We go into a restaurant, and it’s packed – even at this time
(5.45 pm, I think). It’s Graduation Day
for NYU. And we haven’t booked. The Owner (for it is She, as we learn later)
approaches, and adopts a conspiratorial tone to tell us that it’s Graduation
Day, they’re all booked up, but she’ll see what she can do.
After a few minutes, she calls us over to a table and welcomes
us. Her accent is absolutely classic
Bronx (which she pronounces Browawnx).
She sounds like the most Italian-American Italian-American in
Italian-America.
The waitress argues with The Owner/Matriarch (in Italian, of
course, which some here pronounce “eye-tah-yin”. But not them, presumably), and the waitress
seems to be saying that we shouldn’t get a table, it’s too busy, families have
booked for graduation, it’s not even fair to give these limey walk-ups a table
that’s been reserved for a special family occasion. (I’m adding local colour, in a prejudicial
fashion; I’ve no reason to suspect they are so impolite about it.)
Anyway, the food is superb: absolutely the best of Italian
cooking – simple, very good quality, all home-made and delicious. The pasta is perfect.
We are offered dessert menus, but everyone is relieved when we decline to order any: they need the table, as The Matriarch was too nice to tell us explicitly (until we mention it). She does give us the dessert specials – a lovely tiramisu, made by her husband – the others are all imported from Italy, which she pronounces “impwawded frum Iddly.” (This part of The Bronx is known as Little Italy – not the “fake”, faded one in Manhattan, a more accurately-named Little Italy where lots of Italian-American people live and work and where every building houses either an Italian restaurant, an Italian deli, an Italian bar or all of the above. (Both are pronounced “Liddliddly”, which is fun, isn’t it? (But we don’t want to be horrible tourists, the kind everyone hates, the kind that act like every aspect of a foreign culture is a show put on solely for their amusement, so we don’t talk about the accent or anything.)))
The helpful Matriarch also recommends a place, just a few doors down, for dessert and “cwawfee” (that’s what they call coffee here). We thank everyone, leave a good tip and head out.
We are offered dessert menus, but everyone is relieved when we decline to order any: they need the table, as The Matriarch was too nice to tell us explicitly (until we mention it). She does give us the dessert specials – a lovely tiramisu, made by her husband – the others are all imported from Italy, which she pronounces “impwawded frum Iddly.” (This part of The Bronx is known as Little Italy – not the “fake”, faded one in Manhattan, a more accurately-named Little Italy where lots of Italian-American people live and work and where every building houses either an Italian restaurant, an Italian deli, an Italian bar or all of the above. (Both are pronounced “Liddliddly”, which is fun, isn’t it? (But we don’t want to be horrible tourists, the kind everyone hates, the kind that act like every aspect of a foreign culture is a show put on solely for their amusement, so we don’t talk about the accent or anything.)))
The helpful Matriarch also recommends a place, just a few doors down, for dessert and “cwawfee” (that’s what they call coffee here). We thank everyone, leave a good tip and head out.
The dessert place (a sort of bakery-café) is also busy. We sit and wait, but are unsure if it’s table
service, as there’s a line (that’s what they call a queue here) at the register
(that’s what they call a till here). The
counter is vast, and full of cakes, but obscured by the queue. It all seems a bit fraught, so I’m for
waiting to find out.
One person who is evidently confused is a customer who
mistakes J for a member of staff, (passive-aggressively) asking her to clear a
table for him. She tells him she doesn’t
work here, and he chuckles, as if he was joking, but it’s clear he wasn’t
joking, and still seems unsure who works here, even though the staff are all
wearing black polo shirts and caps with the name of the place embroidered on
them.
At this point, I go to the toilet and walk in on a woman who
is sat on the throne; the door wasn’t locked, and it’s the Mens’. I make a shocked noise, apologise profusely
and go back to the table. I wish I could
describe the look on her face, but that would be rude….but it was a really
funny expression.
When I get back, the Confused Customer is fussing about,
trying to clear a table himself, spilling things and dumping the dirty dishes
at the nearest counter. A man who,
judging by his bearing (and the lack of back polo/cap uniform), is the manager,
emerges from the kitchen and tells the man tersely: “Those don’t go here.”
