That said, the parochialism that he so despised had a way of growing on him. I seldom saw him happier than at Tony's Baltimore Grill. The squat white building, with fewer windows than an adult bookstore, served little pizzas that came in a small pan and were topped with a sweet red sauce, greasy cheese, and irregular chunks of sweet Italian sausage made by an old man named Bongiovanni up the street on Atlantic Avenue. My father used to go to Tony's with the other stagehands, and I would come along, a miniature adult being indoctrinated in both the local culture and my father's half-hearted repudiation of it. He loved those pizzas even as he disparaged them. By the time he died, in 1998, my father had taken to speaking of what the sausage was like "back when Bongiovanni was still making it". It was accepted as gospel truth by Tony's regulars that, after Bongiovanni retired, the secret sausage recipe had been conveyed, presumably by armored car, to the Delaware Food Market, a grocery and meat store in neighboring Ventnor City, but somehow it just wasn't the same. Even my father had to admit it.