Tony Draculo: The Italian Vampire Immune to Garlic

Time conquers kingdoms. Death destroys flesh. But a Nonny’s Sunday gravy is eternal.

Little Italy, 1962: Tony Draculo bravely commands and defends the neighborhood against an incursion from the Ottomulignan Empire of Harlem. Conflict broke out after Anne Marie Sculatta brought home a member of the rival tribe to Sunday dinner. Paul Sculatta, the patriarch of the Sculatta family, survived the attack and, as he clung to life, told Tony it had felt like “someone stabbed me in the heart.” As Mr. Sculatta clung to life, Tony rallied the troops and declared war on the neighboring rivals, vowing to defend the homeland to the death.

Victory was far from imminent. What the Ottomulignans lacked in military strategy and tactics, they made up for in size and athleticism. During the Battle of Umberto’s Clam Bar, it looked as if defeat was upon the Roman troops. They were surrounded and outnumbered, with their backs against the wall of a shucking station, when Tony was knocked to the ground and his lucky baseball bat was destroyed under the foot of an Ottomuli general, Lil Sauron. But it was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Tony, son of Anthony, took up his father’s bat. Lil Sauron, the enemy of the free people of Little Italy, was defeated, and victory was achieved. Tony was a hero to his men, a great warrior, and a great commander.

But the Ottomulis would not risk the fate of middle Manhattan on a battle by a shellfish restaurant. No, they had an ace in the hole.

Before official word of Tony’s great victory could reach home, the Mullis spread a rumor that the Romans had lost and Tony had been spotted eating and enjoying the spaghetti and meatballs at Sbarro’s, where the surrender agreement was being drafted.

Upon learning of her firstborn grandson’s defeat, Nonny Draculo was overcome with horror. She couldn’t bear the thought of her beloved Tony being forced to endure the unspeakable torture of Sbarro’s spaghetti and meatballs. She decided to burn her recipe book and take her own life, destroying the one true, everlasting love Tony had in his life: his Nonny’s cooking.

By the time Tony arrived home, it was too late. The last breath had gone from his Nonny’s lungs, and the family recipe book was ash. No more manicotti. No more linguine with clam sauce. Not even a recipe for Cicola bread left remaining.

Tony’s heart shattered. With his Nonny now condemned by the Church, not only was he without the good gravy in this life, but no eternal rewards lay beyond the pearly gates. His blood boiled, turning al dente veins into limp, lifeless noodles. Still wielding his father’s bat, Tony flew into a Kylo Ren rage and destroyed his Nonny’s entire kitchen. The last to go was her lucky saucepan. When Tony smashed the pan, a strange marinara began to pour from the cracks. Believing it was divine intervention and his last chance to taste the glory of his G-ma’s gravy, Tony grabbed a wooden spoon and tried a taste.

Much to his dismay, this was not his Nonny’s sauce. No, it was something far from it. It was store-bought Ragú. As the glorified ketchup ran down the byways of his body, Tony became ill, and his palate was condemned to eternal mediocrity.

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became years. He tried everything, but no matter how hard he tried, nothing could satiate his desire for his Nonny’s cooking. Rao’s tasted like school cafeteria food. Eggplant Parmesan from the Elders of Elizabeth Street tasted like prison food to him. Soon, Tony became an immortal creature of the night, wandering Little Italy in search of someone who could reproduce his Nonny’s cooking. He would appear out of nowhere in kitchens up and down Mulberry and Elizabeth Streets, sinking his fangs into scungilli salads, steak pizzaiola, and lasagnas alike. One review from Tony was enough to curse any woman’s cooking career, relegating her to Olive Garden status, and soon the people of Little Italy had to guard themselves against him.

They started cooking garlic bread to ward off his evil spirit. Some even cooked traditional Ottomulligan dishes like hog maws or pig’s feet with chitlins, just to trigger his PTSD. But to no avail. Soon, the entire neighborhood was forced to give out unlimited breadsticks just to get people to come over for dinner.

One October night, with a full moon mogging the streetlights, Tony had a most lustful appetite. Having just finished another unsatisfying meal at the home of one Annette Poppolizio, the Count perched upon a fire escape, composing a scathing Yelp review.

