David Di Belardino

"You may have the universe, if I may have Italy." - Giuseppi Verdi

For those of you who don’t know me, my name is David Di Belardino and I am Filippo’s oldest nephew, and godson.  To eulogize a man like my uncle is a feat in and of itself but I will do my best.

Some of my fondest memories of my uncle were at the dinner table during the holidays.  Watching my uncle repeat himself three times to my father because my dad couldn’t hear.  My uncle would say “Third time – READY?!”  Or how my uncle’s political opinion swayed depending on the last family member he spoke to.  “Can you believe this Obama?” or “I would vote for that Obama in a heartbeat.”  Or listening to him tell me how he befriended a Lebanese woman in his building who was 1/16 Italian and is now cooking ethnic diabetic meals for him ... while slowly bringing his fork to my plate and eating off it, as if I wouldn’t notice ... because my uncle thought that if he grazed, he wouldn’t look like he was overeating.

When I entered the wine business with my father in early 2006, I began traveling quite a bit to various markets around the US to learn what it’s all about.  During those travels, I met with restauranteurs; I would hand them my business card and, more often than not, I would see their heads cock to one side and say “Are you related to Filippo Di Belardino?”  

I would proudly reply “Absolutely, he’s my uncle!”  Watching their faces light up at the chance to talk about my uncle was absolutely unbelievable to me.  The fact that a man could leave such an impact on others was incredibly profound.  I remember leaving accounts with a smile on my face and later realizing I didn’t even sell any wine!

My uncle was not only an advocate for Italian wine and culture but an advocate - for LIFE.   It wasn’t until after 8:12am on Thursday that I realized: my uncle was not just about wine, or Italian history but about LIVING.  EXPERIENCING.  DOING ... and doing it ‘your way.’  He oftentimes simplified wine and said “You are the one drinking it, you like what you like and no one should tell you otherwise.  If you want to drink White Zin with your steak, you do it.  I wouldn’t recommend it, but do what you like!”

Until the end, my uncle refused to give in to his physical disabilities.  Time after time, my family would say “Don’t go out ... rest ... please!”  He refused and, deep down, it wasn’t for work or to talk about wine.  It was much simpler.  It was to put himself on that indiscernible stage, to be with people and enjoy a smile, a laugh.  Whether it was by walking with a cane or by wheelchair, my uncle was there.  He was fighting a battle on the inside but his indomitable spirit came pouring out and that smile shone through - every time, without fail.  

My uncle is irreplaceable.  We all know that.  But he left us with so much.  He has touched all of you in a profound way.  Let him be a guide to how you approach life.  LIVE!  LAUGH!  Do it ‘your way.’  

To my fellow Catholic University alum (with whom I share the same birthday, March 4th), to my godfather, to my uncle: I am so proud of what you have accomplished and the amount of friends that love you.

JOHN SHEEHAN

 “Grief is the price we pay for loving each other.”

There’s been a lot of crying going on around here today.  But we have every reason to weep, every right to mourn.  We are all diminished.  We have lost someone we love.  A light has gone out in our world.  Our loss is huge.  Our sorrow is great.  We haven’t just lost a friend, we’ve lost a giant!  Everything about this man was BIG.  His life, his laugh; his enthusiasm, his joy; his generosity, his curiosity; his fights, his appetites ... his TV!

He was synonymous with wine and food, with music and laughter, with happy, happy times.  His kindness enriched our lives immeasurably.  He loved history, culture, show biz, politics, technology (eMail was invented for him – his two favorite buttons were ‘Forward’ and ‘Reply All’), travel, Italy (who doesn’t love Italy?) and most of all, PEOPLE.

He met and befriended people at restaurants and theatres, on airplanes and cruises, in hotels and waiting lines.  From colleagues and customers to waiters, receptionists and doormen, he saw them all as potential friends, he was interested in everyone, welcomed anyone and stayed in touch with many of them.  He would talk to an opera star and a busboy, sometimes both in the same sentence.  He had a gift for making friends, including them in his life and bringing out the best in all those he encountered.  For him, the more was always the merrier and a dinner for two could morph into a table for ten faster than you could say “I need an ‘emergency order’ of French fries.”

