Scenes From An Italian Restaurant

This photo of Al Dente (on the corner with the umbrellas) was taken from the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 81st Street. I couldn’t bring myself to get any closer.

Though I try to keep this blog up-to-date with what is going on in my New York life, there is one tale I have yet to tell. In fact, the subject matter is of such a dark and depressing nature I have had to wait until the onset of Spring to even discuss it. And after I write this, I hope to erase the entire experience from my memory. Here goes.

Around mid-January, I found myself to my surprise, still in New York, but also jobless and soon-to-be-homeless. Out of total desperation, I began handing out resumes in every cafe, bar or restaurant where I thought I could stand to work. With no prior experience in the food and beverage industry I was compelled to make up a phony resumé which stated I had worked at various places in Italy where I used to hang out. One afternoon I had an interview on the Upper West Side at Nice Matin, a spacious brasserie-type restaurant on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 79th Street, in the same building as the Hotel Lucerne. On the way I dropped my resumé off at a small unassuming Italian ristorante called Al Dente, a block further up and across the street, on located on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 80th Street. This turned out to be my first (and biggest) mistake.

I didn’t get the Nice Matin job as I wasn’t legal, but a couple of evenings later I got a call from Al Dente, and the next morning I went to meet with the manager, a slightly tense woman named Mona. She wanted someone to answer phones, make coffees, serve desserts, and whip up the occasional cocktail. It sounded like an easy, fun gig, so I started the next evening.

I thought my Italian experience would help, though I was clearly hired for this particular job as none of the current employees spoke decent English. Mona wasn’t just tense, but also uptight: a micro-managing, hands-on, control freak of boss I hope never to encounter again. She would criticize everything you did and treat you like a small child, constantly breathing down your neck as you’re trying to work. The place itself would get very busy at weekends and quite stressful. After a couple of weeks I realized I was in hell, but I needed the money so badly I had to stick it out. It was frustrating because I’m sure some restaurant jobs can be fun. This one wasn’t.

The food wasn’t bad and we had a number of regulars, including author Philip Roth (who always ordered a Sprite with no ice). Michael Richards (Kramer from Seinfeld) ate here one night, and former mayor Ed Koch came in once before quickly realizing he was in the wrong restaurant (this happened often). Sadly employees weren’t treated to the same fare, but the nights were so long I’d actually look forward to my 11 o’clock bowl of over-cooked rigatoni swimming in thinned tomato sauce washed down with a tumbler of Diet Pepsi.

I spent most of my time on the phone taking orders, which could often get out of control. Al Dente is the only restaurant in the western world which still uses the carbon paper check, which means that to change an order requires crossing out and rewriting on three separate pieces of paper, resulting in lots of scribbling and many screwed-up orders. You try mixing a flirtini, slicing a strawberry to be served atop a panna cotta, and making three decaf espressos while on the phone with an angry Central Park West resident who wants to know what happened to her side of grilled zucchini every night. Sometimes when the delivery boys were extra busy I’d be sent on local deliveries. This was always a thrill for three reasons: 1) it was a sudden chance to escape the hell of the restaurant and breathe; 2) I’d invariably receive a handsome personal tip; 3) and more importantly, I’d be afforded a sneak peak get to peek inside the home of an affluent Upper West Sider.

Mona herself knew very little about Italian food or wine, believing penne alla vodka or spaghetti and meatballs (her bestselling dishes) to be the height of European sophistication. She also refused to acknowledge that someone could be more informed than her on this (or any other) subject. I got the impression she felt she was doing people a huge favour just by letting them eat in her restaurant, and I felt her general the-customer-is-always-wrong philosophy was an unfortunate attitude with which for someone in the hospitality business to be burdened. On many occasions people took issue with her petty rules and extortionate drinks prices. I ended up losing count of the people who left saying something to the extent of “I’m never coming back.” She’d often tell busboys off with the line, “This is not a diner,” which she’d repeat, almost like a mantra, as if it were her who needed convincing.

