In 1997 Kate and I lived in a “one bedroom” apartment on 13th street and 2nd Avenue. After almost a year of crashing on couches and apartment sitting, this was our first New York apartment (with the help of Kate’s dad who was our guarantor.) We had a deal that each stayed 6 months in the bedroom and then 6 months in the living room on the futon that was also our couch. We had no closets. I remember yelling at Kate, because her mom would send us superfluous gadgets all the time. Her heart was certainly in the right place, but it felt like one more salad spinner would send our apartment over the edge. I also remember milking my 6 months and it sliding into 7, 8, 9 months without protest from Kate.
During our trials and tribulations in the East Villages we had a blast. It was hardly the hardcore edgy hood of the 70s and 80s, but it was also quite different from the gentrified EV of today, which has a Star bucks, Subway, HSBC and Chase bank on every corner. I had my first and only New York gun story on that block: cops chasing a guy with guns drawn; no shots fired thank god. We had a crack addict that sat harmlessly on our stoop a lot of the time. We also had never-ending cool bars, restaurants and boutiques.
Shortly after arriving in the neighborhood we started going to the Italian place on the corner, Café Cento Sette. It was pretty cheap and we both found dishes from which for the next 14 years we did not stray. Kate ordered Penne della Casa, which had fresh mozzarella, eggplant and tomato sauce. I ordered Penne Ala Vodka, which had ham and shrimp in it. Every time we went we ordered that with a Caesar salad and talked incessantly, first about how awesome our dishes were, which never failed us and then about everything else under the sun.
We got to know the owner, an Italian woman whose name I never got, in typical New York friendly-but-not-too-friendliness. We even moved with them when they relocated from the corner of 13th and 3rd to the corner of 10th and 2nd. We made all of our friends and family eat there and never did we have a bad experience. We loved it for that reason alone. In a big anonymous city, the secret of New York City survival is having those few spots sprinkled throughout the city that you can always count on…constancy in the midst of chaos.
On Friday, I planned to meet my friend Hala who was in town from Syria. I hadn’t seen her in about 2 years and we had much to catch up on. Her twins who were now 3! And of course I wanted to hear all about the current situation in Syria, which even that very day was not sounding that good. As we competed with each other to cram two years of conversation into the first few minutes of our meeting, we strolled over to the East Village. As I walked down Second Avenue toward our dining destination, Cento Sette, Hala and I both paused from geopolitics to confess that we both already knew what we would order. I, of course, would get the Penne ala Vodka and Hala, who had been introduced to the place by me and had returned many times with other friends, would get the mushroom tortellini.
With what must have been prophetic irony we talked about how the restaurant fronts seemed to change with each return trip to the neighborhood. And then I saw it. Where my beloved, constant favorite restaurant should be: “STORE FOR RENT.” Amidst reunion and political consternation I was stunned into silence by the failure of MY restaurant. Even now, as I receive messages of condolence on my facebook page, I wonder what the impact will be for me. Maybe, like before, the owner will move to another location; maybe to Queens where rents are still affordable. But given the state of the economy (oh, has it finally directly impacted my life?!) I think this might be the end of Café Cento Sette.
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