Lost City Asks "Who Goes to The Famous Oyster Bar?"

I thought, by finally dining at The Famous Oyster Bar, I might crack this mystery of a restaurant, which has dumbfounded me for 25 years. Who owns it? How have they managed to hang on to this prime piece of real estate (54th Street and Seventh Avenue) for more than 50 years? Do they own the building? What's their secret? I have been able to uncover little on my own, because it seems that no one has ever written the story of the longstanding restaurant, in either newspaper or guidebook form.

But I left discovering only that the place has been owned by the same Greek family since 1959 and has always been in the same location. There are no framed reviews or stories on the walls that would have told me more. And the waitresses are not forthcoming.

After digging through newspaper archives and finding nothing about the Famous Oyster Bar prior to the 1980s (the results of health inspections, mainly), I begin to doubt the joint's story. Maybe it didn't open in 1959. Since the idea of it's being a "famous" restaurant is obviously a fantasy, maybe the owners also made up the founding date. The only think dissuading me from this theory are the neon signs, the only thing about the Oyster Bar that does look like it's been there since 1959.

I'll get to the bottom of this one if it's the last thing I do. In the meantime, here's my Eater column:

Who Goes There? The Famous Oyster Bar

This year, the Grand Central Oyster Bar has collected pallets of publicity in connection to its 100th anniversary. Meanwhile, the restaurant that calls itselfThe Famous Oyster Bar, which has been sitting on the same Midtown corner for more than half a century, continues its habit of attracting near zero notice decade after decade.

Having lived in New York for some time, I usually enter long-standing restaurants with some basic knowledge of their history and reputation. But The Famous Oyster Bar has stumped me for 20 years. I've often paused outside it to admire the classic postwar neon signs screaming "Oyster Bar" and "Sea Food." But I've never known anyone who ate there; never read a review of the place; never found it written up in any New York food guides, past or present. I've often wondered where they got the chutzpah to call themselves The Famous Oyster Bar (certainly, that wasn't the joint's original name), when the Grand Central is, by any measure, galactically more celebrated.

I have no doubt that many a tourist wanders into the strategically placed restaurant under the misapprehension that they are in the Grand Central Oyster Bar. And you do get mainly tourists here, most of them seemingly happening upon the place by chance. Judging by their unfamiliarity with the surroundings and the menu, there were few second-timers in attendance the night I recently dined there. The joint does get some local traffic, however; a couple of theatre professional were talking business at one table. And one guy at the bar didn't look like he was going anywhere.

With the South Street Seaport institution Carmine's having shuttered in 2010, The Famous Oyster Bar can safely lay claim to the most kitschy nautical decor in the city. A life preserver reading "Oyster Bar" hangs on the wall. There's a Titanic model under glass. Sea shells adorn the ceiling and there's a maritime mural along one wall. The menu is replete with seafood. It's the kind of place that still does Oysters Rockefeller and Lobster Newberg. Prices are typically Times Square: that is, expensive. Seafood is pricey, of course. But this isn't good seafood. The oysters were passable, but the clams were rubbery. And the soft shells crabs only acceptable. On the plus side, the service was unflaggingly friendly and attentive.

I couldn't find out much more about the history of the joint, except this: it has been run by the same Greek family since opening in 1959, and has always been at the same location. According to Internet records, the owner is one Angelo Agnonostopoulo. Finally, I have to point out that, for a place that goes by the name The Famous Oyster Bar, it's odd that they had only two selections: Blue Point and Wellfleet. The restaurant also has no raw bar. So, technically speaking, it's not only not famous, it's also not an oyster bar.

Nice neon, though.

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Totonno's?"

It seems I've spent a lot of time in recent years waiting patiently for Totonno's to reopen following various disasters, and then making a trip to the Coney Island pizzeria to make certain nothing had changed. I hope no more catastrophes befall the culinary institution. I don't know if the owners could withstand another financial setback after the recent fire and flood. Here's my latest "Who Goes There?" column from Eater:

Who Goes There? Totonno's

Totonno's isn't really an appropriate candidate for this column. It's not dusty and forgotten, or even slightly neglected. Who goes there? Everyone, all the time. Locals and folks from all over the five borough, Jersey and Long Island. Tourists visiting Coney Island, Food Network devotees and pizza fanatics making pilgrimages.

But Totonno's has had a hard time of it lately. First a fire knocked it out for a time in 2009. Then Sandy put it out of commission for five months. The place is a phoenix, though, and the Balzano-Ciminieri clan—descendants of found Anthony Pero, who was trained at Lombardi's in Manhattan—reopened again in March. So I figured they need all the ink they can get. But maybe not. The young man who brought me my pie said they have been busy ever since reopening. "Memorial Day weekend was packed."

A recent visit found the place looking like it always does—spare, spic and span, an elemental, nostalgic vision in white and black. The walls are still adorned with coathooks, oval mirrors and dozens of framed press clippings, seemingly half of them from the Daily News. The owners must have spent a lot of money on frames over the years. There's a large standing fan, and a ceiling fan. The tile floor is apparently new, but looks old. So are the red table tops, but they blend in. The restroom is still small, and you have to wash your hands in an industrial sink in an alcove nearby.

The pizza, too, hasn't changed: the crust thin, yet sturdy, and delicious on its own; the subtle sauce and fresh cheese existing in perfect harmony. It's my favorite pie in New York. It's a pizza, however, best eaten hot and, since it cools quickly, should be finished within 10 minutes of hitting the table. A cold Totonno's slice eaten on the subway back home is still tasty, but the magic is gone.

The formidable Cookie Ciminieri still waits on, and clears, tables. The recent calamities seem to have aged her, but she still possesses enough spunk to rush out onto Neptune Avenue and wave some European backpackers back when she thinks they're shortchanged her. First-timers are easy to spot at Totonno's. They take pictures and spend a lot of time reading the articles on the walls. The truly unschooled will walk up to the aluminum, art deco counter in back, thinking that's where you place your order. One young couple actually asked Cookie what the pizzeria's wifi password was. (I was stunned to find out that the place actually has one.) Everyone was drinking little glass bottles of Coke, little glass bottles of Sprite, little glass bottles of wine.

To get a sense of the pizzeria's regulars, you have to go for lunch on a weekday. Locals will declare themselves by casually walking in, giving Cookie a quick wave, and seating themselves wherever. Very often, these are older men. Gold necklaces are not uncommon. One such twosome order a couple of pies between them, a margherita and a white pie. The white pie is not on Totonno's bare bones menu, which hangs at the back of the pizzeria. You have to know about it, and some regulars think it's the best thing the kitchen does. Certainly the two men did. I'd never had the white pie myself. As I was getting ready to go, I asked them whether they thought of it. "The BEST!" said one, barely looking up. "Have a slice," said the other. Really? Really. I thanked them, grabbed a slice and left. It was good.

—Brooks of Sheffield 

Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to DeNino's Pizzeria and Tavern?"

New York foodies aren't are adventurous as they think.