But this was the least of her problems. She spied on us through a small camera connected to a computer, and when she wasn’t in the restaurant she would call to tell me not to talk to the other waiter or to ask the busboy not to stand in the window. Employees weren’t allowed to try the actual dishes we served, so when customers asked I had to say something stupid like “I wouldn’t know actually, but it sounds nice.” During the long day shifts, when the restaurant was generally empty, I wasn’t even allowed to make myself an espresso. When I decided to change the CDs in the CD changer (there’s only so much Norah Jones and k.d. lang a man can take) Mona scolded me for going through her private things. One day I saw actor Jerry Stiller (Frank Costanza on Seinfeld and Ben Stiller’s dad in real life) walk past the window. I wanted to chase after him shouting “SERENITY NOW!”

A particularly slow afternoon in March was livened up by an unexpected visit from the Health Department. Panicked, Mona immediately sent me upstairs to try and keep silent the cat which lives in the restaurant, but I guess she didn’t count on the inspectors finding the open can of cat food in the fridge. “You got a cat?!” one of them exclaimed. I could barely contain my laughter. Mona made up some lame story about the cat being there because her son was allergic, and they let it slide. That cat — whose name was Fusili — was arguably the most ridiculous aspect of a ridiculous job. At the end of the night we’d have to take it out of its cage, feed it and then barricade it in the kitchen, where it would no doubt eliminate any vermin that tried to enter. Of course, before being tucked in for the night, Fusili enjoyed roaming like cats do around the dining room floor and under the tables, and we were often let out several minutes late as Pedro the dishwasher chased after it with a napkin. On these occasions I’d just stand in the window and try and focus on the NBA game on the TV in the restaurant across the street, incidentally called Mona.

Towards the end of my time at Al Dente there were several changes in personnel. Bussers and delivery boys would rotate as often as the week’s specials, but the restaurant also went through its share of waiters. When the Nepalese head waiter suddenly quit, a series of potential replacements were brought in, none of whom lasted longer than a week. One of them was an American named John. Around thirty minutes into his first full shift his face had already turned ashen with horror. Needless to say, he failed to show up for his next shift after his girlfriend suffered a “freak injury rolling out of bed.” Mona also rehired a girl from Staten Island named Ann, who had worked at the restaurant previously before leaving to perform as a dancer in Las Vegas. Now, back in New York, she had agreed to return to her old job, which was evidently much worse than she’d remembered. About two weeks later she landed a mysterious position aboard a cruise ship.

So for almost three months I was working days at Mack (see previous post) and nights at Al Dente, leaving the house at nine in the morning and getting home after midnight. I’d squeeze in lunch (a bagel or a slice of pizza) around 4:30pm before my shift started. It wasn’t easy. I was barely eating, and when I was it was sloppy pasta cooked by a short, tired Mexican named José. I was spending more waking minutes per day hanging around on a crowded or deserted subway platform than at home. I was beyond miserable. And eventually I reached a point where I couldn’t take it anymore. In my final week at the restaurant Mona had just about pushed me to breaking point, criticizing my telephone manner, which she called “abrupt” (this after I’d answered the phone fifty times a night for the last three months) and even questioning my personal hygiene. So one day I called her saying there was work stuff I couldn’t get out of.

A couple of weeks passed, and I still had yet to receive my final check, so I went back one evening after work to ask for money. On one of my nights off, Paco, a smart former busboy who was still owed money, had shown up on a Saturday night with the NYPD in tow — perhaps the one time I’d wished I’d been at work. I arrived alone and Mona, without as much as a hello, told me I couldn’t call her on her cellphone, then berated me for leaving so suddenly and accused me of having “convenienced myself.” This was the tête-a-tête I’d fantasized about. I could have said she was lucky I’d lasted two and-a-half months longer than the average Al Dente employee. I could have told her that she was the most ungracious, unprofessional person I have ever come across. I could have told her keeping a live cat loose in the kitchen is a Condition IV violation of Code 4P of the New York City Food and Restaurant Services Act and that I could have her shut down with one phone call. But it really wasn’t worth the trouble — I wanted to rid myself of the whole scene, and erase the last three months which had unexpectedly managed to tarnish what was one of my favourite neighbourhoods in Manhattan. So I bit my tongue and walked out of there.

To this day I still suffer from a slight nausea whenever I’m on the Upper West Side.

