"not quite Whitey Bulgar"
That title was a quote in an article forwarded to me by a friend. It was in reference to that Georgetown friend, Scott, who was part of the Slug's post one or two days ago. It has been chronicled here before.
There were many other places that we went. Two more that others are less familiar with are worth mentioning, at least to keep my fingers agile here on the keyboard. The first was an Irish bar area in the Bronx in the late 1960's that was a late night cataclysm. There was bar after bar down a street at the bottom a slightly rolling hill. When ordering a beer, you were given a chip next to your glass that meant the next one was free. More often that not when ordering another one, a chip was again placed down. It was an Irish drinker's paradise. I am one quarter Irish. My quarter was satiated that day.
The second was what a few others may have experienced. That was La Boeuf a la Mode, a French family owned restaurant that was a half block from the upper east side apartment building that was Scott's lifetime home. His parent's had an account there and even as a child, whenever he wanted he could walk there and get a meal, lunch dinner whatever. It was like a second home for him, and if meals count it was his home, away from his somewhat delinquent parents. The restaurant owners treated him and anyone with him in a special way. The menu was beside the point. What do you want was the question.
He took me there often on that post Europe visit and other times. In a twist, friends from Louisville were visiting in the early 1980's, extremely wealthy people who had an apartment on Fifth across from the Met who I knew through my tennis club in that cloistered city, and after drinks they asked where to go. I suggested La Boeuf and took them there, and they were stricken with delight with this hidden bistro. Those "friends", never seen again, most certainly used that as their surprise place many times, immensely knowledgeable about Manhattan that they were.
Dinner on the way here soon, suburban oriental fusion of sorts. It's ok.
There were many other places that we went. Two more that others are less familiar with are worth mentioning, at least to keep my fingers agile here on the keyboard. The first was an Irish bar area in the Bronx in the late 1960's that was a late night cataclysm. There was bar after bar down a street at the bottom a slightly rolling hill. When ordering a beer, you were given a chip next to your glass that meant the next one was free. More often that not when ordering another one, a chip was again placed down. It was an Irish drinker's paradise. I am one quarter Irish. My quarter was satiated that day.
The second was what a few others may have experienced. That was La Boeuf a la Mode, a French family owned restaurant that was a half block from the upper east side apartment building that was Scott's lifetime home. His parent's had an account there and even as a child, whenever he wanted he could walk there and get a meal, lunch dinner whatever. It was like a second home for him, and if meals count it was his home, away from his somewhat delinquent parents. The restaurant owners treated him and anyone with him in a special way. The menu was beside the point. What do you want was the question.
He took me there often on that post Europe visit and other times. In a twist, friends from Louisville were visiting in the early 1980's, extremely wealthy people who had an apartment on Fifth across from the Met who I knew through my tennis club in that cloistered city, and after drinks they asked where to go. I suggested La Boeuf and took them there, and they were stricken with delight with this hidden bistro. Those "friends", never seen again, most certainly used that as their surprise place many times, immensely knowledgeable about Manhattan that they were.
Dinner on the way here soon, suburban oriental fusion of sorts. It's ok.
posted by John Borden at 4:48 PM
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