The Confused Customer gets another armful of dishes from the table. The Manager goes to intercept. The Confused Customer spills something on The Manager, and the floor. The Manager puts down the dishes he is carrying and says loudly:
“Now you get to leave. I’m serious. You need to go.” (He says this in what sounds to me like a gentler version of all the stereotypical arguing you hear from people in films set in New York)
The Confused Customer seems as perplexed as ever, but eventually appears to accept this is not his day, and leaves.
The Confused Customer gets another armful of dishes from the table. The Manager goes to intercept. The Confused Customer spills something on The Manager, and the floor. The Manager puts down the dishes he is carrying and says loudly:
“Now you get to leave. I’m serious. You need to go.” (He says this in what sounds to me like a gentler version of all the stereotypical arguing you hear from people in films set in New York)
The Confused Customer seems as perplexed as ever, but eventually appears to accept this is not his day, and leaves.
I get up to go to the toilet, and again walk in on
someone. This time it’s a man washing
his hands. I wait and go in after him,
whereupon I see that the door lock is busted (that’s what they would say for
broken here).
When I get back, The Confused Customer is back. Another customer is berating him, relatively
gently, telling him he should leave. I’m
really not sure if The Confused Customer is stupid or just obtuse. If I was a schoolboy, I would start a chant
of “Fight! Fight! Fight!”.
But I’m not, so I don’t. (I
wouldn’t have done that when I actually was a schoolboy, to be honest. I had neither the bloodlust nor the
confidence for that kind of thing.)
Opinion at our table coalesces around a belief that The
Manager may have overreacted, but The Confused Customer is either very strange,
or just an annoying dick (or both).
Given the reputation for this part of this city, perhaps The Confused
Customer is lucky to depart without violence.
By now, at least, we have “quah-fee” (that’s what they call
coffee here). E asks a waitress to bring
the three most delicious desserts from the impressive array at the counter,
asking if that’s too much pressure.
“Of course not.”
She soon brings her selection: one is a delicious éclair, which is superb. Another is a pastry cream thing, the kind you can get in an old-school British bakery, but I don’t know what it’s called. The last, I’m fairly sure, is cannoli. I’ve tried this once or twice before, in England – but it was nothing like this. This is amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing. The shell is crisp and savoury; the cream filling beautifully sweet, yet balanced. It’s one of the nicest things I’ve ever eaten. It is worthy of the Godfather scene, which J reminds us of, you know the one: “Leave the gun. Take the cannolis.”
“Of course not.”
She soon brings her selection: one is a delicious éclair, which is superb. Another is a pastry cream thing, the kind you can get in an old-school British bakery, but I don’t know what it’s called. The last, I’m fairly sure, is cannoli. I’ve tried this once or twice before, in England – but it was nothing like this. This is amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing. The shell is crisp and savoury; the cream filling beautifully sweet, yet balanced. It’s one of the nicest things I’ve ever eaten. It is worthy of the Godfather scene, which J reminds us of, you know the one: “Leave the gun. Take the cannolis.”
As we leave, I’m wondering why I haven’t bought a hundred of
these things to take away with me. In
the end, I conclude that it’s because a) I’m pretty full, as good as it was; b)
I can’t be doing with hauling a box of pastries around all the bars, streets
and trains we’ll be in/on tonight, and most importantly, c) nothing can ever
taste that good again – probably even the same thing another time…
So, I leave it as a beautiful memory, tinged with a melancholic longing. (I am a complex and idiosyncratic diner/tourist.)
So, I leave it as a beautiful memory, tinged with a melancholic longing. (I am a complex and idiosyncratic diner/tourist.)
And that’s all the touristy stuff there is in NYMFC. No, wait, there was the Statue Of Liberty,
Ellis Island, The Botanical Gardens, MoMA, the Guggenheim, Central Park and
other stuff. But you don’t really want
to hear about that, do you? (It doesn’t
matter either way, to be frank. I’ve run
out of time.)
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