Jane Summerhays invited Philip for dinner one night at her apartment. “Great!” he said, “I’ll bring John.”  Since we’ve all been friends for a long time, she didn’t object. But he didn’t know I had plans to meet an Army buddy visiting the city.  “Bring him along,” Philip advised me, “Jane would love to meet Bill!”  Of course, he forgot that he was supposed to meet one of his regional managers after a matinee (for whom he’d arranged house seats) so he asked Jane if she’d mind one more for dinner. She thought that made five of us but the manager had a girlfriend with him and then Philip discovered he knew a couple in Jane’s building he thought she ought to know ... and I remember her frantically trying to stretch a few baby tomatoes to fill eight salad plates!  

Another time we had to take a car to LaGuardia and it was one of those services where they pick up multiple passengers.  An older woman was already in the back seat, cranky and agitated, when I loaded in Philip with his bags and his laptop and his cane and the rollator.  When she heard our destination, she barked “I’ve got to get to Kennedy, I’m already late for my flight!”  Philip, who’d made that trip a thousand times, said “Oh, you’ve got plenty of time.”  That set her off.  “You don’t understand, this is urgent!  I can’t go out of my way, I’ll miss my plane!”  Philip politely explained that LaGuardia was on the way to Kennedy and the car would simply drop us off but she wasn’t interested in logic.  The driver also argued the geography with her but she was absolutely fuming.  “What do you do, darling?” Philip cooed, taking out his business card.  “I’m in the wine business.  Do you like wine?”  I didn’t say a word while Philip wove his web.  By the time we got to LaGuardia, he’d invited her to the estate, they had a date for the opera and he promised to look up her niece in San Diego!

Most people knew him as a spokesperson for wine, a commodity both essential and exotic.  Philip too, was both the salt of the earth and a rare breed.  Wine was his business and he knew everyone inthe business.  When he talked about wine he tied it to the cultural worlds of language, music, art and cuisine.  I once asked him “How do you compare one wine to another?” and he answered “How do you compare one soprano to another?”

Italian culture was his passion and he was a genius at being Italian.  He was a radiant guide and led so many tours to Italy, he had to replace his passport long before it expired.  He loved to explain the derivations of words and their meanings or to quote Italian expressions, poetry and literature.  One of his favorite sayings was: ‘Italians see the world through tired eyes.’  (Which means, basically, ‘We’ve seen it all.’)

He was also the ‘go-to’ guy for wine; he could tell you what to drink, where to eat, where to stay, what to see, what to read, which operas were recorded, which airlines would upgrade you, all off the top of his head, with a generosity of spirit and a modesty of ego.  He knew his onions but he didn’t flaunt his expertise; he was unpretentious, with an innate humility.

There’s a story I love to tell about how he met Stephen Sondheim.  I had been invited to his home in Connecticut and this was when Philip was commuting to Heublein in Hartford.  I suggested that, instead of taking the train, I could ride up with him so that when he dropped me off, I could introduce him to Steve.  With luck, he might be invited in for a drink.

Our plan worked out perfectly; we arrived at cocktail hour and, as Steve had heard me talk about my best friend, the wine expert, he remembered Philip’s reputation and asked him in for a drink.  Philip didn’t want to seem too eager so he politely demurred “Oh, I’m just dropping John off on my way to the office” so Steve said “OK.  Nice to meet you.”  “Uhhh, well, if you insist,” Philip stammered, “I could stay for just a quick one!”  Steve was feeling snarky after a few shots of pepper vodka.  “So, if I bring up a bottle from my cellar and pour you a glass, can you tell me what it is?”  “Oh, no, no, no!” Philip politely averred, “I’m not that kind of expert.  I could tell you the grape and the region but I wouldn’t know the vintage.”  It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Stephen Sondheim speechless.   

