Giovanni's Mama

Back in 1974, I worked as a hostess at Giovanni's Restaurant, in Berkeley. I was hired, as most employees were, because I was related to someone. My husband had worked there as a waiter in times past, and as was the tradition, I became part of the restaurant family seemingly by osmosis.

The family atmosphere of this Italian restaurant was heightened by the frequent visits of Mama, Giovanni's mother, to share cakes and cookies she had baked herself  with the customers. Her portrait hung over the mantle piece of the fireplace. There she sat, a proud Italian mama in her black dress with a white lace collar and her hands folded on her lap, looking out over the customers as they ate some of the recipes that she had invented. (Our favorite is Chicken Marsala).

Last Saturday, Doug and I decided to have a "date night", including dinner and drinks at our beloved Giovanni's. As we approached the building, we saw yellow caution tape over the windows, and the bar gate was closed over the front door. As we strained to look inside, we could smell charred wood and saw that the fireplace had been torn apart. There was a note on the door that a fire had occurred on April 22 at 6 AM, and that no one had been hurt. I was heartsick, as I stood at the door with an old story in my hand that I had written for a newspaper about the owner John's "Mama" way back in 1980, right after she had passed away. I had wanted to give it to Giovanni, his wife Anna, and daughters Anastasia and Sarah, since it is close to Mother's Day. I couldn't, so I'll copy it out here instead.
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From the Archives.     Written in 1980, by Reilly Romer (AKA Me, Pat Reilly Harbo)

                                                                 MAMA

Mothers are wonderful people. They nurse us and care for us and cherish us, spoil us and discipline us, protect us and love us. Many young people think that once they've left the nest and are flying on their own, all that nurturing and worrying ceases.

But they've never been mothers before. I haven't been a mom for very long myself, but I know it's a very special thing to be one. It's even more special to be called "Mama" not only by your children, but by everyone who comes in contact with you.

Mama Savaria (Sarah) Schipani was that type of person. She died in San Pablo, CA, on December 30th at the age of 75. When she was a child in Calabria, Southern Italy, little did she know that she and her cooking would be the wellspring of at least five fine restaurants.

Cooking was to become Savaria's life. While growing up, pasta and bread making were everyday events and she became adept at the recipes that were indigenous to that region of Italy. Eventually, the couple left Italy for West Virginia, where Bill worked in the coal mines. They lived with Bill's cousins, so Savaria helped with the household chores and the cooking, picking up additional recipes from her new-found family. The region that these immigrants came from was richer than Savaria's, so they had more meat in their concoctions and they used slightly different spices. With these recipes added to her repertoire, she was becoming quite creative in the kitchen.

While living in West Virginia, Savaria earned the title of "Mama" by giving birth to four children: John, Frank, Rosie, and Katherine.

Next, the promise of big money in the steel mills brought on a move to Indiana. Like most immigrants, Bill worked hard and saved his earnings. He subsequently opened a bar in Gary, IN, called Bill's place. It was only supposed to be a bar, but there was a kitchen, so Mama was naturally in it, cooking. Customers got a whiff of the delicious aromas and asked if they could buy some of whatever she was making. Mama loved to see people enjoying her good cooking, so it didn't take long for Bill's Place to develop into both a bar and a restaurant.

During the years in Gary, tragedy struck, and daughter Rosie drowned at the age of eleven, but Mama's family continued to grow. Bill and Savaria had three more children, Fran, Bill Jr., and Jim.

In 1962, California lured eldest son John away from home to open his own restaurant in Berkeley, called "Mr. Pizza". Gradually, his brothers and sister Fran followed and also fell in love with California. Mama and Papa wanted to be close to most of their family, so they too, relocated in the Bay Area.




Forever the cook, Mama enlarged John's pizza and salad only menu, by cooking her spaghetti and meatballs. The customers loved the addition, and that encouraged Mama to come in a couple of days a week to concoct her recipe for lasagne.

The restaurant's name was changed to Giovanni's, (John's), and in 1967 business was so good, a move was made to a couple of blocks down Shattuck Avenue to a larger building. Caffe Giovanni continues to be a popular place to dine mainly because its fare is based on Mama's recipes, like her Veal Scallopini and her stuffed Eggplant Parmesean.