They'll go to Flushing to check out a secret Vietnamese hole in the wall, or Red Hook to source a cart serving a particular Ecuadorian treat. But mention Staten Island—an entire borough belonging to the City—and they'll make with the trite "That's not really New York" and "There's nothing good there" remarks. Happens every time on Eater when I venture to Staten Island for my "Who Goes There?" column. So provincial. But I'll keep going, because so far the island to the south has shown me it can give me this and this and this. I'm sure there's more where that came from.

Who Goes There? DeNino's Pizzeria and Tavern

It's called DeNino's Pizzeria and Tavern. And it's just that. You walk into the fairly nondescript, one-story building on Port Richmond Boulevard, past the elaborate mural that tells the history of the 76-year-old Staten Island institution, take a quick left, and you're given a choice. You can veer left and take a seat at the bar, or hang right and snag a wooden table or booth for a repast of pizza pie, with maybe some garlic bread, fried calamari or buffalo wings to start. Though people talk mainly of DeNino's way with a pizza, you get the feeling that both arms of the business are given equal weight by locals. They are certainly given equal real estate. This may have something to do with the fact that the place was a bar long before it was a pizzeria. John DeNino opened the business as a saloon in 1937; pizza was introduced by his son, Carlo, in 1951. A third generation of DeNinos now runs the restaurant.

DeNino's feels like the kind of neighborhood place you might find anywhere in the country, the sort of local institution where families go on a Friday night without even thinking about it. Because, of course you'd go to DeNino's! Where else? The less-than-thrilling slogan, after all, is "Casual Family Dining Since 1937." (How's that to get your pulse racing?)

The dining room is plain, the lighting functional, the ceiling low. If it weren't for the old wooden booths, it could be the basement of a church. It's peopled by locals. This is Staten Island, after all. Although DeNino's enjoys a citywide reputation, most of the patrons come from the borough and have eaten here many, many times, and come for special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, meeting the in-laws, etc. The dinner hour is always busy, but the lunch trade is brisk, too. Pitchers of Bud abound.

I ordered a sausage pie, because the waitress told me that, while all the toppings were good (though the mushrooms are canned), the sausage was "out of this world." It was good sausage, the lump kind—as opposed to sliced—that you rarely see around New York. The crust was not quite as Neapolitan-light as that at Gotham's other vaunted pizzas, such as Totonno's or Patsy's, but not quite as heavy as the doughy stuff you find in a run-of-the-mill slice joint. It was somewhere in the middle. A good, solid, satisfying pizza, overall. The kind of above-average pie that causes a local to love their neighborhood joint, and cry out to anyone who will listen that it has the best pizza around.

Me? Of the Staten Island iconic pizzerias, I like Joe & Pat's product more. In all of NYC, I probably prefer Totonno's of Coney Island. For a single slice, Di Fara's in Midwood. But on a Friday night, with some friends or family members, I don't think I'd rather be at any other pizzeria than DeNino's.

—Brooks of Sheffield 

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Arturo's?"

From last week's "Who Goes There?" column on Eater. Wish their pizza was better. (People: better quality tomatoes and a pinch of basil and salt in your sauce, and your problems are solved!) But I have no complaints about the ambiance.

Who Goes There? Arturo's

Among New York City's long-playing pizzerias, Arturo's stands out in a few ways. Its founder, Arturo Giunta (who died in 2006), was in no way connected to the famous Lombardi's pizza family tree that begat Totonno's, Patsy's, and John's, among others. Compared to those storied joints, it's rarely written up, or places in the regularly published top ten lists of New York pie palaces. And it doesn't feel like a tourist trap, the way other pizza destinations can.

Moreover, Arturo's—still on the same corner (Houston and Sullivan) where it flung open its doors in 1957—retains a raffish, scruffy charm that most of Greenwich Village lost long ago. It's not just that the ceilings are tin and battered; that there are countless signed celebrity head shots on the walls; that bad oil paintings by amateur artist Arturo occupy the spaces not taken up by actor photos; that nobody can remember who painted the large fading murals, or what scene they're supposed to depict; or that they used to perform plays in the back room in the '70s. It's more that, in very Old School Villagey style, Arturo's still has live jazz music every day. It's that the staff all seem to be ancient or bohemian or somebody's underperforming relative. This is a classic New York staff, and they're part of the place the way ivy's part of a wall. The young waitress wears cat-eye glasses and a leather skirt. The manager looks like a librarian at an alternative-reading library. When the genial greeter in the baseball cap introduced me to the owner, she sized me up and said, "Who is this?" A customer, the greeter said. "Oh, mystery man!"

Arturo's doesn't hurt for business. I arrived at opening time one weekend day, and there were already people there. A half hour in, the place was packed. "This is nothing," my waiter said. "You should see us on Saturday night. Line down the block." Who comes? "Everybody." Tourists? "Yeah, lots of tourists. Celebrities." Locals. "Lots of locals. Been coming for years." Most of the diners I saw were locals. Some spoke foreign tongues, but even they seemed used to the place.

The pizza? Well, it's fine. The crust is a bit thick, the sauce a bit bland. I put a lot of crushed red pepper and Parmesan on mine to give it a kick of flavor. I'd be fine with the level of quality if the prices weren't so high. Plain pies begin at $17 for a small; $20 for a large. Extra toppings are four dollars and up. Those are close to Lucali prices. And Lucali's a lot better. Also, Arturo's seemingly has no excuse for the pricy tariff; the family owns the building and are presumedly not under the pressure of making the rent.

But, you know, so what? Lucali doesn't have this atmosphere, this old Village charm, this family atmosphere, this joyous corner vista past which windows—on which are painted fading letters that tempt you, tantalizingly, with "Air-Conditioning"—all of New York seems to pass. Even nearby John's, a slice of potent Village ambience itself, can't quite compare to the transporting Arturo's mise-en-scene. If you're fond of that romantic version of New York many of us hold in our fuzzy, nostalgic-addled heads, it's a happy-making space.

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to El Charro?"

El Charro, in Greenwich Village, is the definition of a hidden gem. So hidden that I didn't even know it existed until someone at El Parador—the city's oldest Mexican restaurant—told me or a family connection between the two old restaurants. The small, basement place is so quiet and secluded, I recommend it as an escape from reality any time you've had a bad day. Here's my column:

Who Goes There? El Charro

I had a moment of déjà vu as I walked down the few steps into the restaurant tucked into 4 Charles St. Quiet Village street; basement space; tiny room; low ceilings; small bar to the left. Was I in Fedora? The real Fedora, I mean, not the impostor currently sailing under that name on West 4th Street.

Of course, I wasn't Fedora has gone the way of other fine New York institutions who have discovered the hard way that the brutal economics of 21st-century New York have no place for them. But El Charro Español is that kind of place. It's what pops into your mind when you picture the typical, side-street Greenwich Village eatery of old: cozy, slightly hidden, tradition-bound, attentive to its regulars, and offering the diner not a raucous jolt of energy but a relaxing respite from the world. 

