A World of Cheese

Arcuri's Cheeseworld

When you were a kid, how many times did you wish for all the ice cream your little heart desired? What about access to candy bars, gum machines, milkshakes? Then as you grew older, all of the coffee you could drink, delicious subs, PASTA!!, the best homemade Italian sausages around, and cheese! (Stop drooling). For twenty-four years of my life, this was my reality. (God, I miss the cheese!!) I got spoiled, and I mean SPOILED, when it came to food. On top of it all, my Nunu and Nana Bella lived across the street from us. Needless to say, I was in no danger of going hungry.

Arcuri's Cheeseworld was a family-run business, a gathering place for friends and family, my own, personal playground, and second home. Half of the store was a Gelateria (Italian ice cream) with gelato made fresh by my Nunu (Grandpa) and later by my Mom. We called that side of the store "the ice cream side," (I know. We are so creative) and it was also an Italian cafe. The other side of the store was an Italian deli, which we called (you guessed it) "The deli side," and it was where fresh subs were made. It also contained aisles of Italian products and groceries.

It was in these aisles where my sisters and I would play hide-and-go-seek (our favourite spot was the pasta aisle, of course). Cheeseworld was also where the bus would drop us off, where we would have birthday celebrations, and where we spent more time at than at our house.

Despite all of these really awesome perks, Cheeseworld was so much more; It was a feeling. When you walked through the doors, either as a stranger coming to check the place out or a regular, you would more often than not be welcomed by a big smile and "hello!" If you were lucky, my Nunu would be there to ask you, "Where are you from? What do you do?" and then proceed to tell you joke after joke. If you didn't laugh hard enough, you might even have gotten a, "...You didn't get it."

Mornings at Cheeseworld

Most of us have a routine in the mornings. Some people wake up insanely early to go to the gym before sitting at their desks for eight hours at work. Some roll out of bed at the last minute and frantically dart from one end of their home to the other until they deem themselves presentable. Some run to catch a bus, while others wait in their heated cars in the long line at Tim Horton's. I spent the majority of my mornings at Cheeseworld.

Mornings at Cheeseworld had the best energy. They were filled with loud and welcoming regulars, who would come for their morning espressos. You would walk in and be cheered, just for showing up. In the background, the coffee grinder was almost always running, or clouds of steam would float up to the ceiling as the cappuccinos were being made. Fights would even break out at times, everyone giving their best reasons why it was their turn to treat for the espressos. "Don't take his money," was a common phrase.

But for me, mornings at the store started before the doors opened to the public. In elementary school, I would love to walk with my Nana to the store (roughly a 20-25 minute walk), where Nunu would meet us with his mini van. I could usually hear Nunu as he passed us in his Van, on those rare occasions that he beat us to the store. He would have his Italian, polka music blaring, his small, clown marionette bouncing up and down from the rear-view mirror and, in the unlikely case that we missed him, would be beeping his car horn incessantly. One beep was never enough; it was like he was trying to see how many times he could beep the horn within that 10 seconds that he drove by.

Once we arrived at the store, my Nana would make me a delicious breakfast. This was either toast with tomatoes (literally toast, sliced tomatoes and salt and pepper...if you've never tried it, you should!), or fried eggs, bacon and toast. One time, my Nunu made a frittata. It was one of the best frittatas that I've ever had, and most likely the unhealthiest. He would add prosciutto, capicolla, sopressata, potatoes, unions, etc. It was very salty but so, so tasty. I used to ask him to make it for me often. My mom would have joined us at this point, or have been waiting for us as she got the store ready to open up and the coffee brewing. But, there was always that quiet moment before the doors were unlocked where we would sit and eat breakfast together.

When the weather got warmer, we would sit out on the patio, which my Nana decorated beautifully with many flowers. I can still picture Nana sitting at the table with a coffee beside her, and newspaper in her hand. Nunu would be reading the Italian newspaper, espresso beside him and eating either toast with "marmalada," or cereal with orange juice in it.

On some days, my grandparents, Mom and cousin, Stephen, would get up and go to the store for 5 am. Stephen moved in with Nana and Nunu when he started university at Brock and, living across the street, he became like a brother to my sisters and I. He was always ready and willing to help out my grandparents, or anyone who asked him.... which lead him to the store at 5 am to help make the tartufi for the wedding halls. A tartufo is gelato rolled into a ball and coated with cocoa. I don't want to brag....actually, I do. We had the best tartufo around. Sometimes I would go help them box the tartufi, most likely bribed with a frittata or some other delicious breakfast, but I was glad when Stephen moved into town. Thanks, Stephen!