Mama's special touches always made dining out a pure delight. She made the customers feel at home by passing among them with a tray of cookies. Many regulars began calling her Mama and asking for her when they came in to eat. Mama never spoke much English, but she managed to communicate her appreciation to the people who enjoyed seeing her.



Employees grew to expect a huge cake baked expecially for them each week. Daughter Fran read the recipes to her in Italian, but Mama couldn't let a chance go by to change a recipe and make it her own. She added an extra egg or two this time, maybe four next time, or perhaps some pudding (before it was even thought of by Betty Crocker). Mama would especially delight in watching the thinner employees devour her creations , commenting in her dear broken English and sign language something like, "You gotta eat! You too skinny! Mangia!"




At Mama's house one day, Franny told me, that the milkman finally confessed to her that every day after making his delivery and smelling the aroma of Mama's cooking, he had to run out to his truck and eat his sandwich because he became so hungry. Fran laughed and relayed this loudly into Mama's ear, for her hearing was impaired. Immediately a chair was pulled out for him, and he was told to "Come! Eat!" So began a weekly routine for that milkman....every Tuesday for over two years, Mama had a luncheon waiting for him.

At one point, he said his wife wasn't sure she believed his innocent story of eating at a nice Italian lady's house every week. When Mama heard this, she had him take his wife a picture of herself and said, "Tell her I old! No worry!" She also sent a jar of her special spaghetti sauce home with him. When that milkman left the company, his replacement was hoping he would get the same fringe benefits. In Mama's eyes he never qualified for a free lunch.....maybe a piece of cake.

Mama Savaria is what the restaurant business is all about. She loved to cook and she loved to watch people eat what she had cooked. She treated employees with respect and warmth. An example of her big-heartedness to everyone, she was instrumental in training her offspring to be generous. The sense of "family" seems to permeate anything Mama has had anything to do with. The Schipani's have acquired a reputation for hiring people who, if they aren't related to them or their present employees, they are old friends, or friends of friends. This provides the atmosphere of caring of which Mama was very proud.



Savaria was full of pride when it came to her family. She has a right to be. Sons Billy and Jimmy helped Johnny operate Caffe Giovanni's for years until they each decided to branch out on their own. Bill and his wife, Karen opened the popular Shattuck Avenue Spat's Restaurant. Fran Bisbiglia, Bill's sister, also helps to run the Berkeley restaurant, and Mama regularly came in to prepare several of her specialties and to ply the employees with cake.

John decided to enlarge upon what he did best, and opened Baci's, a seafood restaurant on Pier 39 in San Francisco, while brother Jim moved to Reno to open the elegant Washoe Zephyr Restaurant. Even daughter Katie, still in Hobart, Indiana, owns a restaurant called the Mortor Joynt.

There's only one son that isn't in the restaurant business. Actually, he used to have a restaurant, but he's found something more lucrative. Frank is a professional blackjack player.

It seems to me that Mama has left quite an inheritance. There's not only her legacy of love, but of recipes, aromas, and happy taste buds....of memories, values, and old ways......of family ties that are strong. What more could a Mama want?
                                                                         The End
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Post Script: This story was written 35 years ago. (hard for me to believe too!) The lives of the people in this great family have had many twists and turns, as all of ours have. I was just going to hand my typed copy to the family when we went to eat at Giovanni's, but since we saw that there had been a fire, decided to post these memories for all to see. Our prayers are with Johnny and Anna, Anastasia and Sarah, and all the crew at Giovanni's.



We hope that the damage wasn't so much that many folks' favorite restaurant won't reopen. There are still many taste buds waiting to be tantalized!       Pat Reilly Harbo

An Old Cat and Dog Story from 2001

In the last few years, my family's pet population has dwindled from two cats, one dove, one cockatiel, one cherry-headed conure, two parakeets, 19 bunnies (it's true that they are prolific), and 12 goldfish in the pond. The menagerie has declined, due to old age, bunny sales, birds flying the coop or being buried in the side yard, racoons, and no replacements. We are now down to two pets.

Alas, our cat, Tigger, a 14 year old orange striped tabby, has cancer. All of six months ago, he had a surgery which supposedly removed the whole tumor from his abdomen. Because of his age and our fondness of him, I figured the $180. for the surgery was affordable, but I knew I didn't want to invest in chemo. When the tumor returned, the vet said, "Just let him have anything he wants. If he starts to feel bad, let me know and you can 'bring him by'." On the way home, I stopped at the store and bought Tigger some special kitty treats.