El Charro's exact age is hard to determine, but it's probably been here for about 60 years, gathering minimal press attention, but a faithful clientele that it made almost entirely of locals. This is a neighborhood joint. It began as a Mexican restaurant, a culinary rarity in those post-WWII days. It was run by Maria Garcia. (Her daughter married Carlos Jacott, who went on to found El Parador on East 34th Street, which still stands and is today the city's oldest Mexican restaurant.) El Charro remained a Mexican place at least into the '80s, but today, under its current owners, it is a Spanish restaurant, and a good one.I ordered a sangria when I saw that the bartender was mixing them separately, constructing each in the glass, rather than pouring the potion out of a pitcher. The Shrimp Ajillo, sauteed in olive oil, garlic and hot pepper, was beautifully done: simple, tender and subtly spicy. For my entree (which came with one of those comforting—but not necessarily good — side salads slathered in French dressing) I had Pollo Villaroy, two breasts of chicken coated with bechamel sauce and bread crumbs and deep fried. It was tasty, but perhaps too filling. Though I liked it, I could have done with a half order.

The restaurant seems to have been recently spruced up; the exterior is in picturesque, pristine condition and the signage is small and classy. But the room's age is betrayed in the details: the old cash register; the old-fashioned punch clock for employees; and the thin, narrow staircase to the tiny bathroom. (Please take note of the oil painting of a sad clown as you pass.)

The ratio of staff to patron was about one to two the night I was there. So it's no surprise that service was attentive. Or maybe I should not take that for granted. I've been in plenty of contemporary restaurants stuffed with waiters and still had a hard time getting anyone's attention. Old friends were catching up at one table, a mother and a daughter at a second. Making the most noise were two men having a convivial business meeting, the larger, older one a longtime regular feeling very at home, the younger, thinner one a newcomer who seemed to want to be in a steak house. He ordered a filet mignon ("Can you butterfly that?") and called out for A-1 Sauce. "Are you complaining about this place?" his hefty friend asked in comic disbelief. "Are you COMPLAINING about this place."

I was sympathetic. I mean, seriously, dude, are you complaining about this place?

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to Le Périgord?"

Little did I imagine the love that abides out there for the dusty French midtown mainstay Le Périgord. The comments on this particular "Who Goes There?" Eater column keep coming. (Mimi Sheraton: Whenever you comment on one of my WGT columns, my heart goes all a-flutter.) It's heartwarming that people appreciate such a time capsule. Long may it keep its silent vigil on E. 52nd Street. 

Who Goes There? Le Périgord

Something about the padded, sequestered interior of Le Périgord, the French haute cuisine holdout on east-east-east 52nd Street, turns people into librarians. Nobody at a typical lunch shift at this nearly 50-year-old restaurant talked much above a whisper. And yet the air—which smelled vaguely of your grandmother's living room—is so still (no music inside, no traffic outside) you could clearly hear conversations a few tables away.

"You go to this restaurant to feel like a human being," said a man to his friend. I pegged the speaker being in his late 50s, but later realized that he was a well-preserved septuagenarian. No one in the room, waiter or patron, was under 40. When a pair a twentysomethings came in later, they were so befuddled by the unfamiliar scene of relaxed gentility that they seated themselves, thinking that was OK. The maître d' soon resituated them.

Le Périgord is still owned by Georges Briguet, who bought the place from the original owner two years after the restaurant opened. Without too much mental effort, one can guess the sort of celebrity that came here once upon a time. Truman Capote, Henry Kissinger, Jackie Kennedy, etc. Plus, a regular salting of nearby UN officials. And, of course, your run-of-the-mill, blue-suited moneybags who thinks Kissinger wasn't so bad, and Capote was mean to write that stuff about Babe Paley in Answered Prayers.

My relatively talkative neighbor was certainly a regular—so regular that he asked whether a favored lamb dish that wasn't on the menu was available. It was. "Well, why don't you put it on the damn menu then?" he muttered as the waiter walked away. (Just because the customers look polished doesn't mean they are. My friend dropped an F bomb every other sentence, and talked with great relish about past trysts.) "I have some friends coming into town and they asked for restaurant recommendations," he told his more docile friend. "I thought of sending them here, but thought they might think it too dull. So I told them to go to Le Grenouille."

I took my neighbor's tip and ordered the wonderful Le Buffet Froid—a delicious selection of chilled asparagus, celery, cheese, pâté, cornichons, shrimp, tomato and other tidbits. Almost a meal in itself, it was sublimely satisfying. I followed that with Sole Meunière, grilled with a mustard sauce. Hey, if I'm in a place like this, I'm going to order a dish like that. It was worth the $45 just to watch the waiter expertly bone the fish tableside. Where does that happen anymore in Manhattan? Plus, the fillet was delectable; the veggies perfectly steamed. There was a dessert trolley—of course there was!—but I passed. The espresso was expert.

My neighbor had moved on to the topic of money. Actually, he seldom left it. Most conversations at Le Périgord are about money or old times. The two men reminisced about sitting on stoops in Brooklyn back in the days when they had no scratch. Recently, the guy's house was reappraised at a value of $4 million. He seemed to be in the art game. "25 years ago, I could have told anybody I knew how to get rich. You buy a Hopper etching for $500. Today, it would be worth $150,000." He laughed. "Why didn't I do that, and make myself rich?"

His friend paused briefly over his pâté. "But, you did," he replied.

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to the Danish Athletic Club?"

I went to dine at one of my favorite places in New York City, the Danish Athletic Club in Bay Ridge, just before Christmas. I had heard it might close at the end of the year. But the lovably ornery woman who runs the restaurant, Reidun Thompson, assured me she was keeping it going, at least a couple years, and all the reports had been wrong. Here's my Eater report:

Who Goes There? Danish Athletic Club

People speaking Danish in a New York restaurant isn't such a rare thing. The city get tourists of all types, and they patronize our dining establishments plenty. But Danes sitting next to Danish-Americans is perhaps something you'll only see at the Danish Athletic Club in Bay Ridge.

Never heard of it? You're not alone. The club is a well-hidden remnant of Bay Ridge's powerful past as a Scandinavian stronghold. Next door to the DAC is the Swedish Football Club, and a few blocks away is the Norwegian Sporting Gjøa Club. Membership in each is small and dwindling. But the Danes' outfit has an advantage. It is the only one of the three that still has a working restaurant on the premises. Those who venture inside the low-slung, nondescript building on 65th Street will find some of the best (only?) Scandinavian comfort food in New York. Fish pudding, meat cakes (called Kjottkaker), pot roast, sweet and sour cabbage, perfectly boiled potatoes, cream of cauliflower soup, rice pudding. And lingonberries with everything. A bountiful, and very filling, meal can be had for under $20. In fact, it's impossible to spend more than $20, unless you order two dinners.

The dining room is either cozy or shabby, depending on your point of view. If you've ever eaten in a church basement, or a Midwestern supper club, you'll get the idea. A collection of square and round tables covered with red tablecloths; wood-paneled walls; some blue Royal Copenhagen plates on the wall; and a pillared wooden partition, dividing the dining room from the darkened bar, that is punctuated with wooden cutouts shaped like Viking ships. Out in the hall, you can wistfully examine many large, black-and-white photos depicting the grand dinners of DAC's more prosperous past. You host, Reidun Thompson, an energetic but no-nonsense women who moved to Brooklyn from Norway in the early '60s, is usually seated at a nearby table reading the paper or going through mail. She'll take your order and bring your food.

