Don't Let the Bastards Win: For Anyone This Close to Saying Fuck It

I have a love-hate relationship with any movie that can make me cry.

I love that moment when something hits so close to home that you feel a little less alone in the world.

I hate it because I cry ugly. Red-nosed, blotchy-faced, glassy-eyed, don’t look at me ugly.

So when I sat down with the Balkan Storm to watch Nonnas, I expected a sweet little movie with comfort food vibes, maybe even a few cooking tips.

I did not expect to ugly-cry over a recipe.

The film follows Joe Scaravella, a Staten Island man who loses his mother and grandmother, then decides to work through his grief by opening a restaurant staffed entirely by grandmothers, each one cooking what she grew up on.

It’s a wild idea, and it nearly fails. Joe has no real business plan or even a backup plan; all he has is a gut feeling he can't shake and stubbornness bordering on irresponsible.

Which, you know. Relatable.

Because I was in the middle of creating something too, something that mattered more to me than anything I'd done before.

I had no investors or a ‘how-to’ guide, no evidence anyone even wanted this. Just a voice that wouldn’t shut up, and a Type-A husband who had gently started asking if maybe I was working a bit too hard.

It was fine, though, really.

I think.

The hardest part of Joe's story wasn't the money running out or the neighbor actively telling people not to eat at the restaurant. It was the what if I'm wrong about all of this that creeps in when you're tired.

There will always be someone trying to poke holes in your dreams. Maybe a friend under the guise of concern. Perhaps a stranger who doesn't understand why anyone would bother.

Worst of all, sometimes it’s you, lying awake at two in the morning, making a better case against yourself than anyone else ever could.

Joe kept pushing anyway. He showed up at the Times office with a bag of food, no appointment, and no reason to think anyone would see him, much less care.

He heard nothing back.

He finally accepted that the restaurant was done. He threw one last party to burn through the inventory before he closed the doors; basically a wake for his failed dreams.

A few days later, the review ran, and the next morning, there was a line outside the door.

That was more than fifteen years ago. Enoteca Maria is still open, with grandmothers from every corner of the world cooking the food they grew up eating.

All because one man had an idea that sounded ridiculous and couldn't quite bring himself to leave it alone.

And God knows I needed that story.

At the time, I had no idea how mine would turn out. I only knew I had never worked harder or believed more deeply in something without knowing why.

This thing had a heartbeat. I could feel it, even when I couldn't prove it.

So I kept working. As the Balkan Storm likes to say: don’t let the bastards win.

Update:

I wrote this a year ago. And unfortunately, I'm no closer to knowing how this will all turn out.

I'm still working harder than ever, and wondering if I'm making something real or just maintaining an elaborate hobby with hosting fees.

But I read Joe's story differently now.

The part of that stuck out the most for me this time is that he had already given up. He'd closed the doors and decided it had all been for nothing, and all the while, the thing to save it was already happening.

He just couldn't see it.

Neither can I.

Maybe something is happening out there, maybe it isn't. That's the frustrating part: there's no way to know which stretch of silence is the one before it finally blows up and which one is just...silence.

But I'm not ready to plan a wake.

So I'll sit back down, open another blank screen, and keep going.

The bastards will have to keep waiting.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.