That's how my morning ritual started. Tigger directs the scene as it opens from his post outside the kitchen window over the sink. It's 6:30 A.M., and my dog Tessa, and I come down stairs to the kitchen. The rather heavy pit bull/lab scrambles down ahead of me and anxiously waits for me to fill my whistling tea kettle with water for my cup of coffee. She finally makes eye contact with me, and then pushes her way past me down the laundry room stairs, wiggling her whole body impatiently till I get the back door open. She runs in place on the cement like a cartoon dog, before bounding out to pee under the plum tree. She is noisily greeted by the dog next door, but doesn't take time to respond. I close the door just enough that Tessa can push her way back in.

Tigger stands on his hind legs outside the window doing his morning stretch, reaching almost to the top of the second pane, showing me how bad his sore is on his belly. He scrapes his nails luxuriously down the upper window pane. I raise the window and he jumps to the counter and then the floor, where he stops to rub against my leg. Next, he saunters over and sits in front of the little bowl I've placed on the floor in the corner for his morning treat, instructing me to open the cupboard and get out his first course.....salmon-flavored kitty treats. He munches on them and makes a strange guttural sound, as if he's devouring a bird he has just killed.

In the meantime, Tessa has made her entrance through the back door and looks toward the cupboard for her "usual". I toss her one small bone-shaped biscuit, which she handily catches in her mouth and takes to chew on the living room rug. She comes back wagging, happy to find that I've hidden another bone on top of the recycling basket. I'm touched that she remembered from yesterday and the day before.

Tigger's not finished. He meows when I get my milk out of the fridge for my coffee, and sits by his bowl again. I act like I don't notice, and he rubs against my leg and meows a pitiful cry. I say, "Of course I'll give you some."..... but I think to myself that I never used to give him milk very often. The vet did say though, to "give him anything he wants". Now, for the first time in these last few months, this athletic, lanky cat is finally getting some meat on his bones, cancer and all. I wonder if he's noticing the pampering... that I'm honoring him and showing him my love in this little ritual of ours. Whatever he notices, he's got me trained pretty well.

Lucas with Tigger 2001

Ode To My Mom

They each look a little like my mother, standing there in the grocery store. The checkers in the store used to call the sisters shopping togethe,r "The Three Musketeers", but now there's only two.
Auntie Harriett is making out her check in advance, leaning the checkbook on the handle of the shopping cart. I guess she wants to be prepared.
I shuffle over to them saying, "Ooh.... look who I see!", and push my cart to the side to be on the receiving end of the inevitable warm embraces.
Auntie Harriett say lustily in my ear, "Give me a smacker!", as she lands a kiss on my cheek. Her hugs last about 4 seconds longer than anyone else's, but they're always welcome. She looks over her glasses at me and smiles, saying, "Just let me finish writing my name!", and goes back to focusing on her checkbook.
Auntie Dot takes her turn at at a hug and kiss after she walks down the aisle toward me with containers of Comet and SOS in each hand. I smell the familiar scent of Shalimar. "You look so good!" she enthuses, and I know she means it. She looks at me through her glasses, that make her eyes look so big. Dot or "Sister", as Mama always called her, looks most like my mother, especially now in the old age. Both sisters had little expressions that reminded me of her today, without even knowing, like a gift.
I miss Mom. I miss the person she was before the last years of confusion and frailty.
She was smart, caring, talented, and a shrewd businesswoman. Mama knew her real estate, made investments, paid her own bills, and made time to care for others, really care, by volunteering to spend time with them.
She always had special relationships with her grandchildren at her house where they always knew the candy jar would be full.
I miss hearing her play the piano.
On a hot day, she would always dry her hair outside in the sun. She sat in the backyard on the picnic table that Daddy made, rubbing her hair with a towel. She thought maybe the birds would find strands of her hair and work them into their nests.
I miss watching her toss crusts of bread out to the birds, and the thrill that you knew she got from watching those little birds. Guess I inherited that from her.
I miss seeing her cook in her own kitchen for all of us with her apron on, usually doing it all herself.
I miss her little poems, her paintings, her neat handwriting, her soft hair and her understanding spirit.
I miss her naive "oo-oo "sound that she'd make when she got excited about something.
I miss you, Mama. I know you knew I would.

