A Squall on Third Avenue
447 Third Avenue
Pasticcio Restaurant
New York, NY.
447 Third Avenue
Pasticcio Restaurant
New York, NY.
I was at Pasticcio Restaurant on Third Avenue and 31st Street.
I was there for dinner last night and had the black pasta; it’s black from squid
ink and tasted exotic. I felt special eating squid ink with shrimp, sea bass,
cherry tomatoes, and calamari, pasta as black as the New York City February
sky.
The next day, Sunday, I worked out hard on machines and weights with my
friend Jeff at "H" Gym on East 34th street. Afterwards, he asked me where I
was planning on going to go for lunch. He was going to go to Amagansett,
Long Island, so I'd be alone again, like I am again and again; I'm so used to it
now that it seems completely normal.
So I told him I was going back to Pasticcio, and he said, “That's the same place
you had dinner last night, the black squid pasta.” I said, “I know… that's the
place where I go that most feels like home to me. I have my own table and I
know everybody and, when she is there, the Hungarian hostess just orders for
me. If the waiter is a new guy I just say, ‘Go see Anna. Tell her Mike is here and
she should order for me.’”
I came back again to my favorite eating place today and Daniel was there, the
Romanian head waiter. It was before 3 PM, that dead time between lunch and
dinner for restaurants, when I like to go out and get the best service.
“Daniel,” I said, “I'm such a loyal customer. I've been away from New York for
almost two months traveling America and with all the hundreds of restaurants I
could go to in New York City, I come back to Pasticcio two days in a row.”
Daniel said, “That's because we love you here, Mike!” There was a pause as
two men felt the discomfort of using the word love, and then I took over. I said,
“That's right, brother, its all about love. You do make me feel loved here and
the food is wonderful, the best on Third Avenue. That's why this place has
been here for almost 30 years.”
Then we started to talk about things like the Mafia being rounded up, the
presidential primaries, the grey weather, and an e-mail I’d gotten from a friend
in Boston this morning saying that snow squalls were up there. But, that was
"up there," and this is "down here," and weather from New England just
doesn't travel that fast; so I gave it no mind at all that we'd be hit with the same
stuff.
I began reading in the New York Times about long lost Ernest Hemingway
letters that he had written during World War I. The hotel where he was living in
Madrid was bombed nightly, and during that time he wrote his only two plays.
All of the sudden, the Boston squall appeared on Third Avenue, and for twenty
minutes it was like a blizzard. The South American cooks and waiters at
Pasticcio went out onto Third, started taking pictures of the snow storm, and
took a cigarette break and a walk to feel the snow on their faces.
Daniel came out and topped off my wine glass; he confidently said that in
twenty minutes the sun would be out again, and all of this would all be over. I
looked out onto snow-bombarded Third Avenue towards the missing-in-action
Empire State Building and took in the pretty sight of the snow collecting on
people’s hair and on the tops of their lidded coffee cups and baby strollers. A
city lived out of doors, caught by surprise and scrambling to adjust. It was a
sight of interest and wonder to behold; human beings adapting to the sudden
changes on an island where prediction is the way of life.
I put down the paper about Ernest Hemingway almost getting blown up nightly
in his hotel room and just looked at the heavy snow until the sun broke from
between the buildings on 29th and 30th streets. It was just as Daniel had
predicted, even though he's from Romania.
He told me to order the grouper, so I ordered the grouper. It was exceptional,
tasty, and fresh. The sun kept coming out just as the fish arrived, and
everything returned back to normal on Third Avenue in this most amazing of
cities of all cities.
I was there for dinner last night and had the black pasta; it’s black from squid
ink and tasted exotic. I felt special eating squid ink with shrimp, sea bass,
cherry tomatoes, and calamari, pasta as black as the New York City February
sky.
The next day, Sunday, I worked out hard on machines and weights with my
friend Jeff at "H" Gym on East 34th street. Afterwards, he asked me where I
was planning on going to go for lunch. He was going to go to Amagansett,
Long Island, so I'd be alone again, like I am again and again; I'm so used to it
now that it seems completely normal.
So I told him I was going back to Pasticcio, and he said, “That's the same place
you had dinner last night, the black squid pasta.” I said, “I know… that's the
place where I go that most feels like home to me. I have my own table and I
know everybody and, when she is there, the Hungarian hostess just orders for
me. If the waiter is a new guy I just say, ‘Go see Anna. Tell her Mike is here and
she should order for me.’”
I came back again to my favorite eating place today and Daniel was there, the
Romanian head waiter. It was before 3 PM, that dead time between lunch and
dinner for restaurants, when I like to go out and get the best service.
“Daniel,” I said, “I'm such a loyal customer. I've been away from New York for
almost two months traveling America and with all the hundreds of restaurants I
could go to in New York City, I come back to Pasticcio two days in a row.”
Daniel said, “That's because we love you here, Mike!” There was a pause as
two men felt the discomfort of using the word love, and then I took over. I said,
“That's right, brother, its all about love. You do make me feel loved here and
the food is wonderful, the best on Third Avenue. That's why this place has
been here for almost 30 years.”
Then we started to talk about things like the Mafia being rounded up, the
presidential primaries, the grey weather, and an e-mail I’d gotten from a friend
in Boston this morning saying that snow squalls were up there. But, that was
"up there," and this is "down here," and weather from New England just
doesn't travel that fast; so I gave it no mind at all that we'd be hit with the same
stuff.
I began reading in the New York Times about long lost Ernest Hemingway
letters that he had written during World War I. The hotel where he was living in
Madrid was bombed nightly, and during that time he wrote his only two plays.
All of the sudden, the Boston squall appeared on Third Avenue, and for twenty
minutes it was like a blizzard. The South American cooks and waiters at
Pasticcio went out onto Third, started taking pictures of the snow storm, and
took a cigarette break and a walk to feel the snow on their faces.
Daniel came out and topped off my wine glass; he confidently said that in
twenty minutes the sun would be out again, and all of this would all be over. I
looked out onto snow-bombarded Third Avenue towards the missing-in-action
Empire State Building and took in the pretty sight of the snow collecting on
people’s hair and on the tops of their lidded coffee cups and baby strollers. A
city lived out of doors, caught by surprise and scrambling to adjust. It was a
sight of interest and wonder to behold; human beings adapting to the sudden
changes on an island where prediction is the way of life.
I put down the paper about Ernest Hemingway almost getting blown up nightly
in his hotel room and just looked at the heavy snow until the sun broke from
between the buildings on 29th and 30th streets. It was just as Daniel had
predicted, even though he's from Romania.
He told me to order the grouper, so I ordered the grouper. It was exceptional,
tasty, and fresh. The sun kept coming out just as the fish arrived, and
everything returned back to normal on Third Avenue in this most amazing of
cities of all cities.
© 2007 by Michael Domino
