Love Songs for an Angry Convention

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Everyone agreed that the food in the tent with the gravel floor that served as our commisary in St. Paul was inedible.
This did not stop some, too busy to seek sustenance elsewhere, from eating it out of necessity.
It was hard to tell who was more initially unhappy about the situation; those that had to eat the substandard food, or those who refused and sought their meals off campus.
Luckily, a solution was close at hand, and soon discovered, although it was not clear by whom — several claimed to be our Columbus or Vespucio.
Cossetta’s — an authentic Italian resturant and grocery just down the block that sold cold salads and hot pastas and pizza, cafeteria style.
How authentic?  
They sold 17 different kinds of olive oil, in cans and bottles, large and small, adorned with pictures of the old country. Some of the bottles were clear, and some of the cans were silver and metallic.
They had as many different kinds of cheeses, mozarella, rioctta, provologne, parmesan, smoked, fresh, aged, in baggies, sliced fresh, wet and sloppy in little cups.
There are supermarkets I have been too that didnt have as many different brands of cereal as Cossetta’s had olive oil and cheese.
Did I mention the cold cuts, thick half moons in their display cases, turkeys and chickens and salamis and ham — many different kinds of ham?
There was no question as to Cossetta’s authenticity, especially when you got to the prepared foods.
A dozen different kinds of cold pastas, different doughy shapes mixed with different colored vegetables in a mix and match bric a brac.
And half a dozen hot entrees — two kinds of ziti, differentiated by the thickness of the sauce that bathed the thick tubes. Chicken marsala and parmesan, on wedges or over noodles. Meatball heroes that were more stalwart than heroic, but no less regarded for that.
Cossetta’s had first opened in 1911 and those of us from the NorthEast felt at home, and acted accordingly. Ordering for ourselves, returning with large carryout orders for colleagues, thankful for our good fortune. Secret service officers mixing with cops and the network crews; delegates in their blue blazers and bepinned hats.
Cosetta’s served thick crusty rolls for breakfast and remained open late into the night. They had indoor seating upstairs and outdoor seating under a tent and on nice days the patio was full.
On the last night of the convention I stopped to hear two men playing guitars in a little stage on the patio. Usually the restaurant piped opera through the loudspeakers. This was a change.
The duo was called Love Songs for Angry Men.  From what I can tell they are a local act that plays in and around the twin cities.  They cover Springsteen and others that suit the lead singer’s gruff voice, and they play for tips.  After a week of scripted speeches and convention theatre, I was taken by their authenticity, and by their original material, and I stayed for a while and listened to what Americana sounds like played before dozens in an outdoor cafe as opposed to tens of thousands in an indoor arena.

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