The Danish Athletic Club always seems to be on its last legs. Recently, there were some reports that it would close by the end of the year. Thompson strongly contradicted this news as pure rumor.

What Scandinavian population there is left in Bay Ridge is aging. So the diners you'll see here—almost entirely club members and locals—have some frost on the roof and a few extra notches on their belt. Most nights only a few tables are occupied, but I've been told that the place is packed from time to time. Those who do come seem to treat the place as their living room. Spouses will bicker and old friends will loudly converse and casually roam about the room. Lingering is not discouraged. One recent guest insisted on a bit of formality, asking for the check. "It's what it is for everybody," said Thompson from her chair. "$17.40." "What do you need a check for?" the guest's friend asked in disbelief. "It's not like we're at Hinsch's."

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to The Lenox Lounge?"

The news that Harlem's iconic Lenox Lounge would close on Dec. 31 sent me out to the legendary boite for my latest "Who Goes There?" column. It's a first for the column in a way, in that few people think of the place as a restaurant; it's a jazz club first and foremost. However, they do serve full meals in the Zebra Room in the back.

Here's the article: 

Who Goes There? The Lenox Lounge 

Word has gotten out that the Lenox Lounge will close on December 31. When I visited on a Wednesday night a few months ago, there were a dozen or so attendees taking in the strains of the Nate Lucas organ trio. This past Wednesday, the iconic Harlem jazz joint was wall-to-wall.

There were plenty of regulars. You could tell when they slipped in because Lucas would take his fingers off the Hammond organ for a second to shake their hands or acknowledge a back slap (all without missing a beat, of course). You could also tell the travelers and first-timers as well. They were young, largely white, and had that wide-eyed look of people who have just entered an unfamiliar, darkened room and are waiting for their eyes to adjust. There were European tourists who were not shy with their video camera, and bespectacled, middle-aged, single-beer-nursing ladies in glasses who looked like they had escaped from the library. But mainly there were thin, white guys who had dragged their uncomprehending, blasé dates up to Lenox for a slice of real, get-it-while-you-can New York culture.

Lucas and company took it all in with a shrug, applying their natural swing to a series of Christmas tunes ("I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"). In the second set, they were joined by an also sax man and then, later, someone on the conga drum. The band kept growing. When they launched into Stevie Wonder's "I Wish," the roof almost came off the place. Over their shoulders, passersby on the sidewalk read the framed notices, telling of the Lounge's storied history, that were perched in the art deco, over-shaped window. They peered through the glass, the ash on the cigarette they drew on matching the red neon reading "Restaurant in Rear."

About half the tables in that restaurant—the famous Zebra Room—were filled, people getting their fill of fried chicken and waffles, and crab cakes. I sat at the bar and had fried chicken wings, which were not remarkable in any way. But no one comes to Lenox for the food. Certainly, not the well-cushioned woman who sat next to me. I swear she was on the same bar stool the last time I was here. She bought glass after glass of bad white wine, her back to the band. She listened closely to what Lucas was laying down, and moved a bit when the groove was good. But she never turned around to look at them. No need. She's seen them plenty of times.

The bartender served up beers, goblets of red wine, gin and tonics, highballs and an occasional Martini. The cupboards in the back bar behind him were labeled "gin cabinet," "Cognac cabinet," "vodka cabinet." The floor has a trap door as the end, and when the barkeep ran out of anything, he would descend into that netherworld.

Lucas, ending the second set, took a break and headed to the Zebra Room. Some of the newbies filed out; they'd had their taste. Other virgins filed in. The regulars stayed put in the curved banquettes along the south wall. Prime real estate. Hang on to it. Hang on to it while you can. 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Remembering the Victims of Sandy

Reading the Eater coverage of the number of NYC restaurants still closed because of Hurricane Sandy boggles the mind. So many classic, priceless destinations. Hundreds of years of New York history. All hanging in the balance. It's a cultural catastrophe.

The list of closures made me think of the wonderful times I've had at many of these restaurants and bars. An alarming number of the victims are former "Who Goes There?" subjects, including Randazzo's Clam Bar in Sheepshead Bay, Gargiulo's in Coney Island, and Capsouto Freres in Tribeca, not to mention favorites like Totonno's pizzeria and Sunny's Bar. If you have the time, take a look at these past columns and remember what's great and irreplaceable about these places. Then, when they manage to reopen, patronize them. Order a lot of food and leave big tips.

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Dominick's?"

My latest "Who Goes There?" column for Eater takes me back to The Bronx's Belmont neighborhood for the first time since I visited Mario's two years ago. As chance would have it, Dominick's is right across the street from Mario's. Between those two times, I managed to get to Liebman's Deli in Riverdale. Next time, maybe Morris Park or City Island.

Who Goes There? Dominick's Restaurant

An old Italian lady gets out of her car on Arthur Avenue. With her is a woman on crutches. She is younger but somehow less spry. "So, where shall we eat?" asks the younger woman. "Well," says the old lady in a voice of authority, "there's Dominick's—that's one."

There's Dominick's. The Arthur Avenue area of the Bronx boasts many fine, and not so fine, Italian restaurants. But when you think of the street, a few names pop up immediately and always: Mario's, Roberto's, and Dominick's. I've had good food at all three, but at Dominick's you also get an experience. It is one of those New York eating institutions with its own don't-ask-just-eat way of doing things. Basically a Roman tavola calde removed to The Bronx, seating is communal and—if you're not a regular who long ago memorized the bill of fare—you have to rely on the waiter to find out what was cookin'. Prices remain a mystery until the waiter announces how much you owe at the end of the meal. And you pay in cash; no cards accepted.

Things have changed a bit in the past year or so. There actually is a single menu now, with prices, displayed outside the restaurant. "We put it there last year," explained my waiter. "That way, people who don't know can study it and figure out what they want before they come in." Exactly what I did. Others, however, weren't so happy about the change. As a large group of thirtysomething men—obviously natives of the neighborhood returning for a visit—filed in, one spotted the menu. "Prices?!" he snorted in disbelief. "When did that happen?"

If you ignore the menu and sit down not knowing what you want, be prepared for the waiter to unroll his spiel. "You like pasta? We got got pasta with white clam sauce, with red clam sauce. We've got chicken scarpariello, chicken marsala, chicken francese. You want veal? Veal parmigiana, veal picatta, veal sorrentino, veal and potatoes." He'll keep going until to pick something. Often, uninitiated diners just give in and have the waiter decide. He usually chooses well.

I knew what I wanted: Linguini all Gianni (with diced shrimp and clams, one of the best pasta dishes in the city), and sides of sausage and broccoli rabe. All were delicious, and I couldn't finish any of it; portions are huge. The wine ("red"—no other specifications) came in a juice glass, and the espresso came in the same sort of glass. Neither were good, but I loved the way they were served.

Dominick's, which is run by Charlie DiPaolo, was founded on the location it now occupies about 50 years ago. Old photos show a sweet wood-marble-and-tile place that looks more like a cafe, and was called Caputo's. Stools, tea tables, big coffee urn. That place is gone. The relatively charmless interior of today is one of generic artwork and everyday decor. (Specifics on the joint's history are hard to find.)

