Everybody’s Mother Knew to Bring Them to Mandy and Joe’s
The restaurant has been a fixture in the Brighton community for 67 years. It closed on March 29, and Brighton won’t be the same without it.
When Ingrid Marino talks about why she had to close Mandy and Joe’s Delicatessen, her brown eyes start to fill with tears. She sits in a burnt-orange booth—the décor chosen by her father-in-law when he renovated the family’s Brighton business in the 70s—and flips through a binder of farewell notes written by her customers.
Mandy and Joe’s has been taking care of Brighton residents for over 60 years, but shut its doors for the last time on March 29. Marino and her husband, Richard, took over the business from his uncle and father, Armand and Joseph Marino. Ingrid quickly became the face of the restaurant, always sitting down next to customers to talk to them like an old friend, as Richard teased her about getting back to work.
The notes from these regulars all say similar things: They’ve been eating at Mandy and Joe’s since high school; they’ll miss Ingrid and her home cooking; Brighton won’t be the same.
But some notes are more personal. People added their phone numbers and offered prayers for Ingrid’s mother, who is ill. Ingrid—60 years old herself, though she has the energy of someone half her age—needs to be with her.
Richard grew up in the restaurant working for his father, but Ingrid was practically raised on Mandy and Joe’s too. She started coming here as a child, when her mother would take her out for breakfast.
“Everybody’s mother brought you to Mandy and Joe’s,’’ she says. “Everybody just knew.’’
Though Ingrid’s customers are like family, and Mandy and Joe’s has always been home, blood is thicker than water—or in this case, coffee.
“Family comes first and foremost, you know?’’ Marino says. “It’s time for a new chapter of my life. It’s time I took care of my own.’’
Over the years, Ingrid herself has become as big of a community fixture as the restaurant.
“It’s home for everybody that comes in here. It’s just so comfortable,’’ she says. “I have customers that, if I’m really busy, they’ll come up and bus dishes for me. A lot of them, we’re on a first-name basis.’’
During the course of a half-hour conversation, Ingrid is interrupted by multiple groups of customers who call out her name to say goodbye. She yells after each of them—“Bye honey, love you!’’—and even kisses a few on the cheek.
She and Richard both have stories of customers they remember throughout the years. Richard remembers charming a group of six old women who would regularly come in, calling them “girls’’ and asking if they were skipping school.
“They loved it,’’ he says, smiling.
Ingrid remembers Ray Sleeper, a 90-year-old man who would come in every day, the second they opened shop.
“I couldn’t even sneak in, he’d be waiting,’’ she says.
Sleeper started this routine after his wife died. Ingrid took care of him, making him special dishes as a surprise and charging him “just $7 for lunch, no matter what he had.’’ He passed away recently, but she still thinks of him often. She cooked her last turkey dinner here in remembrance of him, she says, her usually boisterous and warm voice going soft.
“I went to his wake, and it just hit me, because I knew Mandy’s was going, and I knew he’s gone.’’
“Little’’ Ray—Sleeper’s son—still came in every day himself. Even Peggy O’Leary, who waitressed here from 1985 to 1999, sits at the counter, balancing one glass Heinz bottle atop another to get out all the ketchup.
Customers filter out as it nears closing, though one family stays to take pictures with the Marinos. Ingrid can barely stand still, always finding one more thing to do: wipe the counter, re-seal the bread.
“It’s like a divorce now,’’ she says. “I’m leaving this place too, and it’s crazy. Absolutely crazy.’’
To comment, please create a screen name in your profile
To comment, please verify your email address
Conversation
This discussion has ended. Please join elsewhere on Boston.com