FRANK ON SECOND AVENUE

[It's interesting how the recommendation of a restaurant can tell you so much about the recommender.]

NO!  I don't want to have dinner at an Italian restaurant! Italian food?  I've been cooking that all my life! I don't want to eat at any restaurant where I can make what they serve me!
 

Well, I ate my words (no pun intended).  I arrived at Frank on Second Avenue after walking all the way up Broadway from the Financial District . . . through the Village, over 4th Street and up Second Avenue.  Where was Frank?  Just across 5th Street.  A sign on the first door I came to said, 'Do not use this door.' Not very welcoming, I thought.  Okay.  Then what door? Went to the next door shielded by a plastic weather protector. Went through the plastic door, then the wooden windowed door and entered the space -- an old time, tiny, no reservations, barely any room restaurant with pressed tin ceilings

                                           Photo Credit: Frank on Second Avenue

(painted over in white -- remember those from the 1960's?).  The narrow room, not so long, with a short bar on the left, a large bright stained glass window at the far end, and between that window and the bar, a long wooden table which could seat a party of 20, or many small parties of 2 or 4.  I loved it!

Sidling between the wall and the bar, I walked to the end of the room (not a very long walk) where stood the fellow who seated folks.  I told him I was waiting for 3 friends; pleased, he walked me through the doorway on the right which opened onto a room about twice as wide as the one we had been in. 5 tables on each side and a narrow path down the middle leading to the front window and at that window, a table -- my favorite seating in a restaurant -- with a party of three, but not my party of three  -- although, I must say, I was most tempted to join that party after my 1.5 mile walk in 30 degree weather, and after all, it was time for dinner!  No, I said, disappointed that I had to admit the truth.  I don't know those people!  Oh, said the Maitre d' --  I'm so sorry, then I can't seat you until your party arrives.  I was so tempted to talk the sitting-in-the-window folks into including me in their party (and I have no doubt that they may have), but I decided to behave myself and wait. I only had to wait a half hour, standing in the first room next to the stained glass window, long enough for me to absorb the atmosphere of the restaurant (Italian restaurant, dimly lit, no tablecloths on the wooden tables, with rap blaring over the loudspeakers and Spanish spoken by the waiters).  In place of a printed menu, the menu was written in chalk on the blackboard to the right of the stained glass window.  I didn't even attempt to interpret the offerings (which were all in Italian) until my party arrived.  Which was soon enough.

As it turns out,  we were seated (not at the window in the next room which would have been my first choice, but) at the far end of the long wooden table bordering the stained glass window and the chalkboard, exactly where I had been standing.  (The lovely young woman who recommended the restaurant reported that the menu changed every day, guaranteeing that the food here is always freshly prepared.) There was a printed menu of appetizers, however, from which we ordered the Italian salad, a mix of fresh crisp greens (arugula and romaine lettuce), sliced tomatoes, sliced red onions and mozarella cheese --  [must have been dressed with an aged balsamic vinegar we agreed, because it was not heavy or sour but ever so vaguely sweet] and the Stracciatella [creamy mozarella cheese with a few slices of tomatoes and a delicious unidentifiable dressing].  Oh, and the waiter brought us freshly baked, crusty Italian bread with a small dish of bland olive oil in which dawdled a few black olives to nibble while we waited for our appetizers.

Can't remember all the choices listed on the blackboard, but the waiter went over every one, explaining with great patience the ingredients in each offering.  (For starters, all the pasta was made right there at the restaurant.)  We finally settled on fettuccine with rabbit ragout, tortellini with asiago cheese in a red sauce,  grilled calamari on black linguini with red sauce, and at my request, a specially prepared grilled calamari on black linguini with white sauce (not on the menu -- lots of fresh sliced garlic and good olive oil) --  delicious, I say, delicious.  Black pasta?  Oh, yes, the waiter said.  We make it ourselves with the ink from the calamari, you know.   (I shouldn't mention the dessert -- the Tiramisu -- because it was the only disappointment of the evening.)

On arriving back at the apartment, my husband realized, as he removed his jacket, that it wasn't his. . . he had taken the jacket on the top of the pile and never cast a second glance as the restaurant was dark and the jacket fit perfectly. Back to Frank by cab to return the jacket to its rightful owner (and, I suspect, to join the party of guys that had taken our places at the end of the table.)  There was a big cheer when he arrived with the host's jacket, he tells me, as everyone moved over to make room so that he could join the festivities!