He had wanted to work in show business; we all did when we were young.  His father, Aldo, very patiently let him find his way and it was no surprise that his theatrical inclinations very quickly flowered into entrepreneurial skills during his college years.  Philip was always capable of a good performance but he also had a larger view; he had a talent for running the show and could direct others in successful collaborations.  He truly loved  performers; he collected autographs at stage doors, socialized with the stars on cruises and tours, and hosted singers, dancers and actors at dinners, tastings and parties throughout his life. 

When he came to work at Mediterranean, his father trained him from the ground up; he started in the warehouse.  Mr. Bianchi took him under his wing and showed him the ropes, knowing he’d advance to the upper echelons soon enough.  Philip absorbed the whole scene and the cast of characters.  When he decided to commit himself to the business, it wasn’t just because of the family connection.  “The wine business is fun,” he told me, “I really like it.  And I’m going to be good at it.”  He was more than good, he was a natural and when he eventually became known as an ‘expert,’ he performed with the same warmth, humor and professionalism - at tastings, conventions and, eventually, in his lectures at Cornell - that had infused all of his theatre work. 

The antecedents of those skills were developed during his days as a social director at the Villaggio Italia, the summer resort his parents opened in the Catskills during the early 60s.  His job was to dance with all the single ladies; he flattered the plain ones, teased the lookers and joked with the fat girls about his own weight.  He learned to call them all  ‘sweetheart’ and made sure nobody was sitting alone.  Each week, the waiters would pretend to gang up on him and throw him into the pool, to the delight of the crowd.  He loved making people laugh.  

He was a terrific emcee, raconteur and advisor.  He loved to talk, in English or Italian, sometimes both in the same sentence.  By the time he had graduated to enophile cruises and wine tours across Italy, he was fluent in French and a bit of Spanish as well, talking to all kinds of people from all over the world.  And he was never boring because he was curious about people, interested in everyone and took delight in their company.    

Ida Cerbone still talks about the morning he stopped a tour bus at their villa while she and Vincent improvised breakfast for 33 guests.  He could just as easily arrange your reserved seats ... at the Vatican ... for Easter Sunday Mass ... with the Pope!  “You want an audience?  Sure!  You know, I was baptized there!”  It was all part of the job, his skill at throwing up a dazzling show.  Philip was a happy man and he loved his work.  And it was  show business, after all.   

He was born in Rome and really was baptized at St. Peter’s; nothing less than a big church would suit this big man.  Growing up on West 57th Street, he loved to tell how the other kids would come to school with a baloney sandwich on Wonder Bread, while he would arrive with a full duffle bag that Nonna had packed: a loaf of Italian bread stuffed with salami and provolone, some fried eggplant with peppers and onions, a jar of olives, figs and prosciutto, a couple of pears and a cannoli or two.  He adored his Nonna and she adored him; she called him ‘Fili.’

Philip’s family was very important to him.  He loved his brother and sister-in-law, Mario and Susan; he was immensely proud of David and Adam, updated all his friends on their accomplishments and kept their picture on his phone screen.  Cousin Peter was his closest pal and Philip introduced him to his future wife, Michelle, when she was his classmate at Boston College.  Cousin Anthony and Cousin Johnny, names I’ve heard all my life, were also near and dear to him.  There were lots of others too; whenever he’d mention somebody that I didn’t recognize, he’d say “that’s the other cousin!”  He kept tabs on everybody and went to all the family christenings, weddings and funerals.  Philip’s family grounded him; they gave him enormous comfort and a lot of love.

At his induction to the Italian Wine Hall of Fame in 2011, Philip spoke movingly of his three families: his blood family, the DiBelardinos and the Tempestas; his Banfi family, the Marianis; and his Italian heritage.  He was grateful for the courtesies that James and Cristina offered during his extended health problems.  He also cared about the people who worked and cared for him: Ralph, Evelyn, Corlene, Kevin and the doctors, aides and therapists who saw him through the medical obstacles that grew with the ongoing years.  He rarely complained about the pain, the inconvenience or the indignities of his many ailments.  He looked on the bright side; when he went to the theatre, leaning on his walker, they always found him a handicap seat, right down front!  

