Laid Bare: Essays and Observations (13 page)

We said goodnight and he got into a cab. I decided to walk home and headed west just as the morning sky was fading from silver to rose.

I never saw or heard from the guest in the guest room again, so I don’t know if what he told me about who slept on the other side of that door was the truth or not.

But I really don’t care.

VINO E CUCINA

The beaded curtain clicked pleasantly behind me as I entered the restaurant. The streets outside were dusty and hot, the air humid and still; but here, under the vaulted ceiling, it was cool. A small table against the wall held an old plastic radio whose cord was plugged into an outlet in the ceiling. Next to the radio sat a small fan whirring silently as the breeze it created blew ribbons attached to the blade housing. The radio played Italian songs and the tunes were obscured by static whenever the fan reached a certain place in its sweep.

The room was clean, if spare. Four or five tables sat evenly spaced on the tiled floor, each laid with a blue checked cloth with a dark blue border and, over that, a sheet of heavy plastic. A capped bottle of water and a tall glass filled with packaged breadsticks sat on each table, along with two single-ply paper napkins folded into triangles. Mismatched chairs were pushed neatly underneath.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that five of the tables were empty. At the sixth sat an old lady dressed in black, her white hair tied in a tight bun and a pair of gloves resting on the table next to a black purse. Before her was a plate of food and a half-liter of wine. I nodded to her as I sat the table nearest the door, but she just sneered in response.

The owner emerged from the kitchen and greeted me in Italian. Neither of us spoke the other’s language, so he took me by the elbow to a table placed just outside the kitchen door. Here the dishes of the house were proudly displayed. I attempted to explain that I didn’t eat meat, but when he insisted—in English—that his pork chops were as beautiful as children, I agreed to try them.

The old lady watched me as I ate and read my book. I found it difficult to concentrate under her gimlet eye and raised my glass to her as I took a sip.

Again she sneered.

I finished my meal and paid the bill, thinking this would be a good place to come back to tomorrow. It was just across the Arno from the Vatican and near all the sights I wanted to see and explore. And the pork chops were as beautiful as children.

As I passed the old lady’s table I nodded to her and, as I bent my head toward her, saw that what had appeared to be a sneer was actually a cleft palate; a “harelip.” I hurried out of the restaurant, uncomfortable and embarrassed.

To earn a living after my grandfather died, my grandmother ran what was essentially a private nursing home. She “took in ladies,” as she called it.

One of Gram’s ladies was an old, mean woman with a cleft palate. My sisters and I were frightened of her when we visited and would avoid as much as possible having to speak to her. When this woman was well into her seventies someone, somehow, paid for her to have corrective surgery. She returned home to my grandmother’s a smiling, sweet old lady.

I don’t know if her countenance really improved with her appearance or if her deformity had disguised what had been a sunny nature all along, but we were no longer frightened of her.

When I returned to the café the following day I decided to assume the old lady’s sneer was her way of returning my smile when I greeted her with a “buon giorno” as I passed her table.

The third day, as I approached the restaurant, I saw her standing just outside the door, looking expectantly down the street in the opposite direction. She saw me as she turned and hurried inside to her table. I passed through the beaded curtain and stopped at her table to wish her good day. The old lady still didn’t respond to my greetings, but I was no longer afraid of her. I sat at a table and enjoyed a scallopini that was as beautiful as a child.

I saw no reason to alter my routine on my final day in Rome. As I stepped into the café I heard not only the radio that sat on the little table against the wall, but three chattering voices as well.

My friend had company; two old ladies with hair just as white and dresses just as black as her own. Their conversation stopped abruptly as I entered the restaurant. I walked directly over to their table, made a little bow, and said, “Buon giorno, Signora.”

“Buon giorno,” she replied, as her old lady friend looked first at me and then at her.

Two years later, on my next visit to Italy, I managed to find the little café with the vaulted ceiling in the warren of streets across the Tiber from The Vatican. It had gone out of business and was vacant. I cupped my hands and put my face up to the glass in the door. I’d like to say I saw a table with a pair of white gloves lying neatly on the faded cloth. But the room was empty.

