Eggplant parmesARVO…Big Man style
Jim enjoyed all the perks bestowed upon him as the North American president of a British-run, holding company-controlled strategic brand and design consultancy…
His mornings began outfitted in luxury.
After easing into a pair of his finest relaxed-fit, dad-bod Dockers and extra arch support New Balance sneakers, Jim squeezed into his waiting chariot…a NJ Transit bus with unreliable A/C and seats built for commuters the size of Quae.
On rare occasions, the journey from the North Bergen Park ‘N Ride through the Lincoln Tunnel zipped by in under ten minutes. But most trips—especially on the hottest, stickiest, make Malozzi’s back and Beth’s pits the sweatiest day in mid August—Jim would be stuck in there for over an hour and a half. Not to worry. The kind folks in London saw to it that his breakfast buffet of shit sandwiches, served fresh daily by Patrick Smith, did not go cold.
Afternoons were spent basking in kudos and compliments.
An endless conga line of grateful FutureBranders queued outside Jim’s door. What’s that? Oh sorry, there’s a small typo in that headline. Swap “kudos and compliments” for “bitching and moaning.”
In between he wined and dined.
Jim loved nothing more than playing footsy and making googly eyes at every Midwestern-based heavy industrial manufacturer of acronyms and chemical derivatives. And sitting in on pipeline meetings with Mindy.
At night, he’d kick his feet up and relax.
Full of vim and vigor from another uplifting day at the office, Jim would shoehorn back into the sardine can on wheels and head straight for his night jobs: suburban dad, husband, lacrosse coach and chief executive pooper scooper to his two big boxer pups.
Ah, but for one glorious hour each work day, he was set free, phone off and off leash.
The Australians call it going on walkabout…
Native Americans call it a vision quest…
Horny Amish teenagers call it rumspringa…
Gentlemen of leisure like Kris Pelletier call it taking a constitutional…
Mark Thwaites calls it being on the stroll…
Jim Lowell called it 60 minutes of pure paradise.
It was a time to reflect…
A time to clear his head…
A time to stretch his legs...
A time to explore endless ideas on diner napkins…
A time to wander the streets of midtown unencumbered…
And most importantly, a time for the Big Man to continue his quest in search of the ultimate culinary masterpiece…
The perfect eggplant parmesan. Jim’s white whale.
Now to the unsophisticated ear, Long Island and North Jersey accents are one in the same. Carmela Soprano…Mary Jo Buttafuoco…to-MAY-to, to-MAH-to, right? Local connoisseurs can spot the subtle nuances between “caw-fee,” “chaw-clate” and “maw-all.” But after 25 years of living across the Hudson, Jim, a proud son of Massepequa, sounds more like Bruce Springsteen than Billy Joel. Only two words, and two words only, remain linguistically Long Island bulletproof in Jim’s vocabulary.
“Holmfridur.”
And “parmesan.”
One day, an excited Jim returned from walkabout—marinara on his Colombo trench lapel, big smile across his gleeful face, Long Island accent locked and loaded.
“Guys, I just found the perfect eggplant pah-meh-jhan-an-an-an-an-an-an…”
Eddie Van Halen, Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughan working in shifts couldn’t keep up with the vibrato at the end of that sentence. You could get up, go to the bathroom, stop by the kitchen, make fun of Tom Li’s shirt, sit in on an American Airlines’ status call, come back to your desk and Jim was STILL wailing on that “jhan-an-an-an-an-an…” He was like Darren boring clients at an implementation kickoff. Joanna wearing animal print pencil skirts. And Kari devouring the souls of junior female strategists. Once Jim got that South Shore accent started, he just couldn’t stop.
“Jim, that’s not the best eggplant parmesan in the city. It’s not even the best eggplant parmesan on this block.”
“What do you know about Italian food, Malozzi?
“First of all, I’m Italian. And second, a place called Paddy O’Reilley’s shouldn’t be serving eggplant parmesan. It’s sacrilege.”
And then suddenly, a cold breeze blew in from the north. Ms. Hardardottir had Jim in her crosshairs. The prison doors shut hard behind the Big Man. He was trapped. His fun for the day, over.
“Home-freeeeeeee-duh-uh-uh-uh!!!”
* * * * *
Fellow pilgrims, a cabin fever toast heard ‘round the world for Jim Lowell. Everybody loves the Big Man. He’s one big bear hug of decency and amicability. But we’re happy to report there’s a lot less of him to love! Jim’s been working out and laying off the eggplant parms during quarantine. To date he’s lost almost 50 pounds. 5-0! While it was always assumed that George Clooney would play Sven in “FutureBrand: The Movie,” look out, he’s got some competition now. As long as ole George like his Bud Light cold, his bosoms bodacious and his chicken wings extra, extra crispy.