I count myself blessed to have had over 50 hilarious years of friendship, private jokes, pet peeves, confessions and confidences with this extraordinary man.  He treated me like a younger brother, introducing me to his friends, wising me up, watching over and protecting me.  He taught me somuch about living!  He widened my horizons and enlarged my thinking. 

We met at Xavier, in the library where you could get jug if the MPs caught you talking. We were written up so many times that Linda Salvati, the librarian, suggested we volunteer for her staff, which exempted us from penalties.  She became our surrogate mother and counseled us on everything from manners to morals.  Every fall, she organized dancing classes to prepare us for the Military Ball.  Did you know Philip was a really terrific dancer?  He could cut the rug like he’d been born in the swing era and when the Xavier Glee Club was invited to the ‘mixers’ at St. Catherine’s in the Bronx, Philip wouldn’t leave the floor until he had danced with every girl in the room.  

He was also in the band at Xavier and when I asked him how he learned to play the glockenspiel, he said “Shhh! I don’t have a clue but I don’t want to drill with the regiment!”  We spent two years together on 16th Street, at recess, lunch, after school and on the phone at night.  His mother went nuts over the long-distance bills: “I coulda bought a pair a shoes with that money!” she told him and we laughed over that for half a century.  

Whenever I would call his house and Nonna answered, I’d say “Hello Mrs. Tempesta, is Philip there?” and she’d say “Holda da wire” and then call “Fili!”  If Mrs. D answered, she was always friendly but kind of in a hurry so she’d get the whole conversation out in one sentence.  “Hi John, Philip’s not here, I know you’re gonna make it, you got a girlfriend yet?  Goodbye!”  Philip never tired of hearing me do that imitation, so that was for you, Fili!  

Our first shared enthusiasm was records; we’d go to Korvettes and buy ‘em on sale, whenever we had the money.  We’ve been collecting and sharing music ever since, on vinyl, cassettes, 8-tracks (remember them?) and CDs.  He often brought friends or colleagues to my apartment in Brooklyn Heights after a big wine dinner in Manhattan.  He’d arrive with a couple of cartons of take-out and have me play disc jockey to amuse his guests.  When he could no longer manage the three flights, he’d insist I come to his place, claiming “it’s time to tune up my CDs!”  

I introduced him to the theatre; he thought it was something you only did with your parents.  The early 60s was still a great era for Broadway and our first show was The Beauty Part with Bert Lahr; we bought standing room for two bucks and laughed all night.  We saw shows with Sid Caesar, Carol Burnett, Sammy Davis, Barbra Streisand, Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith and got their autographs.  The afternoon of his graduation from Xavier, I persuaded him to catch a matinee of Dylan with Alec Guiness; afterwards, of course, we had to go record shopping.  We got back to Queens so late, Connie nearly killed us; she had to drive like mad to get us back to school on time for the ceremony. 

He loved the theatre as much as I did and it was the foundation of our friendship.  The first time we went to an opening night, it was a big flop called Tovarich.  We sat in the very last row of the balcony, still in our Xavier uniforms and every time a song ended, he’d turn to me and whisper “It’s a hit!  It’s a hit!”  For the next 50 years, every time we saw some turkey, he’d look at me and say “It’s a hit!”  

We crashed stage doors to meet the stars; we stormed David Merrick’s office, trying to sell him an ad for the Block X journal at Xavier.  And ... we saw Follies together, from the balcony of the Winter Garden, probably the greatest musical about the theatre that has ever been staged.  It was ‘our’ show and we sat together again for the concert at Avery Fisher, in London at the Drury Lane, at the Roundabout revival, the Encores version and the Kennedy Center staging as well.  He loved to tell anyone who would listen, how much better Dorothy Collins was than anyone who has ever played Sally.

In the summers, I’d visit him at the Villaggio where we had to dance with all the girls in the ‘teenage nightclub’ and make small talk.  I didn’t know what we were supposed to talk about.  “Ask them what they think of the war in Vietnam!”  That was 1964 and the first time I’d ever heard the name of that strange, far-away country.  Seven years later, just before I went off to that war, I spent part of my 30-day leave with him, again at the Villaggio, where his Catholic U classmates were refining their chops, entertaining the crowds.  