All that was left was the sign above the door and a memory of pork chops as beautiful as children.

OYSTERS
, ROCKEFELLER?

“Sure, I’d love to go. But, it’s pricey, y’know? Aren’t you always broke?”

Such was the response from my cousin Frannie when I asked if she’d like to join me for oysters and martinis at The Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal. I’ve been treating myself to the occasional visit to that elegant subterranean shoal a level and a half below 42
^nd
Street for more than fifteen years now. And, yes, it
is
expensive, but it’s money well spent. I see nothing wrong with such an extravagance every six or eight months.

Besides, I feel slightly proprietary of the place as several major scenes in my un-produced screenplay are set there.

Since Bruce died I usually sit at the counter by myself; a dozen oysters chilling patiently on the chipped ice spread out in a wide, white dish on the bar in front of me as I take in the hubbub of the place. But, I hadn’t seen Frannie (Bruce was
her
cousin, after all) in quite a while and I knew her company would be as glittery as the terra cotta tiles that line the walls and ceiling of this landmark restaurant. Our family is convinced Alison Janney based her character of C. J. Craig on “The West Wing” on Frannie, so not only is time spent with her time to be treasured, but one has to stay on one’s toes, as well. (It seems cousin-bating is her favorite sport.)

What better spot than The Oyster Bar to debate current events and lob
bon mots
back and forth at each other, defending our points with the parry and thrust of a tooth-picked olive?

I arrived at Grand Central a few minutes early, so, I made my entrance down the escalator form the Pan Am Building, taking in the wide sweep of the main waiting room—surely on of the grandest spaces in New York, if not all of America. The constellations painted on the ceiling above shone happily down on the rush-hour travelers and the piped-in holiday music gave the moment a particularly festive feeling. From up above on the moving stairway the floor of the station resembled an undulating ant farm. And, like a squadron of ants, upon closer inspection there was perfect method to the madness; everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed and at the precise tempo they needed to move to make their trains, to meet their partners, to shortcut from Lexington to Vanderbilt Avenues on this cold night with the mercury fast approaching freezing.

In the brief time I stood watching, I saw a surprising number of faces with furrowed brows that melted into wide smiles that were then met by a second set of lips in a warm kiss. From this I gathered there were more than a few telephone conversations across Manhattan earlier in the day that had ended with, “So, I’ll meet you under the clock.”

My own conversation with Frannie had ended, “So, I’ll meet you outside the restaurant,” which is why I walked down the marble stairs and waited in front of The Oyster Bar opposite Track 109. Minutes later I performed my own version of the brow/smile/kiss metamorphosis as Frannie walked up to me and wrapped me in her arms.

“Hey, cuz,” (her usual greeting,) “I’m so glad you asked me to come tonight. Let’s go in—I want a drink.”

Each time I walk into The Oyster Bar my focus involuntarily travels up and around the vaulted ceilings. Created in 1913 the ceiling is a landmark unto itself. The lines of the arches lead one’s eyes to the tables covered with read-and-white checked cloths in the restaurant area, then to the serpentine lunch counter covered in spotless white Formica. Finally, after optically traversing the ceiling, one’s gaze comes to rest on the Oyster Bar proper; a long, tile-faced counter set in front of the shucking station.

This is where I sit.

We walked across the room to the bar feeling impossibly hip. A hipness of an accessible variety, though—the room suggests the Hi-Los more than it does Lambert, Hendricks and Ross. It’s more Greenwich, Connecticut then Greenwich Village.

We sat in the middle of the bar, a spot that allows an oyster eater to literally watch the world go by: behind the shucking station a large, multi-paned, gothic-arched window looks out onto the ramp leading from the main concourse to the lower level of the station. Commuters paraded nonstop for our perusal and we had fun reading way too much symbolism into their strides.

