A Piece of My History Bites the Dust

I learned today while reading Greenwich Village Daily Photo blog that Frankie and Johnnie's steakhouse in Manhattan would be closing at the end of the year. As a kid, I remember my parents bringing us to this wonderful restaurant in the theater district. My family went to dinner there one night before going to see a play sometime in the early 1980s and my father regaled us with stories about how his parents used to visit the place when it was a speak-easy during prohibition. The coolest part about the place was the narrow staircase that led to the second floor diningroom where the door still had a peep-hole used to "screen" guests during earlier times. I was so enamored by the place that after I proposed to my law school girlfriend one New Year's Eve in 1994, we ate dinner and drank champagne at Frankie and Johnnie's. The most memorable part of the meal was the stone-faced waiter. There we were beaming over having just gotten engaged. We were so excited our feet were barely touching the ground. My fiancée, with shiny new diamond on her hand, looked at our server and said, "we just got engaged!" He nodded, did not smile and poured more wine for us.

The imminent closing of Frankie and Johnnie's makes me sad, because that particular place meant something to me. I saw it as a connection to my past and my future. Of course, it is just a restaurant, and like thousands of others that have closed over the years. I remember as a kid wanting to have my parents take me to Luchow's, a German restaurant in Manhattan. My father resisted, however, deciding that Luchow's was a decrepit restaurant (perhaps correctly?) not worth the visit. By contrast, I was fascinated by the idea of visiting a restaurant that had opened in the late 19th century and was still operating almost a century later. When Luchow's closed when I was 14, I remember that it made me truly sad. While my attempts at getting my parents to Luchow's failed, I did wrangle a dinner at Fraunces Tavern down in the financial district -- I think it was for my 12th birthday. I vaguely remember polishing off an enormous steak.

Unlike the closing of Yankee Stadium, which lost its authenticity for me with the 1974-75 renovations, I am sad that Frankie and Johnnie's is closing. While I hope that some New York developers embrace the importance of restraining themselves to preserve some of Manhattan's historic gems, I am realistic. Throughout its history the city of New York has been in a never-ending process of being built up and torn down. Frankie and Johnnies is just the latest casualty -- thanks for the memories.

Separated at Birth?

I was talking to my brother-in-law one day and he was teasing me for being uptight. I said, "I am not Niles Crane [from Frasier]." He replied in his inimitable Boston accent, "No, your fatha is Niles; you're Frasier." I felt a tad uncomfortable with that description, but of course, I did just use the word "tad." Both my father and I enjoyed Frasier immensely actually. Dad once told me his favorite Niles Crane line from the show was when he looked disparagingly at a waiter and said, "that man has community college written all over him."

Upon reflection, perhaps I am the spawn of Niles Crane's long lost twin. My ivy league father is a loveable stuffed shirt. He has always lived in a modest home and driven a Chevrolet, but when it comes to food and drink he admires the finer things in life. He drives my mother -- who's never been much of a fan of cooking or eating -- crazy with his love for restaurants. He considers himself a bit of a expert on food. He once told a waiter in Italy that he did not want his pasta overcooked. When his pasta arrived, he related to us, "it broke in my mouth. I was the ugly American." He can pontificate about signature dishes: "the measure of any Italian restaurant is the quality of their linguine with white clam sauce." He can go on and on about the difference between hamburger and chopped steak. And if you are lucky, you may find yourself among the many who have been regaled with the description of his method for preparing his daily breakfast of Irish Steel Cut Oats. I, of course, benefitted from my father's love of food, getting to visit some of the best restaurants in New York. I was the only 13 year old in my neighborhood who really appreciated Arturo's steak pizziola. I was always amazed at the ultrafancy restaurants in Manhattan my parents would go to on special occasions. He once invited my Aunt from Philadelphia to an eatery named "Parioli Romanisimo." Running late, she called information for the number to the restaurant. She struggled mightily to say Parioli Romanisimo. After several botched attempts, she began to giggle. Eventually, the operator just hung up on her.

If Dad doesn't like a certain meal he will never forget it. A 1980s trip to San Francisco's Chinatown introduced him to a soup he described as "incendiary dish water." He does not hide his dismay at the perceived ineptitude of restaurant staff either. While he's never rude, I wish I had gotten a picture of his face -- like he'd just eaten a lemon as my sister describes it -- when the waiter at a (modest) pizzeria brought his room temperature chianti to him. The waiter had the bottle in one hand and a cocktail tray with five ice-filled rocks glasses. His hand shook and the glasses rattled as he tried to pour the wine into the glasses on the tray. Dad gasped and he got the waiter to stop; he kindly explained that he would prefer his room temperature chianti at ... room temperature. Years ago at a family dinner out, my brother made the unmentionable sin of ordering a glass of chablis. Dad intervened, "You don't really want chablis, do you?" My brother turned to the waitress and changed his order: "I'll have milk," he said. It got very quiet at the table.

I was watching one of the first episodes of Frasier the other night. After their reservation at a very posh restaurant is canceled, their father convinces Frasier and Niles to go to one of his favorite places, a redneck steak house. Frasier is horrified by the salad bar and the meat cart being wheeled around the dining room, inquiring whether he might get his steak from the refrigerator. Niles ordered his "petite filet mignon" and then launched into the description of how he wanted it cooked: "It should be seared on either side until it is pink inside -- pink and not mauve. Cook it any longer and then it is completely ruined." I stopped. I stared at the screen. It was as if my father was there on the TV in the body of a boney little actor with whispy hair. It reminded me of a night at Peter Luger's Steakhouse, voted recently by Bon Appetite as the finest steakhouse in the U.S. While ordering, Dad suggested to the waiter that everyone at the table would have their steak medium rare. When someone at the table balked and asked to have theirs more well-cooked, he turned to the waiter and said, "well, we'll have steak for two medium, and steak for four medium-rare, in other words, properly cooked." Niles would have been proud.