In the 70s, he paid me back by introducing me to opera. We’d get standing room at the Met for three bucks and he would whisper into my ear, like Howard Cosell on an earplug: “Listen to how Freni slides up to this high C, she eases gently into the note, then nails it!  Hear what Verdi does with the brass here, bah-bah-bum-bah!  Tosca puts the candles next to the body because she’s a good Catholic and she knows Scarpia’s going to hell.”  I’ll never forget how he explained Manon Lescautto me: “It’s an early opera, Puccini was young when he wrote it, he was so full of musical ideas it’s just bursting with melody, the harmonies flowed from his brain, the orchestration is all over the place, he couldn’t fit it all into one opera!”  Or the night he got the new recording of Turandot with Pavarotti and Sutherland.  We drove down the FDR and up the West Side Highway, circling Manhattan three times with the car speakers going full blast, listening to an Australian soprano playing a Chinese princess singing Italian arias.   

He insisted that I hear all the greats of our time: Price, Bergonzi, Freni, Kraus, Scotto, Carreras,Sutherland, Domingo.  We were at the Met the night Corelli was replaced by Pavarotti, the night Olivero sang ‘Visi d’arte’ upside down, the night Caballe broke character to applaud Luciano, the only night, ever, when Vickers and Nilsson sang Tristan and Isolde.  We heard Tebaldi’s and Callas’s last New York performances and Philip kissed Maria’s hand.  Bob Schear invited us to dinner with Birgit Nilsson and Philip offered to drive her back to her hotel but she had to squeeze into his station wagon between cases of Fazzi-Battaglia.  He introduced me to Pavarotti, Renee Fleming and Bryn Terfel, who sent this message just two days ago: 

“A man who was always full of the joys of life (especially after an Italian opera!) 
and an opera singer who was always intrigued (hearing those wine anecdotes) 
was a match made in heaven - where he undoubtedly is now, uncorking his elisir.”

When I eventually started an opera company, I wanted him to be proud of me, working in his favorite of the performing arts and, indeed, he brought friends, colleagues and customers to my productions.  He introduced me to the Iacuccis, who became patrons while their daughters volunteered backstage and front-of-house.  He brought Harvey and Carol Steiman, true mavens who kept coming back for more.  Sometimes he embarrassed me with his unconditional enthusiasm but Philip always wanted me to succeed.  

He was very loyal and visited me wherever I worked, from summer stock in Pennsylvania to the fringe in London. When I lived in Ireland, he arrived at a Dublin dinner party with the biggest chunk of Parmesan anyone had ever seen.  He learned quickly not to ask for Guinness in County Cork and bribed a taxi driver in Belfast to show him the IRA murals.  

We traveled everywhere, did pubs in London, clubs in Amsterdam and missed our flights in three different countries!  He insisted I get a double earphone jack so we could listen to the same Walkman on the plane.  We went to shows and restaurants and visited friends in Boston, New Haven, Washington, Chicago, Denver, San Francisco and Los Angeles.  I’ll never forget taking the ferry with him to P’town where Kenny Lonergan, the local town crier, pushed his wheelchair up and down the streets all afternoon, much to Philip’s delight, so he could see everything and meet everyone.  

I would drive while he made phonecalls to colleagues.  “Sweetheart, I need to check the list for our tasting in Aspen.  Oh, that’s a wonderful restaurant but they don’t have my brands.”  I had to make him promise to play music for at least half the time and we’d plug in the latest CDs and discuss the sonics, the orchestrations, the phrasing or the other versions of a song or a score.  Philip knew voices like no one else; he could hear two minutes of any song and tell you who was singing, whether it was Joni James or Dean Martin, Simionato or Wunderlich.  