The place is routinely packed, with both locals, and, more commonly, people who used to be locals and now make a point of eating there whenever they're back in the borough or back in the city. Celebrities often stop by on their way back from attending a Yankees game (Adam Sandler) or playing in one (A-Rod). Based on the faces of the non-famous diners, you'd think that Arthur Avenue was still a purely Italian-American community. That said, there is some diversity among the clientele, and all are made welcome. Even an obvious non-Bronxer like myself. "$39," said my waiter when I asked to settle up. I left the money on the table. "So, I guess we'll see you again, huh?" he said as I reached for the door. Yes, I guess you will. 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to John's Pizzeria?"

As the number of artisanal pizza options has risen in New York City over the last decade—as well as the pitch of the debate as to which serves the best and most authentic pie—I've come to rely on, and cherish, old standbys more and more: Totonno's, Arturo's, Patsy's, Sam's, and, of course, John's in Greenwich Village. Here's my latest "Who Goes There?" column from Eater:

Who Goes There? John's Pizzeria

John's Pizzeria doesn't get the respect accorded to other old New York pizza institutions, like Patsy's, Totonno's, or Di Fara. Nor does it get its due as a Greenwich Village icon the way places like the White Horse Tavern, Village Vanguard, or Cafe Reggio do. This, I imagine, is because it's a tourist magnet and perpetually filled to the gills with regular (i.e., uncool) people.

But, for me, John's holds up. The plain pie is not the city's crowing achievement of the pizzaiola's art. But it's good enough to be a standard bearer. The tang of its sauce and the char of the crust are remarkably consistent; the coal-fired brick ovens are still doing their job. I've never had an unsatisfying pie there. And, unlike Lombardi's—another landmark in New York pizza history, but one that is now a theme-park shell of what it once was—John's has retained its character. The main room—with its high, red tin ceilings, twitching ceiling fans, vintage concert posters, and battered wooden booths etched with the names of decades of whittling patrons—is simply one of the greatest, New Yorkiest spaces in the city. One can imagine the Italian denizens of Bleecker Street eating here in the 1930s and '40s; the jazzmen and beatniks of the '50s; the folkies and flower children of the '60s. History lives here.

Despite its reputation as a fave of the weekend bridge-and-tunnel tribe, John's still gets plenty of locals. It also attracts a lot of families, because no one blinks at kids being kids here. I recently dined here with eight tweens, and they couldn't have felt more at home. They inhaled the slices and happily poured themselves glass after glass of Coke from plastic pitchers. They also found the ancient bathrooms an infinite source of fascination.

John's was founded in 1929 by John Sasso, who reportedly learned his trade at Lombardi's (as did the founders of Totonno's and Patsy's). The original pizzeria was on Sullivan Street. When Sasso lost his lease, he dismantled the brick oven and moved it to the present location on Bleecker. There it has stayed. Sasso sold the pizzeria to his brother in 1955. It was eventually taken over, in 1973, by Sasso's great-grandnephews, Peter Castellotti and Robert Vittoria. It's still run by Peter (who was born in a building directly across the street from the restaurant) and his children, Peter Jr. and Lisa. During the Castellotti reign, John's began to expand. There are now three other restaurants, including a massive one in a former church space in Times Square. The latter is always swamped, with 45 minutes waits, because it's one of the only affordable eating options in the Theatre District. The pizza, however, doesn't match what's served up on Bleecker Street. You can't duplicate the effects of an 83-year-old oven. 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to El Quijote"?

Twenty-four years in New York and I finally made it into El Quijote. What took me so long? I don't know. Something about the joint always seemed a bit cheesy to me. Maybe I associated it too much with the too-bohemian-by-half residents of the Chelsea Hotel. Also, the prices didn't help. If the dining experience was going to be a miss, I would be out $50 in the experiment. Now, of course, I wish I hadn't been so standoffish. El Quijote has a lovely, frozen-in-time interior and not bad food at all. Here's my Eater write-up:

Who Goes There? El Quijote

El Quijote is one of those restaurants you pass by a hundred times, occasionally peering into a darkened window as if into a mysterious cave, but rarely go inside. Because, you know, that cave's always gonna be there. One can go spelunking another day.

But El Quijote, which was founded in 1930, may not be as permanently affixed to 23rd Street as we'd all like to hope. It is, after all, taking up ground floor space in the historic Chelsea Hotel, which is now owned by real estate developer Joseph Chetrit. The plans for the old hotel are not clear, but most expect the spaces inside will be converted to condos. Either way, there are few people living inside the landmark anymore, according to my bartender.

The fact that there are empty rooms above has not hurt El Quijote's business. Its base of regulars runs wide and deep throughout lower Manhattan. "We've been here for 80 years," said the maitre d' simply, indicating with a shrug that my question required no answer. On a recent Wednesday, the lane of tables and booths on the front room's western end was quickly filled up with twosomes and foursome: old, young, friends, married, work colleagues. Those who arrived late or without reserved tables were exiled to the Siberias of the Cervantes Room and Dulcinea Room. The restaurant, as you can tell from those names, goes in for the Don Quixote schtick in a big way; the west wall mural is all windmills and dozens of Man of La Mancha statuettes clutter the shelf above the bar. Back in 1967,New York Times restaurant critic Craig Claiborne was already commenting on the joint's "certain tawdry appeal."

Not willing to accept a table in the back rooms, I decided to eat at the bar. I felt like I was in a scene from a Douglas Sirk film. El Quijote is a calming place. The ceiling are high and the lights are low. The waiters wear black jackets, and the muzak soundtrack never ventures past the hit parade of 1960.

My bartender was ignorant of many of the mainly meat and seafood choices on the menu. He only knew what he liked, and he liked "to eat heavy." He recommended the sirloin tips for an appetizer. They came on a sizzling pan, with plenty of hot peppers and were not bad at all. Also quite decent was the crab cake, "from a recipe by owner Manny Ramirez" (the director of my "dining fantasy," the menu told me). It was moist and tender almost to the edge of soppiness.

Less impressive was the Margarita, which the eatery boasts is the best in town. It is, in fact, only average. They do, however, let you choose your tequila. (Once upon a time, the restaurant used to send up Margaritas to the residents of the hotel.) Also to avoid is the "Secret Sangria," which derives from a "coveted recipe." I saw the coveted recipe in action. It involves the bartender upending any stray red wine dregs into a plastic pitcher. I did not see anyone order the "Daily Double," in which $33 buys a person two one-and-a-quarter-pound lobsters; or the 56 oz. porterhouse steak. The bartender said he once saw a man eat the latter all by himself.

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Lexington Candy Shop?"

If I lived in the neighborhood, I'd go to Lexington Candy Shop three times a weeks. As it is, I live about an hour's subway ride away. But still, I'm glad it's there, and that there is still a living yardstick in the city for how shakes, malteds, Cokes, lime rickeys and million other soda fountain staples are supposed to taste.