Rue B Baby

Despite the name, and its jaunty Parisian sign, there’s nothing particularly French about Rue B. Indeed, the brilliant collection of black-and-white photographs which clutter the walls is a open-hearted celebration of mid-20th century American cultural or sporting greatness. The effect is quite comforting: these photographs attract your gaze, to the extent that each photo becomes so familiar, each time I return Rue B feels more and more like a second home.

The bathroom is devoted solely to Ol’ Blue Eyes himself. But Rue B, one of a string of establishments on Alphabet City’s Avenue B whose name references the address (B-Cup, B-Side, Bee Liquors), is something rare and special, somehow managing to be a bar, restaurant and jazz lounge. When lights are low a tight three-piece combo swings in the corner, under the watchful gaze of an aging Chet Baker. Last Tuesday I had an excellent cocktail, but I also love the brunch: how could anyone resist something called “Eggs Corleone”?

Drop Me Off Anytime

Drop Off Service is a bar on Avenue A, near the corner of 13th Street in the East Village. Having recently moved to the neighbourhood, I have no hesitations in calling it my new “local”. The bar gets its name from a large etched sign in the window — apparently it used to be a laundromat (ironically I usually go here for a pint while I’m waiting for my laundry). Due to its location Drop Off Service is obviously best enjoyed on a week night or weekend afternoon, where during a long happy hour you can sit back and sample some fine local and European beers. Refreshingly, there’s no big screen TV, instantly eliminating the frat boy crowd in search of college football. To top it all the joint boasts a jukebox selection which may or may not have been inspired by my own record collection. Steely Dan’s greatest hits is disc number 01 — what more could anyone ask for?

Corner Bistro

I finally tried popular West Village spot Corner Bistro recently, after reading rave reviews in New York magazine. I wasn’t disappointed. The burgers are among the best (and cheapest) in the city, even if they overcook the bacon for my taste. But where else in Manhattan can you find draft beer for $2.50? They play a nice mix of late-’50s R’n’B and Be-Bop with the occasional Stones track thrown in, and there are three TV screens showing three different sporting events, all of which keeps you entertained enough as you join a lengthy queue for a table. Last night I went back with my girlfriend and we sat at the bar, where such aforementioned pleasures combined to the point where I almost achieved a blissful sensory overload. Burger heaven.

David Lynch-inspired graffiti at Corner Bistro in the West Village.

Zabar’s Café

Located next to (but mysteriously with no public connection to) the Zabar’s store on the corner of Broadway and 80th Street, this café is not somewhere you should visit for great service or even great food. What makes Zabar’s Café such a fun experience is the unique public interaction. From students to parents to eccentric elderly Upper West Siders, you never quite know who you’ll get talking to at the large communal counter. On my first visit I spent an hour chatting with three middle-aged women, who seemed fascinated to hear about my life and my young foreigner’s view of New York. And if you don’t mind spreading your own cream cheese on your bagel, there’s really no better way to kill a half-hour on a Sunday afternoon. Listen out also for the hilarious live in-store announcements, which occasionally draw attention to exotic cheeses, but generally extol the virtues of Zabar’s own rye bread, as fresh batches are removed hot from the oven: “We feel it’s the best rye in Manhattan.”

Open All Nite

One of the many great reasons to live below 14th Street, the Yaffa Café on St. Mark’s Place is arguably the East Village’s quintessential post-anything after-hours venue. As the giant mural outside screams, Yaffa is “open all nite”, and the ’80s downtown vibe continues inside with its kitsch decor, quirky regulars and unexpected music. Where else can you enjoy a glass of hot chocolate at four in the morning while listening to the Sugarcubes?

Chelsea Morning

Chelsea at dawn as viewed from Sefra’s bathroom window.