And going to a restaurant with him!  That was Philip at his best, a red-carpet experience, like flying with the President on Air Force One.  “Ahh Filippo!” the maitre d’ would greet us, a table would appear, place settings materialize, wine poured, the chef would come out of the kitchen smiling “Ciao Filippo, com’e stai? Pasta fazzuli, bocciagalupe!” everyone kissing and hugging and the first thing he’d ask for was an Emergency Order of antipasto, or calamari, or this really fabulous bread they bake here in the kitchen that’s got caraway seeds and olives from a little village in Tuscany where they make their own oil in 15th Century presses ...  

There were no menus, no prices, the chef would say “Whattya feel like eating” and he’d say “Oh, I’m on a diet, nothing much, no salt, just a little fish, maybe ... you have any veal?  Oh, and that egg dish you make with the spinach, John, you have to taste this, oh all right, bring a little of the venison pasta and the branzino, so John can taste it, and ... well, if it’s not too much trouble, I need a salad ... for my diet” as dish after dish after dish arrived of whatever he thought you should eat, all washed down by the best of his brands.  From Mama Leone’s to Elaine’s and Marchi’s, through San Domenico and Coco Pazzo, to Cesca, Beppe, Le Madri and the Post House - and countless other eateries - Philip was the star attraction and master of ceremonies.  This was his world and he presided over every moment with a modest and genial grace.

We talked on the phone almost every day of our lives; he would call from Italy just to say goodnight.  We’d make plans and fight, gossip and fight, argue and fight; he loved the drama of confrontation.  We also traded views and opinions and argued about politics (“I like Chris Christie, he’s kinda heavy-set.”)  He took it personally that I don’t own a TV and berated me for not knowing anything about “popular culture” but when I asked him if he was gonna buy an X-Box, he said “What the hell is an X-Box?”  The phone was his umbilical cord and if it left his hand, he’d panic: “OMG where’s my phone?  I lost my phone!  Did you see it?  OMG!”  Last week, it mystically disappeared from his hospital room and I feared it was an omen.  When I told him the bad news, he just shrugged “eh” and I knew then he wasn’t gonna make it.

There was another side to Philip that few people knew: he had an ethical and moral core that was unassailable.  He cared about doing what was right, whether it was protocol or morality.  He believed in honesty, kindness and generosity toward others.  He thought about God.  Last night, at Campbell’s, Father Holahan, in his prayers, reminded us that God remembers the good we have done in our lives.  I found that comforting because God’s gonna need a huge database for all of Philip’s goodness!  His generosity came to him naturally, it was innate, imprinted in his DNA, it was part of who he was.  He couldn’t help himself, he would give you half his sandwich, buy you a drink, offer you a seat or invite you to stay in the guest room, without even thinking.  Of course, he’d also pick the food off your plate (just to taste it!)  Sharing was his way of life.

I think of Philip as evidence of God’s handiwork, created in the image and likeness of Divine largesse.  He was as good as a human being can be.  He was justifiably loved for being the life of the party but he also understood realities with a quiet resignation and a benign patience.  He taught me how to be patient in traffic, how to give up anger, how to forgive and forget, how to include everyone, how to love my neighbor.  Even as his laughter flavored the room, he had a smile that was sweet and sad and knowing.  ‘Tired eyes’ indeed! 

I know how lucky I was.  I was privileged to have over 50 hilarious years with this generous, ebullient, remarkable friend.  We lived in each other’s pockets and yes, our friendship required continuous cultivation; we both worked at it which is why it was so wonderful, after five decades, to have a pal who still wanted to be friends, for real, for life.  In these last few difficult years, he often made a point of reminding me “I love you.” 

Watching Philip leave us last Thursday was like watching the sun set.  His light has gone out of our lives and I don’t know how we’re going to go on.  I can’t imagine the world without him.  This towering presence, this magnanimous soul made the world brighter, warmer, happier, richer and we are all diminished by his departure.  

Our hearts are broken today; we have all lost someone we loved.  But we can hold on to his spirit if we remember to be kind to one another, to be generous, loyal and humble, to love each other (and to say it!), to take joy in our friends and to create occasions to share with those we love ... or may have just met on the plane!  