Here's my Eater "Who Goes There?" column:

Who Goes There? Lexington Candy Shop

I got to thinking about the Lexington Candy Shop after I heard recently that its longtime neighbor, Lascoff Drugs, had closed over the summer. The two businesses had operated a block apart on Lexington in the lowers 80s for 87 years — Lascoff was founded in 1899, Lexington Candy Shop in 1925. The drug store's death made me want to hop the 6 train to make sure the old luncheonette was doing OK.

The place was as I remembered it, a classic New York soda fountain frozen in the 1940s; a shotgun diner with a long counter lined with stools and a L-shaped row of cozy booths, the formica tables sometimes separated by wooden partitions or metal coat racks. The menu was spelled out in white plastic letters behind glass at the top of the wall behind the counter. The walls were covered with old framed menus and shots from films and ads that had used the candy shop as a backdrop ("Three Days of the Condor," "The Nanny Diaries"). The waitresses were dressed in pink blouses, and third-generation owner John Philis was dressed humbly in a white jacket and apron. Philis is always there, as far as I can tell. With his kind, doughy face, full head of graying hair and slightly world-weary expression, he looks like a soda fountain owner from central casting. He's a comforting presence.

Lexington Candy Shop was started by John's grandfather Soterios and Tami Naskos. Soterios' son Peter joined in 1930. In 1990, John entered into a partnership with Bob Karcher. Though it serves the sort of diner food you'd expect, the owners fuss over its quality and authenticity and want to make sure you know it. The menu tells you all the juices are fresh squeezed daily; the chicken and egg and other salads are homemade every morning; the ice cream has been brought in from the same age-old Philadelphia maker, Bassetts, for decades; the bread come from nearby Orwasher's Bakery, which is older than the luncheonette; the Cokes are made with seltzer and a real shot of pumped cola syrup; and, perhaps most importantly of all, the malteds are made the old-fashioned way, with real malted milk powder (out of a malted milk dispenser). They are whipped up for a good long time in a vintage 1940 Hamilton Beach mixer and brought to your table in the metal tin. The contents of the tin easily fill your glass at least three times. If you want an idea of how New Yorkers used to eat 60 years ago, this isn't a bad place to start.

Though I have heard that the place swarms with privileged UES parents and their progeny on the weekends, on a weekday it seemed to act as a port in a storm for the neighborhood's less well-heeled. At both breakfast and lunch, several solitary old men parked themselves at the counter for a leisurely meal, and read the paper or chatted with the staff. Some came in just to try their luck at Lotto. The same sort of men probably patronized the joint back in the 1940s. They were evident regulars. One fellow I saw was there at both breakfast and lunch (as I was). Maybe he never left. At lunch, local businessmen talked shop over sandwiches, and an elderly couple tottered in. The youngest patrons were a Belgian couple who posed for pictures with the waitress. (The restaurant closes at 7 p.m., so it doesn't have much or a dinner crowd.)

"We get people from the local area," that waitress told me, "and tourists from all over the world. And our local 'celebrities' come in. People who came here in high school with their parents now come in with their kids."

Oh, any candy? Yes, they sell candy. It's the kind you can buy most anywhere, Lifesavers and such. Ironically, candy is probably the least important thing about the Lexington Candy Shop. 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Roll-N-Roaster?"

Sheepshead Bay has gotten some decent coverage in this column. Randazzo's Clam Bar, Brennan & Carr, and now B&C's longtime rival in roast beef, Roll-N-Roaster. I prefer Brennan, food- and atmosphere-wise. But, my, R-N-R is a lot of fun. If I lived nearby, I'd bring my son all the time. There's an air of both partytime and family reunion to the place.

Here's my Who Goes There? column:

Who Goes There? Roll-N-Roaster 

"Get some cheese!" bellowed the young man in the booth at his friend, who was headed for the counter at Roll-N-Roaster. "For the fries!"

Roast beef is the raison d'être of this curious Sheepshead Bay fast-food institution, which has only one location and a lot of un-fast-foody characteristics. But gooey, drippy cheese — or "cheez," as it is always spelled here, even in the neon signs — plays an important role as well. "You can have cheez on anything you pleez," declares a sign. Cheez on a sandwich is fifty cents. Cheez on "pickle chips"—the odd potato disks that are Roll n Roaster's version of french fries—costs 35 cents. "Cheez in a cup" will set you back a dollar.

The woman standing next to me knows about the cheez. She always orders the Cheezburger. "It's worth the wait," she said. And wait she did. At Roll-N-Roaster, they don't start making the burger until you order it, so it can take eight minutes to come out. The roast beef sandwich — the joint's most popular item — arrives with more speed. It's drier and not as flavorful as the one at Sheepshead Bay's other temple of roast beef, Brennan & Carr, but at $5 it's a bargain. The concept of "fresh" is very big here. The orange juice is "freshly squeezed," the iced tea is "freshly brewed," the cole slaw is "freshly made," the apple pie is "freshly baked."

Like some other New York food landmarks—like Katz's Deli and Marchi's—Roll-N-Roaster has its own quirky way of doing business. You approach a cashier, place your order and receive a ticket. You then back up and wait until it's ready, picking up the food at a different station. Everyone knows the drill. My cashier was a bored Russian teenager who knew nothing about the place where she works, and looked as excited as any McDonald's drone. But this ain't McDonald's. Every kid who goes to the golden arches doesn't get a balloon. And McDonald's doesn't have a birthday wheel where you can "spin and win" anywhere between $5 and $25. You also can't order Moët Champagne for $59.99, as you can at Roll-N-Roaster — though who drinks Champagne with roast beef and corn fritters, I do not know.

Though I was told that people come from all over the city to eat here, the crowd looked pretty local to me. Regular Brooklyn folks. Many older people, but also teenage high schoolers on dates. One big-bellied father started rhapsodizing about the first time he visited the restaurant. His family, familiar with the old story, wasn't listening. At a booth, a friend stood and chatted with a seated diner as casually as if they were standing on their back deck. "How's Carl?" asked one. "He's retired. After 28 years," was the reply. "What as?" "A captain, and that's good money. I know." Cops like this place. Kids like it to. They run around and play games. No one stops them, because there's more than enough room. Following two additions over the year, Roll n Roaster is cavernous.

After I finished my roast beef and pickle chips, I lingered. The place is made for lingering. Finally, I grew hungry again. Curious about the cheezburger the woman has praised, I ordered one. It took a long time. But it was pretty good. Next time, maybe, the Champagne. With cheez. 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Piccolo Venezia?"

"Who Goes There?" readers have been urging me to go to Piccolo Venezia for three years. I finally did earlier this month. I should have gone a lot earlier. This place is great (if too expensive). There are red sauce joints and there are red sauce joints. Some have atmosphere. Others actually have great food. Piccolo has great food. If I lived in the neighborhood, I'd go all the time. If I could afford it.

Who Goes There? Piccolo Venezia

The general feeling you get upon walking into the dining room of Piccola Venezia —Astoria's middle-of-nowhere outpost of Northern Italian cuisine—is of rampant happiness. "Hello! Welcome!" boomed the smiling maitre d'. "I like that hat!" The tables are surrounding by people who are are happy to be with one another, and have obviously congregated here before.