On Friday night I was invited along with a few of the MoMA gang to a party held at Sefra’s Chelsea loft. I never figured out how many people actually live there, but much of the sprawling apartment acts as a studio for an artist who I met briefly, and whose strange styrofoam sculptures dominate the kitchen and hall. The apartment is accessed from the roof, which was partially bathed in light by the looming Empire State Building which rose from behind. To help withstand the bitter temperatures we rigged up lights and toasted marshmallows huddled around a small fire. Sefra also did her bit by cooking up some apple cider with Jim Beam which was definitely welcomed. By dawn the view was even more impressive, and a warm, delicate, morning glow picked out the nearby water towers and buildings as far away as the financial district. It wasn’t long before Joni inevitably popped into my head:

Veselka (My Conversation With Jeff)

My first experience of Veselka was at 5AM the morning after I moved to New York. I can see directly into the place from my bedroom window so it seemed an obvious choice, and ever since I’ve had a sort of affinity for the place. The staff are friendly, chatty and make you feel like a local regular immediately. I’m often charged a single dollar for take-out coffee instead of the usual $1.25. Although the coffee has a strange taste I haven’t found anywhere else. At first I thought it was the jet-lag, but it hasn’t prevented me going back for breakfast, or a late-night snack. One Saturday about a month ago there was a fight in front of Veselka, in which its outdoor chairs and tables were knocked over. This hurt me deeply, but fortunately no permanent damage was done.

A few nights ago I was feeling peckish and so I popped downstairs for Veselka’s signature pierogi. I sat at the counter, where another man began talking to me. He was probably in his early 60s, and reminded me a little bit of the short-lived character Mr. Heckles, Monica’s grouchy neighbour on Friends. The man began asking me questions, hesitantly at first, so as not to pry, but I was quite happy to chat for a while. He’d lived in the East Village for over forty years, had worked as an artist, poet and salesman among other things. He told me about how he dabbled in painting, meticulously describing the difficulties he had trying to reproduce light and perspective. His technical shortcomings still obviously pained him, but he seemed to have been at least halfway accepted into the art community, even adopting an alternative last name with which he signed his canvases. It seemed he’d been taken under the wing of a painter/poet, and older woman who often invited him to eat with her family. But they had a falling out and didn’t speak for years.

It was interesting to hear his tales of a New York gone by. He told me that until the late 1970s, you could have stood on the corner of St. Marks Place and seen one other person walk by. He then began a tirade discussing Iraq and God knows what else, and I began to get tired and lose interest. It was now nearly four in the morning, and realised I had hardly spoken for hours. I’d paid my check long ago, but the man hadn’t ordered anything the whole time we’d been sat there. I got up to leave and he followed me, so I pretended I lived in the opposite direction to him (it’s one thing sitting with an oddball in a well-lit diner, quite another having them follow you home). Before we parted ways he revealed himself as Jeff Shenkman. I don’t know if this is his real name, but apparently a lot of his paintings are still knocking around.

Abraço: An Espresso Embrace

The first time I stopped at Abraço, a tiny espresso bar on East 7th Street, they were re-doing the floor so my individually-dripped coffee was offered to me free of charge as I stood in the doorway. I went back when the work was finished and got chatting to Jamie, the friendly and slightly energetic owner. Putting my experience of romance languages to use, I asked him if “abraço” means “hug” in Portuguese but he quickly cut me off: “Embrace,” he calmly revealed, obviously recognizing an enormous difference. Jamie likes to spin vinyl samba records as he makes your espresso, and was quick to reveal Brazilian musician Caetano Veloso has an apartment in the neighbourhood. Soon after Jamie and I actually ran into each other at the singer-songwriter’s concert outside the Nokia Theater near Times Square. Abraço sells Sanbitter in little bottles, but alas no Campari Soda — for that you need a liquor license. Did I mention the coffee is among the best in town?

Nighthawks At The Diner

I’d wanted to visit the Empire Diner ever since I saw John Baeder’s painting of it on the cover of the Tom Waits album, Asylum Years. Roughly twenty years later on a cold Sunday evening in November I got my chance. Though perhaps the quintessential New York diner, this 24-hour Chelsea eatery is far from your average truck-stop, but more a paean to a bygone age.

The food is refined, the Art Deco decor positively glistens, and there’s a hushed atmosphere after-hours. There’s even a pianist tinkling in a corner — he played Leon Russell’s “Song For You” as I sat at the shiny black counter, while reflected in the mirrored walls the yellow cabs silently glided up Tenth Avenue.