The Ceramics Teacher

Another one from the archives. Circa 2000.

You might say my ceramics teacher is strict. A studio potter herself, she always gives you the feeling that her pottery class is not for hobbyists. It is very serious and rules should be obeyed. Grades are recorded and attendance is kept. It is a college course after all. But a smile from her and a comment such as "such a sweet pot" is the grade itself.
You see potters all around you, masters, you think, yet trying very hard to perfect their skills. they sit in rapt attention, taking notes and making drawings as their mentor spins balls of clay into fantastic yet functional forms. They shake their heads in wonder as the grey stuff obeys the nuances of her hands.
As she goes through the motions she's repeated so often, beginning and advanced students alike are enthralled by the magic that seems to be happening in front of them. "Use the weight of your body", "keep your wrists down",  and "make your fingers like a paw", she says with just a touch of a Tennessee accent. You'll hear all that when you're ready, perhaps one pearl of wisdom at a time.....maybe after you've made your 20th lopsided bowl or your 40th thick-bottomed cylinder,
You repeat your mistakes and finally decide to do as she suggests and cut through the darned things and you see the problem. The wall of the pot is noticeably thicker at the bottom, thinner at the top. So THAT'S why my 85 year old mother had trouble lifting her beloved coffee cup! Help me, help me to figure this out....to bring the clay up from the bottom!
So you throw and cut and throw and cut with a passion! You have a semester that you think you won't have very much to show for, but you're better, you know it...  There was that time she talked you through a pull and you actually felt the lump ride up the side of the pot. It was like a religious experience. "I feel the lump!",  you cried.
The benefit of being in a class setting, is that right after you figured this out, like a chain reaction, the person next to you, after watching your struggles, follows the same instructions. With the teacher guiding her, she holds her hands in just the right way and feels that, at least for this moment, she's doing something right. The excitement built as we watched the bump of clay climb up the side of her cylinder. The pot grew taller and she carefully finished off the top rim and pulled away gently. The joy on her face was infectious. She looked up at the teacher and the gathered students and said, "I felt it! I felt the lump!"  Somebody in the room said "Hallelujah".    

(This was written about Mary Law, a studio potter in Berkeley, California)

Zen Garden/ Litter Box

This story is from what I'll call "The Archives". It was written in 2000.

I've always wanted a Zen Garden. They are flat, rectangular ceramic pots filled with sand. I've seen rocks, a bonzai plant, shells and little animal figures arranged in them, and then the sand is raked into designs around them with a special miniature rake. It looks so peaceful. My plans for simplicity and serenity in 1999 included  one of these, but I decided against one because I have two cats.
These cats have never seen a litter box, but I figure they would at least find time to dig in the sand. They've been showing their years lately and one of them, (no one has ever been caught in the act), has started peeing in the heater duct. I've been advised repeatedly to get a litter box, but I hate the smell and the litter scattered on the floor. After coming into the house on a cold evening and turning on the heater, the odor made me run for the disinfectant and paper towels. One too many times on my knees deodorizing the vents, and I threw in the towel and purchased a litter box, the new clumping litter, pan liners and a scoop.
I filled it and placed it in my upstairs bathroom. To show one cat how interesting it might be, I closed her in the room with me, knelt down, and encouraged her to join me in digging. She sat by the door with her back to me. I lifted her into the box. She sneezed, jumped out, gave me a dirty look, and shook the litter off her paws all over the floor. I swept it up and decided to give it time.
My next time in the bathroom, as I sat gazing across the room at the box, I thought the litter looked kind of hilly. I didn't remember leaving it like that. Turns out one of the cats had figured out what it was for......Now, how did she know? Is there something in kitty litter that encourages them to use it? Have they been unfaithful to me and gone to someone else's house and used their box? Sure enough, it had clumped and I cleaned it out with the scooper.
Then I felt I should arrange the litter nicely so I could tell the next time the cats used it. I dragged the back of the slotted scooper over the litter and it made indefinite lines,.....not unlike the ridges left in the sand at the edge of a stream....
Perhaps I should invest in a little wooden rake. Maybe not. But still, a small rice paper screen and some incense would make that corner of the room more esthetically pleasing, if not for the cats, for me.