And don’t forget to laugh.  It’s what he did best.

Philip wanted to LIVE, he wanted to go everywhere, do everything, see everyone, taste every dish on the table.  He saw the world as a lovely place, full of wonderful and interesting people.  He loved life and life loved him back.

So he will live on, in all of us.  In every glass of wine, in every plate of pasta, in every emergency order of calamari, in every great performance, in every act of kindness, we will remember this generous man who lived three lifetimes in one, who could not get enough of life and who shared with all of us his appetite - for the beauty, the laughter and the joy of living!

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Peter Tempesta

It’s true my cousin Philip loved to travel around – but you had to take him there, OK?  He loved to go everywhere. “Can you carry my bag?”  Sure. “Would you mind if we stopped here first?  Can we stop there?”  Three hours later, you got to wherever it was youhad to go.  “The doorman will get the bags but could you get my other little bag?  I have my pills, I have the needles, I got the bill, I got the laptop, I got ... 

This is what it was like being with Philip, OK?  He was the only person I knew that ... you’d pick him up at the airport and he’d say “We’re gonna go home now.”  We’re gonna go to a family event, OK?  “Would you mind if I bring someone?”  Well, who you gonna bring?  “I met this woman, Sofia, on the plane and we bonded from London and she’s one sixteenth Italian and her grandfather was a busboy on the Andrea Doria and he survived, can you believe that?  And that bastard from the Stockholm crashed into the Andrea Doria and it turned out ...”  OK, I get this.  We inherited Sofia. 

My daughter Marisa had a birthday party at a restaurant and Philip was in excruciating pain but he said “Oh, I’m gonna be there for Marisa.”  OK.  This taxicab pulls up, it’s snowing, freezing rain, and I see the trunk pop open and I said “That’s him!”  He gets out of the car and he has the walker and he’s walking through the snow and he says “You want to meet Ahmed?  Ahmed’s a wonderful ... Ahmed, could you get my walker out of the cab?  Would you believe that his sister studied journalism at Mumbai?”  OK, this is good.  If Philip was anything, he was demanding; “Could you ...? Would you ...?  Should you ... You have to ...” The guilt fell all over, it fell on the family, it fell on his friends.  Let’s put it simply, this way: Philip could be a real pain in the ass.  I’m sorry but he could be a real pain in the ass.  

“Can you come up to my apartment?”  Sure. “You know what? I just came back from San Diego, it’s fabulous in San Diego, I want to live there, I wanna move there, we should all move there.”  Then he’d come back to New York.  “Ah, nothing like New York!  I just called Chirping Chicken, it’s three in the morning, they bring me a roaster, six dollars, mashed potatoes, vegetables.”  OK.  What time is it Phil?  “It’s 2:30 in the morning, oh yeah, but now I’m on Italy time, ah Italy!  It’s fabulous, you know what?  I went to Rome, my friend Giovanni, he’s got a restaurant on top of the hills, the mother you know what?  She was paralyzed but she went to church and got holy water.  Oh! and you know what he makes?  Good fish, good eggplant, good veal.”  

Could you love somebody more?  No.  We grew up in the same playpen, in an office on Ninth Avenue and 18th Street when they started the wine business and my mother and my aunt worked in the office and there was one playpen and we were both in there.  Until we had to suffer through the days of working together and The Collector’s Item (one-two-three, kick! one-two-three, kick!)  “Can I borrow your car?”  Why?  “The van broke down and the station wagon broke down, I got three speakers, four dresses, this ... I gotta carry six feet of ...”  Where you going to?  “We’re going to Brown’s in the Catskills.”  OK, this is good.  

His life was about an ever-expanding pool, like dropping a stone in a still pond, it just constantly went out but, at the end of the day, everybody that he connected to was important to him.  His family was, his friends were, his immediate associates all over the world were.  

But I can only say one thing about my cousin Philip, OK?  He lived as big as he was - and he was big!  And he loved as much as he did because he was that big and he loved everybody to that extent.  And that’s the end of the story.  So I can only say to him: this is for you, you royal pain in the ...!