My dad would stop by the store on his way to work every morning. He would make an espresso, socialize, and then be on his way. I'm surprised that he wasn't often late for work. It was very easy to get sucked into Cheeseworld. My sisters and I used to joke that it had its own time zone. "We are just going to stop by the store for five minutes," usually meant that we were on our way to wherever we were heading two hours later. It was sometimes frustrating at the time, but looking back, I wish that I had more mornings/days at cheeseworld.

Most of the magic of Cheeseworld came from my Nana Bella, who was always singing, had the most beautiful plants in the windows, and who could make a mean...well, every dish she makes is amazing...and especially my grandfather, who I called Nunu. He was one of a kind, to say the least.

My Nunu's name was Joe Arcuri, and he was my hero. If you've ever talked to me, chances are that you've heard a "Nunu story" or two. For example, I can't eat soup without thinking about him.

***

"Adrianna," he would say every time we'd sit down to eat Nana Bella's soup or minestra, "Do you know why we use a spoon?" To which I would always reply, "No, Nunu, Why?"

"Because a fork leaks!"

***

Those who had known Joe Arcuri, found out quickly that he was a man with a unique sense of humour. That was one of my absolute favourite things about him. I could never stay mad at him for long, and would try to hide my growing mirth while I struggling to keep a stern expression. My Nunu was a stubborn man. If you told him NOT to do something, he took it as an invitation. My dog Enzo Giovanni (he is Italian, obviously) LOVED my Nunu. They were kindred spirits. It helped that Nunu would also sneak him some table food when he thought no one was looking, despite our objections. One time in particular, I remember when Nunu was eating steak at our house during a summer BBQ. He was determined to give the puppy-dog-eyed-guilting-champion a piece of the delicious meat, but knew that we were all watching him like a hawk. So, Nunu cut a piece, put it into his mouth, but didn't chew. He then got up from his chair to "let Enzo out," slid open the door to the backyard, and sneakily let the unchewed, piece of meat fall from his mouth onto the deck to an eagerly awaiting Enzo. That's what I mean, though. He would do things that we said not to do, but in the most hilarious ways.

That was one aspect of his sense of humour. He also had a retinal of jokes up his sleeve that he would shoot off one after another. "What were the first words we learned in English when we came to this country?...'how much,' and 'too much.'" He would often be found sitting at the table by the door, surrounded by friends- old and new-and a chorus of laughter surrounding them. He would say "When I moved to this country, I was a pharmacist," which would always get a surprised reaction...until he would add the punch line, "I shoved the sh*t on the farm. I was a 'farm assist.'" It wasn't only at the store that he would entertain people with this joke. It was common that, while out for an evening meal at a restaurant, he would wander around to the other tables and make friends. He was good at that. Side note: One of Nunu's favourite restaurants was "The Mandarin-o"...or simply, The Mandarin to everyone else.

Nunu also loved to play pranks. I can not tell you how many times I found tissue or newspaper stuffed into my shoes when I would stay over, or random objects in my purse when I got home. Once, he put a phone book in my purse. I picked up my bag and thought, "why is this so heavy?"...only to see Nunu smirking across the room with that mischievous glint in his eyes. I would usually respond with a "Nunu!" to which he would lift his shoulders, duck his head and give me a kiddish giggle. Heh, heh. Needless to say, over the years of living across the street from him, and working alongside him at the store, I have accumulated quite a few "Nunu Stories." They are famous among my friends.

Besides jokes, pranks, and just Nunu being Nunu, he was also sharp as a whip, which brings me to one of my favourite Nunu Stories of all time. Not many people realized that my Nunu was missing his index finger on his right hand. This is because the entire knuckle was removed to make it easier for the hand to function. When I was a little girl, he would often say, "Give me four!" instead of a high five. Whenever he would point, or scratch his nose, it looked like he was flipping people off, (obliviously, of course) a sight that I always found amusing. This brings me to some of my favourite "Nunu Stories."

Nunu and the Missing Finger

One day, Nunu was at the Seaway Mall in Welland with his beautiful wife Assunta, and my beautiful mother, Rachel. As they were walking, a young couple were holding hands. The way that they were holding hands was a bit unconventional as the girlfriend was holding her boyfriend's hand by his index finger. Without missing a beat, Nunu started walking after them, saying, "Sir! Sir!" When they turned towards him his said, in his most serious voice, "You better be careful!" He then cast a conspiratorial glance back at Assunta, his wife, before turning back to the stranger, "She used to hold my hand like that," he continued, before lifting his right hand up and saying, "And look what happened to me!"