There are a number of large round tables. One was surrounding by 13 members of an extended family celebrating a birthday. Another next to it hosted a group of eight former high school pals, now all middle-aged. At a four-top, four graying old men leaned forward over full glasses of red wine, filling each other in on the recent events in their lives. The wine bucket near them, full of empties, betrayed that they, like many other, knew the restaurant as a destination for those who follow Wine Spectator.

The wines are a relative bargain here. The food is not. Prices on most every entree soar above $25. But that doesn't stop the patrons from ordering heaps of seafood, a specialty here (name your fish and tell them how you like it—they'll prepare it), and osso buco, which my waiter and the owner told me was the best in town. I haven't tried every osso buco in town, but I'm going to go with them on this one. The meat was unbelievably tender, the sauce deeply flavorful, and the big, Trieste-style gnocchi peerless. It was $33, and it was worth it.

The waiters, who wear black pants and red vests, proclaim their experience through their careworn faces. These are career men. Some were very likely hired on when Ezio Vlacich opened the place in 1973. A native and tireless booster of Trieste ("The best food in Italy! A little Italian, a little Austrian, a little German!"), he still oversees the service. Dressed in suit and tie, Vlacich visits every table, whether occupied with regulars or strangers, to see if you're enjoying your self. Say something nice about Trieste, and he might kiss your hand.

If you want to know exactly who goes here, all you have to do is peruse the hundreds of little gold plaques that line the chair rail around the room. Come here often enough and you'll get one. (I've seen this sort of homage at only one other NYC restaurant: Midtown's Pietro's.) There are individuals (Eddie Goldblatt, Peter & Anne, Margie & Barry Forrest), clan names (The Rodin Family, The Welzs Family) and companies (City Ride Transportation Family, Julius Fine or Fine & Klein), indicating that this is a favored place for business meals.

In the men's bathroom, a couple of guys from the round table of erstwhile high-school chums were rhapsodizing about the meal that just was. "I'm gonna say something," slurred the ringleader of the group. "Yeah?" replied his friend. "I'm gonna make a bold statement. Maybe the boldest ever!" "Yeah?" "We came here. We all came here and got together and we did it. We made it happen. Here. On sacred ground. This is sacred ground."

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost Asks "Who Goes to Tom's Restaurant?"

Finally got around to doing a "Who Goes There?" about the Prospect Heights classic, Tom's Restaurant.

Who Goes There? Tom's Restaurant 

I am sitting in the morning at the diner on the corner. I wasn't waiting at the counter (I was at a table) or for the man to pour the coffee. I order a cherry lime rickey and it came pretty fast.

I was at Tom's Restaurant, a landmark diner in Prospect Heights since 1936. It's the kind of place where people order cherry lime rickeys and egg creams, not to mention breakfast all day, because they can. Near my table was a framed picture of the lyrics to "Tom's Diner." At the bottom, Suzanne Vega had signed it, "I Came. I Saw. I Wrote."

But she didn't. As much as I love Tom's Restaurant, and wish Vega's 1990 hit had been about it, the song was about Tom's Diner on The Upper West Side. You know, the "Seinfeld" diner. Vega herself has said so. So what's she doing giving Tom's Restaurant the credit? And what's Tom's Restaurant doing taking the credit? Curious.

But you have to expect a little bogus myth-making at a place this old. It opened as Lewnes, an ice cream parlor. Tom Vlahavas took it over in the 1940s. He's the Tom of the name, though the diner wasn't called that at first. Son Gus took over for Tom, and Gus himself retired last year, moving to Colorado. Gus sold the place to a nephew, Jimmy Kokotas. So it's still in the family.

There's a lot of stained-glass inside Tom's. I assume this is a relic from the place's ice cream parlor days. There are also great many flags, Christmas lights and plants, both real and fake. (One tree outside was planted in memory of old Tom.) These circus-is-in-town factors tend to obscure some of the restaurant's lovelier architectural aspects—the lovely, battered tilework on the floor; the oddly constructed wooden booths, which somehow evoke train travel; the old, now sadly unworking phone booth.

My waiter says people come from Manhattan and Queens to eat here. But it looked like mainly locals during my recent visit. Families with their kids, old folks with their spouses, young couples, solo diners (Tom's does not mind if one person takes up an entire booth), and small gangs of roving hipsters. Some have obviously been coming here for decades. Others were so new that they stared at their egg creams like they were archeological relics. A sign forbid the use of cell phones, some couldn't help themselves and resorted to texting.

The staff is inordinately cheerful, and is happy to relate the joint's history and extol the virtues of the many, many dishes, particularly the enormous number of breakfast entrees. I almost ordered the Salisbury steak because, outside of frozen dinners, who serves Salisbury steak anymore? My waiter told me more meatloaf was sold than Yankee pot roast, but more brisket was sold than meat loaf. You can't argue with the people, so I go the brisket. It was diner brisket. Not bad, moderately flavorful, with fluffy mashed potatoes and fresh, crisp broccoli. It was worth what I paid, which wasn't much.

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Prime Burger?

I used this week's "Who Goes There?" column on Eater to pay my respects to Prime Burger, which is closing today, Saturday, May 26. Here's an account of my visit:

Who Goes There?

This week, some genius landlord (New York's full of genius landlords these days, you know) decided it was time to boot out the Midtown hamburger haven Prime Burger after three-quarters of a century in business. The end comes Saturday for the diner institution, so during a recent Thursday lunch, the E. 51st Street place was packed with emotional noshers. Every time one of the wacky, grade-school-desk-like, single-seater booths became free, it was quickly reoccupied. The line to pay checks—actually mini-menus on which the waiters scrawl their hieroglyphics—was never less than ten people long. Most paused at the cash register to buy a Prime Burger t-shirt. That would be their last chance.

Everyone was taking pictures. Waiters took pictures of patrons. Patrons hugged waiters as they left. And why not? Most of the regulars have been eating there for decades, and most of the staff has been working there just as long. "How long have you been coming here?" asked the cashier as he gave a sharp-beaked, pear-shaped customer his change. "About 30 years," the man answered. "It was easier when I worked down the block." "I've been here 36 years," said the cashier. "I counted it up the other day. I didn't think it was that long. Time flies."

Signs were posted all over informing diners that Prime Burger had lost its home. The one on the front door betrayed a less-advertised detail of the eatery's history. It said PB was closing after 74 years in business, but if you peeled back the pasted-on "74" you found the number "47." A diner did open here in 1938, but it was Hamburger Heaven. They're the ones that installed the desk-like booths. Prime Burger took over the space in 1965. So saying they're been serving you since 1938 is a bit of a fib. Still, 47 years is plenty old and, bottom line, burgers have been flipped here since LaGuardia was Mayor.