Frannie and I hadn’t seen each other in quite some time, so we both had a lot to tell. Assuring me that “as long as I’m happy doing porn,” it’s fine with her, (the, “I’ll sit in the dark,” was implied,) she continued, “besides, every family needs a black sheep.” Then I made her cry by relating some of the wonderful e-mails I’ve received from total strangers. By the end of our visit she was proclaiming (in the full volume of a 2-martini voice), “I can’t believe you’re saying ‘porn star’ out loud at The Oyster Bar!”

Between trying to talk over each other to bring the other up to speed on our respective lives, we managed to order a dozen oysters from Carlos, the counter man. We opted for six Kumamotos
(like butter!)
and the other half-dozen at the discretion of the shucker.

Along with the large platter of oysters on ice, a smaller white plate is set on the counter with a couple of little pleated paper soufflé cups. These contain the two condiments for the bivalve feast: in one is to be found ketchup for cocktail sauce, (at The Oyster bar you mix your own with the horseradish on the counter,) and in the other,
sauce mignonette
. I prefer the latter, because it’s vinegary like me. Not much more than wine vinegar and shallots, really, it lays a piquant blossom of flavor onto the oyster that causes a most pleasant burning sensation upon swallowing (after
just one bite
of the oyster to taste it.)

All told, it required a dozen and a half (and two martinis each) to fill in the blanks on what we had each been up to since we last spent any time together, but, by that time, Frannie and I both had to get going. We paid the check (which was, in fact, glamorously expensive) and, headed up the ramp to the main floor.

Stepping through the terminal doors out onto 42
^nd
Street we were hit by a blast of frigid air. Looking eastward for a cab my eye was caught by the huge clock looming above the terminal, watched over by winged Mercury.

“Hey, Frannie,” I said, “this is exactly where a scene from my movie takes place.”

“So, are you gonna tell me what happens in it or are you just going to stand there while I freeze to death?

“Well, these two guys meet at a cocktail party and they walk down Park Avenue together on a beautiful summer evening…”

DISSOLVE TO...

JOE and WILLIAM are now stopped on 42nd Street in front of Grand Central.

JOE

(indicating the clock high above the terminal)

That clock is one of my favorite things in New York.

WILLIAM

Why's that?

JOE

Well, it's beautiful, obviously, and monumental. But, I just love thinking about everything that it's seen; all the things that have gone on underneath it. Husbands racing to catch their trains home... women coming into town for a show. Kids like me coming in from the boondocks, hoping to make a success in the big city... Soldiers saying goodbye to their girlfriends on their way to war, not knowing if they'll come back... children growing up and then growing old; murders; births, probably; love, hate; everything that could possibly happen in the life of a city. And ol' Mercury just sits up there observing it all. Not passing judgement on anyone--not even if they're late for a train. It's like... it's like he's the custodian of human events. Collecting them all and using them to keep the springs wound in the clock of life.

WILLIAM looks at JOE.

WILLIAM

You mean maybe even us meeting tonight?

JOE

Oh, yeah, I think so. For sure.

After sharing oysters with Frannie, I’d have to say Joe is right: there are a whole lot of springs in that clock. And some of them are pretty tightly-wound. But once in a while--just once in a while, mind you--you find yourself with a perfect pearl.

SO, THIS GUY CHECKS IN TO A HOSPITAL…

“Does anyone know a 10-letter word for ‘dazzling’?”

It was the only clue left in the puzzle, which was surprising, considering the company that night. I was met with a chorus of “no” and “we gave up on that one,” so I tossed the paper down on the table and looked around the room.

Pretty much everybody was there and, to be honest, we were all feeling a little dopey. It was the end of a long day at the end of a long couple of weeks and exhaustion had devolved to giddiness. Somehow the talk had turned to cocktails and we all started reeling off our favorites. Frannie’s was a martini with a twist and Bruce’s sister preferred wine to hard liquor. Bruce’s mom said if she had to pick something it would be champagne. I was in Frannie’s court, although I usually garnish my martinis with an olive.