A Poor Man's Ferrari

Isn't it funny how your memory can be triggered by something so small? Without consciously thinking about it, it's easy to attach people to things. I'm not talking literally, of course. I hope there is no one out there who is going around with a needle and thread, ready to sew my lucky ring to my finger. But there are things that just instantly reminds you of someone, as if it is meant for them. For example, if you are always reading, your friends and family might think of you when they see a book or bookstore. If you love the colour blue, and nearly every single item of clothing in your closet is blue, chances are that someone would think, "Hmm. This looks like an Adrianna top," when they come across a cozy, blue sweater in a store. If you absolutely loooooaaathhhhhheee nutella (Insanity, I know, but I actually know someone who does), then eating a delicious nutella and peanut butter sandwich may cause one to think, "How can anyone in their right mind dislike nutella? " Or, perhaps you have that one friend who snorts every time they laugh. If you encounter a pig on the farm one day, snorting (as pigs do), an image of your friend laughing will undoubtedly pop into your mind. Sometimes I think about how everyone that you meet has a snapshot, or an entire album of memories, that float up to the surface of their mind when they see something that reminds them of you. I wonder what things remind people of me...

As you know, I spent a lot of time with my grandpa. I have twenty-eight years of memories with him and, now that he is gone, many things seem to recall those memories back to me. But nothing instantly reminds me of my Nunu more than his little, red, Italian car. Nunu owned a classic, 1966 Fiat 500. I don't remember exactly when he got it, but that little car was a large part of my childhood. I still remember driving in it with Nunu, with pedestrians and drivers alike starring and laughing at the little, toy-like car as we drove past. Nunu would honk at every corner... Just in case someone missed us.

When Nunu passed, the Fiat was passed on to my father, who shared a strong bond with my Nunu. My dad had a yellow Fiat of his own once upon a time, and they spent hours working on the cars together. Last weekend, I went home to visit my family. During this pandemic, it makes time spent with loved ones even more precious. If this year has taught me anything, it is that family, friends, and the connections we have with people are what is important in life. Have you ever noticed how people "light up" after you say "Hello," when passing them on the street? Or, in my Nunu's case, honking the horn of his little car and waving as he drove along.

Anyway, my dad had just finished getting everything set to fire up the Fiat again and last weekend was the first time that I saw it up and running in years. My Nunu stopped driving a few years back and, although it sat in my grandparents' garage all of this time, when I saw it driving again, it was like my Nunu was still with us. I won't lie. When I sat in that car, I broke down. But then, my dad took my boyfriend and me for a ride in it and, as the wind was blowing through my hair from the back seat, I remembered all those times that we drove back and forth from the store with my Nunu. And I began to smile, and then laugh. It was like he was in the car beside me.

My Nunu used to call the Fiat "The Poor Man's Ferrari." I think this was because it was painted "Ferrari red." He even made a sign that said so and stuck it on the back window as it sat parked at Cheeseworld. The car alone was enough to get people to stop by and take pictures. My Nunu, seeing people admire his car, would go outside and make some more friends.

For such a small car, it was very loud. Ha! Kind of like Nunu. You could usually hear the Fiat coming from all the way up the street. It sounded like a lawnmower. Also, there isn't a radio in the car, and the switch that turns on the windshield wipers couldn't shoo a fly. But that's okay. If there was a downpour, you could always pick up the car and move it to the nearest shelter. Sometimes, if the Fiat stalled or broke down (this happened a lot towards the end), I would get a phone call from Nunu telling me that he was stuck and that I had to go and push. One time, I was at the store with friends when I got this call. We drove down the street and pushed him the rest of the way home. Luckily, he lived near the store. The engine in the Fiat is located in the trunk and, whenever we would push, Nunu would try to start the car again. We would all jump back at the loud rumble coming from under our hands. Most teenagers were out at the mall with their friends or playing video games...I was pushing Fiats. And I wouldn't change a thing.

NUNU AND THE SEAGULLS

One of the employees (and friend) who used to work for us, would drive her parents' sports car into work, leaving the roof down on hot, sunny, days. When Nunu saw that the roof of the convertible was down, he joked, "Hey, Jessica! The birds are gonna come and shit in your car!" We all laughed it off and continued with our day. But Nunu didn't leave it there. A while later, Nunu was found outside beside Jessica's car, throwing pieces of bread to a crowd of seagulls that began to gather. A few seconds after that had Jessica running out of the store yelling, "Joe!!" I don't think she kept her roof down after that. My mom scolded Nunu... But I always thought that it was hilarious.

***Disclaimer: No cars were harmed or pooped on in this story***

It hasn't been a year since Nunu passed away, but everywhere I look I see little reminders of him, and, although sometimes it makes me cry, I always have an abundance of jokes and memories that make me laugh harder. There are so many more memories that pop up, and I could go on and on. Maybe some day I will reminisce some more. But in the meantime, I am so grateful that I had the childhood that I had, and the best grandparents that a girl could ask for.