“One star. I’ve had communion with more taste than her chicken parm. The marinara made Mormon food seem exotic. Clearly, this putana has no respect for herself or her ancestors—”

As Tony prepared to hit Post, a faint melody drifted from an apartment across the street.

He froze.

It was a song he hadn’t heard in sixty years. A song Nonny used to hum while whipping up work in the kitchen.

The Count lowered his phone. For the first time since the Wonder Bread wop sauce condemned his palate to hell, the beast’s cold, lifeless heart fluttered. He levitated across the street with a lilting, wistful grace toward the familiar sound.

From a kitchen window, the voice of an angel danced into the October night.

Papa’s gamblin’ at the racetrack

Mama’s cooking in the hoooooome

I must go to boil the water

’Til the day I’m grown

’Tillllll I’m grown

’Til I’m grrrooooowwwnnn

Then I will have a gambling husband

And a daughter of my own

I’ll send her to boil the water

And be cooking in my home

Innnnnn my home

In my hooooooommmmeee

The Count, still entranced by the songbird, descended upon Lorraine’s fire escape with the grace of an autumn leaf falling from the tree of life toward a eulogy. As the final note faded, he crashed into her half-open window and startled the broad, slightly injuring himself in the process.

“Oh my heavens!” she said, almost knocking a pot of sauce off the stove. “You’re bleeding!”

Lorraine was new to the neighborhood and unfamiliar with the folklore surrounding the Count.

Tony brushed the broken glass from his shoulders and straightened his collar. But before he could answer, a familiar aroma filled his nostrils. Garlic. Onions. Fresh basil. The unmistakable fragrance of a Sunday gravy.

“Madonn’!” he whispered. “That smell... that beautiful smell!”

“Oh, that’s just my gravy!” Lorraine said, smiling sweetly. “Come inside, let me take a look at that cut.”

For the first time in sixty years, the Count had been welcomed into a home without fear or suspicion. Lorraine sat him at the kitchen table, carefully tending to his wound.

“You’re awfully pale, mister. Have you eaten anything today?”

Tony gazed at her, entranced. Her kindness, her voice, the familiar melody, the heavenly aroma. It was as though the angels themselves had delivered her to him.

“You look thin. Here, have a bowl of ziti,” Lorraine said, pirouetting around the kitchen like a ballerina. “Do you like garlic bread? It’s fresh out of the oven—still hot! Tell me what you think.”

Still transfixed and silent, Tony received the bowl and inhaled the aromas. It was as if Nonny were there with him. He sank his fork into the plate and tasted the flesh of homemade ziti, drinking upon the blood of tomatoes farmed from Eden itself.

A tear ran down his chin. Color returned to his body. His fangs retreated, no longer belonging in his mouth. The horseshoe of hair that had been his crown gave way to a luscious mane of brown hair.

“My dear Lorraine—” Tony whispered, reaching for her hand.

“How do you know my name?” she asked with equal parts fright and confusion. “What the hell happened to your hair?! Who are you?!”

Lorraine grabbed a rolling pin off the counter for protection.

“I have travelled oceans of time to find you. I have endured sixty years of slop and sorrow, suffered through antipasto so contrary it would make the Antichrist gag, had Bolognese so bogus a bum wouldn’t mang on it if it meant his death. Doomed to eternal suffering and the loss of my Nonny’s cooking. All just to find you,” the Count proclaimed, still searching for her hand.

A wave of rouge rolled over her cheeks like extra gravy on a noodle.

“Oh, you’re sweet. Thank you, Mr. …?”

“Draculo. Anthony Draculo.”

Lorraine gazed into his newly restored eyes and, for the first time in her life, saw a man who loved her cooking as much as she loved cooking it. And Tony, whose very soul had been rescued by the heavenly contents of her saucepan, knew he had found not only the love of his life but the gravy of his dreams.

And so, after sixty years of darkness, Anthony Draculo was finally freed from his eternal curse. No longer condemned to wander the streets of Little Italy, feasting upon the mediocre meals of unsuspecting housewives, the Count had found his salvation in the arms of a beautiful woman and at the bottom of a bowl of ziti.

For true love never dies. You just have to stir it every once in a while so it doesn’t skin over or stick to the sides.