand, and begins her quest for the perfect Jewish-Italian breakfast.

***

I missed San Francisco more than usual that misty morning in Little Rock, remembering all the hours I had spent at Caffe Trieste and Caffe Puccini reading Cervantes and admiring Don Quixote, my hands laced around a ceramic brown cup, feeling like I was vacationing in Rome. I didn’t want to believe that the same feeling couldn’t be found somewhere in the South. So, why not Little Rock? There had to be more than meets the eye here.

I was determined to report back to my San Francisco friends that there was ethnic culture and diversity in the little city made more famous by Bill Clinton, the city I now temporarily call home.

I was glib as I walked past Starbucks on popular Kavanaugh Boulevard. I tried not to stare shamelessly at all the sell-outs standing in line. But those people had settled! They'd thrown in the towel on their Cup of Joe, choosing corporate America’s version of espresso in a cardboard cup over the little guy – that beloved café owner who likely knows the story of Luigi Bezzera and Desederio Pavoni who fathered espresso in Milan at the turn of the century.

Then suddenly I heard the voice of reality shout: What are you doing?! You are in Arkansas now! There are no immigrant Italians or Jews for thousands of miles. Turn around, order your half-caff, grande, carmel macchiato and put a stop to this ridiculous charade!

And that’s when I saw her ~ the little woman with a nose resembling mine.

She was in a hurry, making a beeline for something or somebody, moving quickly past Starbucks and me. Her resemblance to my Jewish sister was uncanny. She was just as petite and nimble, sporting an elegant, crooked nose but, then again, it looked somewhat Roman and long like mine. I wanted to run and hug her! Had she somehow heard my cry for diversity? Had my tug for ethnicity helped to pull her down Kavanaugh in my direction? Had I just stepped into The Twilight Zone?

She crossed the street, and I sprinted to catch up. My quest for the perfect Jewish-Italian breakfast was a virtuous one, so Miss Self-Respect would just have to take a number and wait next to Mrs. Pride and Ms. Humility.

“Excuse me!” I rallied from behind, my hand finally reaching her shoulder. “Do you know where I could get a bagel and maybe some lox in the neighborhood?”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cackle or shake her head. And she didn’t ask how long I had been stalk--uh--following her. Instead, she grinned, and I thought I saw her distinguished nose wriggle. She pointed to a red awning across a small parking lot. It read, Boulevard Bread Company.

“There you are! I’m starving!” shouted a woman with an accent.

“I know, I know… I got here as fast as I could!” she said to her foreign friend.

My tummy rumbled. My mouth trembled. I stepped in the red door behind them and my knees buckled while the globe spun. I was standing in a San Francisco sound bite, amid a hubbub of baguettes and ciabattas baking in commercial size ovens. I was surrounded by hungry people chatting away, starting their day in front of a multitude of ethnic dishes and gourmet delicacies, and a surprising collection of well-priced imported cheese. There were Italian salamis to the left, lox, capers and olives to the right. All housed in a grand New York style deli case.

As I took it all in, a wave of oak-roasted espresso curled inside my Romanesque nose. My eyes darted and found rows and rows of a very familiar brand of Italian coffee bean lining the shelves. My heart skipped: Mr. Espresso! It's based out of Oakland California, just across the San Francisco Bay Bridge. It was started by Salerno born Carlo Di Ruocco. He began importing Italian espresso machines and beans to San Francisco-area cafes and restaurants from his Bay Area home garage in the late Seventies.

Carlo Di Ruocco is the quintessential “little guy” who started out just wanting to get a good cup of coffee when he first arrived in San Francisco from Italy. I couldn't have found a better espresso bean for a proper cappuccino!

My gut instincts have never failed me nor has my elongated nose. They had both led me right to the doorstep of "the little gal," Christina McGehee, the owner of Boulevard Bread Company and Café. Her perceived motto for quality food and service shine through: give your customers the highest quality imported and local ingredients that you can, but don't gouge them in their pocketbook.

While ordering my Mr. Espresso cappuccino, I also spotted some of the best lox available on the wholesale and retail market, for a good price, cured from scratch by lox expert Browne Trading Company in Portland, Maine and shipped overnight to Boulevard Bread.

Then my eyes welled up. Below my stunned expression sat two plump jewels facing me on the deli counter: a traditional Bialy bagel with poppy seeds and caramelized onions and an Asiago Bialy.

I was in The Twilight Zone, or possibly Manhattan? Chicago? Boston? I might have been in any metropolitan hot spot, and yet, there I was standing in Little Rock, Arkansas. The typical cultural stereotypes of the South that my fellow San Franciscans joke about had been debunked, even if only for one morning. I couldn’t help but feel triumphant. There are signs of cultural diversity in Little Rock, Arkansas ~ something everyone should admire and require from their big and little city.