At Prime Burger, the human pageant could be mistaken for one from the 1940s. Neither the eaters nor the servers are beautiful, nor do they seem to feel the need to be so. The crowd looks like they work for a living, and it's no doubt that they do. For Prime Burger is that dying breed of Manhattan restaurant—a lunch joint (it closes early). Wage-slaves come here for a cheap midday repast. There aren't many other sit-down choices in Midtown where you won't go broke. The waiters just look like waiters, not models. They're middle-aged or old. They have high pompadours, Coke-bottle glasses, graying hair, and stooped shoulders. Their formal white jackets are worn and faded. But they lay down a napkin quick and bring your food quicker. If they don't, they apologize. There's a dignity there.

The clientele are mainly from the area, mostly regulars who are employed nearby. Many have been coming for decades. But, given Prime Burger's location right next to St. Patrick's Cathedral, they also get a lot of tourists. The air is filled with a potpourri of languages. While I was there, a group of nine German teenagers came in. They may have been there because they read Prime Burger was closing. But I'm guessing they didn't have a clue. Having just seen the big church, they were hungry. Where there's a line, there must be good food, right? They pointed at the curious booths in wonder and chatted in German, the only English word peppering their speech being "burger."

Menu-wise, most people don't stray far from the burgers and fries. I had two patties myself. I always spoon on some of the homemade red relish found at every table in an odd silver dish, because it's special to the place. Although I'm never sure if it's a good idea. I did so again this final visit. I'm still not positive it was a good idea. But Prime Burger is a good idea. It always was. And that landlord? Well, he's a @#$% genius. That's what he is.

—Brooks of Sheffield 

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Lupe's?"

I don't know why it never occurred to me before to spotlight old standby Mexican joints like Lupe's, The Hat and Maryann's in my "Who Goes There?" column. I guess it's because I just take them for granted and never think of them disappearing. Also, all three were newish when I moved to New York. So I don't think of them as old, because to do so would me that I am, uh, old. Oh well. Time to face up to it: Lupe's has been around for 25 years. Here's my column:

Who Goes There? Lupe's 

When I was new to New York and dating my future wife, there were three Mexican joints we frequented fairly regularly: El Sombrero (The Hat) on the Lower East Side; Maryann's in the East Village; and Lupe's in Soho. Amazingly, for this changeable city, all three are still around, doing pretty much what they did during the Dinkins administration.

When Lupe's opened a quarter century ago on the picturesque and somewhat out-of-the-way corner of Sixth Avenue and Watts Street, Soho was still the art center of Manhattan. Now the neighborhood's choked with boutiques instead of galleries. But the clientele at Lupe's is still as youthful and hipsterish as it ever was, and the prices are just as cheap. Cheap in a very un-Soho way.

Not every one of the diners filling the colorful booths and tables, however, has a goatee and a porkpie hat. The brisk lunch trade brings in office workers in dress shirts and ties, firemen and construction workers. Another important source of trade is the Hamptons Hotel down the block. Italian, French and German tourists residing there have discovered Lupe's as a satisfactory source of inexpensive sustenance. They could do a lot worse. Over the years, Lupe's has often struck me as a picture-perfect example of what an out-of-towner might imagine a local New York eatery looks like.

The decor, with its retro formica tables, mock shrines, 1950s Spanish album covers, and rows of colorful Jarrito sodas, must have seemed hiply ironic in the late '80s. But you can't be ironic forever, and after all these years the surroundings have faded into a kind of composite comfort cocoon of safely cool cultural references.

Lupe's is still run by David Seixas and Shash Blount, who founded it; they also own Boca Chica in the East Village. My waiter, who'd been there ten years, told me the restaurant doesn't think of its cuisine as necessarily Mexican, but its own breed of "American-Mexican. We try to be unique." Be that as it may, the menu is full of burritos, enchiladas, tacos and tamales, and there's nothing here that's going to surprise a New Yorker tastebud. That's probably how the regulars like it.

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Frankie & Johnnie's?"

It's really hard for me to forgive Frankie & Johnnie's for what they did to the great old second floor bar. But if it helped keep the old Times Square steakhouse open, I guess the desecration can be understood. And I'd rather eat here more than just about any other place in the area before seeing a Broadway show. Here's my "Who Goes There?" column:

Who Goes There? Frankie & Johnnie's Steakhouse

After Sardi's, Frankie & Johnnie's ranks as the oldest surviving eatery in the Theatre District. It was founded in 1926 and has seen a lot of flops and hits, and the actors who starred in them. It was a speakeasy in its early years, according to lore. A few years ago, the place was almost lost to the city when the Shuberts, who own the property, began tearing down every building around it in hopes of erecting a hotel on the plot. But the economy tanked before the theatre owners could get to Frankie's, and the steakhouse won a last-minute reprieve. (Ironically, the Shubert execs loved Frankie's. They often ate and held meetings at the restaurant. Never trust a landlord.)

Despite having dodged the wrecking ball, the owners of Frankie's nonetheless found a way to wreck the joint themselves. Soon after being saved, they ripped out the old hidden bar upstairs—a wonderful, ramshackle little getaway if you knew how to find it, where Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lanskey once drank alongside John O'Hara and Frank Sinatra, and Jason Robards Jr. pilloried Richard Nixon to his face. They then installed a faceless, blah bar on the ground floor, and scrubbed up and widened the entrance to the old staircase that winds it way up to the tidy, second-floor dining area.

These renovations were mistakes, and noticeably decreased the seedy charm of the place. Still, Frankie & Johnnie's retains more charm than most. Tucked away 15 feet above Eighth Avenue, its small windows shaded, it still feels like a speakeasy, the most Runyonesque of Times Square eateries. The bill of fare remains avowedly old school. "I haven't seen calves liver on a menu in years!" said my brother during a recent dinner. (He doesn't get to many New York steakhouses.) He could have said the same about the creamed spinach, clams casino, mushroom caps or any number of long-standing F&J specialties.

The steaks here aren't the best in New York, but they're not the worst. I always have the petit filet mignon and I always enjoy it. And the creamed spinach rocks. So do the ridiculous number (eight) of potato side dishes. If you can't find a potato preparation you like here, you just don't like potatoes. Eating ain't cheap. Meat entrees start in the 20s and head up to the 50s. And you can't escape by ordering pasta. Somehow, penne with chicken merits a $26 pricetag.

There was a Frankie and a Johnnie at one time. Ownership passed down through the Johnnie line until waiter Peter Chimos bought the joint in 1985. Some of the present waiters are as old as Chimos. The hands of mine shook as he placed down my steak, but he was otherwise polite and attentive. He told me that the restaurant's many regulars stretch well beyond the Theatre District, or New York, or even the tri-state area. There are loyalists in every state, and when they come to New York, this is where they eat. And, of course, they still get their share of stage celebrities and politicians.

The Shuberts still own the building. Don't get me wrong, but I hope the economy doesn't improve too much. 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Brooklyn Heights' La Traviata Closes

La Traviata, a mainstay of Brooklyn Heights' Montague Street shopping strip for 34 years, has closed. Apparently, it shuttered last November, but I only just noticed. They lost their lease. Montague has become notorious in recent years for unrealistic rents and high business turnover. The landlords, greedy and short-sighted, never seem to learn. The space will reopen as a new eatery.

Lat Traviata was the subject of a May 2010 "Who Goes There?" column. Ralph Tommaso was the owner of the not-special but comforting restaurant.