I never really understood my father’s passion for cooking, or how he would be able to spend hours on end inside that small kitchen of his. Being the owner of a small Italian bistro at the edge of Brooklyn, my father was always trying to find the perfect recipe to the lasagna that only existed in his dreams.

“Let me tell you something, son,” he would often say, “making pasta is just like an art. A balance is needed between the ingredients, so as to produce the sweetest, most delightful taste possible. Yes, when I’m done with it, your Papa will make sure you’re the first one to taste that perfect lasagna.”

I helped out in the eatery occasionally, but being more of a studious person, I saw little point in picking up my father’s culinary skills. But being the excellent cook he was, my father was always able to make his customers come back for more of his scrumptious alimento. His fervour for making the perfect lasagna, made only worse by his customers’ incessant praise for his cooking, seemed to be shared only by his assistant, Carlo. So it was in that kitchen where they spent their days, searching for that elusive recipe.

Imagine the hysterical and frantic atmosphere in the house then, when Papa announced that he had finally found it! His words were barely comprehensible, with his frenzied mix of Italian and English. And indeed, being that young nine year-old kid back then, I truly thought that his obsession with the dish had finally driven him mad.

When he had finally settled down though, the story became clearer. Through a balanced blend of ricotta cheese, rippled noodle sheets and many other ingredients which I cannot even begin to call to mind, altogether topped off with ragù and béchamel sauce, my father had found his lasagna at last.

“The Lasagne al forno was perfect! Baked bubbly, to a lovely golden-brown colour; oh the taste of it, oh the wonderful taste of it!” he exclaimed with such enthusiasm that I found myself craving for the dish, too.

He beckoned my mother and me to follow him back to the eatery, where Carlo was resting from his day’s toil and enjoying the fruits of their labour. In his excitement, Papa had completely forgotten the recipe, but was sure that he could recall, as long as he could “taste it one more time”.

The bistro, closed to commemorate Mother Mary’s Immaculate Conception, was empty, and there wasn’t any sign of Carlo at all.

“That’s odd,” my father muttered to himself, “Where on earth has that ragazzo gone to?”

Papa spent many days searching for his missing assistant. As young as I was back then, I think I knew what had happened. Perhaps Papa knew it too, but was simply too shocked, too unwilling to accept that fact.

“It can’t be. It just can’t be,” my beleaguered father would mumble, whenever my mother postulated that possibility. “No, Carlo is a nice boy. He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

For a while, my father lived in a state of disbelief and disillusion. He simply couldn’t let it go. But then again, what did I know? As I think back, I was never by his side to share in his times of joy, sorrow or worry. I never understood how his life could revolve around some Italian pasta, and at that time, I thought I never would.

As soon as Papa heard of Carlo’s whereabouts, doing rather well somewhere in the Midwest, he disappeared. He didn’t come back for a while, but when he did, he appeared in an even more terrible state than he was before he left us. He looked as though all life had been sapped from him. I felt sorry for him, but then, there was nothing I could do.

Papa’s cooking was getting worse each day. One by one, his customers left him. Finally, driven by financial difficulty and my mother’s pleas, my father wound up his tiny eatery (and everything that he had lived for along with it) and drove a cab to support our family, though his heart was always with lasagna.

Time flew, and soon I was in my early twenties, fresh from my university graduation, with a bright future ahead. My father, however, had retired and gone back to his obsession with that perfect recipe for his lasagna again.

Just a few months later, Papa was rushed to the hospital on account of his failing health, but even then, he insisted that I bring the lasagna that he had prepared earlier in the day, before he was hospitalised. I could only shake my head in disbelief, wondering when my father would ever give it up.

“Try it, son. I think I’ve found it,” he said with a grim smile, as I sat by his bedside.

And so I ate it. It was horrible to say the least and I tried my best to put mind over matter, ignoring my exasperated taste buds.

“So how is it? Delicious, no?”

I nodded weakly. “Yeah,” I said, putting the dish aside, trying to sound as cheerful as I possibly could, “you did it, Pop!”

Papa cracked a thin smile. “See? Papa’s always told you he’d let you be the first one to taste that perfect lasagna.”

For a moment, I couldn’t say, or think anything. I felt my heart sink as I finally understood why my father never gave up, and why he cried whenever he failed in his attempts to find that magical recipe.

There was so much I wanted to say to him, that I didn’t even know where to begin. Tears began to well up in my eyes as I held his hand in mine. I didn’t know what else to do.

I took one last look at my beloved father, and realised there and then that he looked more peaceful than I’d ever seen him in my entire life. He drew one last, deep breath, before closing his eyes. And then all was still.