Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to El Charro?"

El Charro, in Greenwich Village, is the definition of a hidden gem. So hidden that I didn't even know it existed until someone at El Parador—the city's oldest Mexican restaurant—told me or a family connection between the two old restaurants. The small, basement place is so quiet and secluded, I recommend it as an escape from reality any time you've had a bad day. Here's my column:

Who Goes There? El Charro

I had a moment of déjà vu as I walked down the few steps into the restaurant tucked into 4 Charles St. Quiet Village street; basement space; tiny room; low ceilings; small bar to the left. Was I in Fedora? The real Fedora, I mean, not the impostor currently sailing under that name on West 4th Street.

Of course, I wasn't Fedora has gone the way of other fine New York institutions who have discovered the hard way that the brutal economics of 21st-century New York have no place for them. But El Charro Español is that kind of place. It's what pops into your mind when you picture the typical, side-street Greenwich Village eatery of old: cozy, slightly hidden, tradition-bound, attentive to its regulars, and offering the diner not a raucous jolt of energy but a relaxing respite from the world. 

El Charro's exact age is hard to determine, but it's probably been here for about 60 years, gathering minimal press attention, but a faithful clientele that it made almost entirely of locals. This is a neighborhood joint. It began as a Mexican restaurant, a culinary rarity in those post-WWII days. It was run by Maria Garcia. (Her daughter married Carlos Jacott, who went on to found El Parador on East 34th Street, which still stands and is today the city's oldest Mexican restaurant.) El Charro remained a Mexican place at least into the '80s, but today, under its current owners, it is a Spanish restaurant, and a good one.I ordered a sangria when I saw that the bartender was mixing them separately, constructing each in the glass, rather than pouring the potion out of a pitcher. The Shrimp Ajillo, sauteed in olive oil, garlic and hot pepper, was beautifully done: simple, tender and subtly spicy. For my entree (which came with one of those comforting—but not necessarily good — side salads slathered in French dressing) I had Pollo Villaroy, two breasts of chicken coated with bechamel sauce and bread crumbs and deep fried. It was tasty, but perhaps too filling. Though I liked it, I could have done with a half order.

The restaurant seems to have been recently spruced up; the exterior is in picturesque, pristine condition and the signage is small and classy. But the room's age is betrayed in the details: the old cash register; the old-fashioned punch clock for employees; and the thin, narrow staircase to the tiny bathroom. (Please take note of the oil painting of a sad clown as you pass.)

The ratio of staff to patron was about one to two the night I was there. So it's no surprise that service was attentive. Or maybe I should not take that for granted. I've been in plenty of contemporary restaurants stuffed with waiters and still had a hard time getting anyone's attention. Old friends were catching up at one table, a mother and a daughter at a second. Making the most noise were two men having a convivial business meeting, the larger, older one a longtime regular feeling very at home, the younger, thinner one a newcomer who seemed to want to be in a steak house. He ordered a filet mignon ("Can you butterfly that?") and called out for A-1 Sauce. "Are you complaining about this place?" his hefty friend asked in comic disbelief. "Are you COMPLAINING about this place."

I was sympathetic. I mean, seriously, dude, are you complaining about this place?

—Brooks of Sheffield

Fedora Donato, Owner of Famed Village Restaurant, Dies

JVNY reports the sad news that Fedora Donato, the owner and hostess of his self-named Greenwich Village Italian basement restaurant, died yesterday. She was 91.

Fedora ran her homey eatery, which didn't change much over the decades, until last year, when she sold the space to restauranteur Gabe Stuhlman, who now runs it as a chi-chi place using the same name. Fedora was the subject of my second "Who Goes There?" column, back in March 2008. Here's an excerpt:

Fedora is a refuge for Village lifers who want to be reminded how the world below 14th Street looked in the 1950s. As one three-decade regular informed me, "You don't come here for the food. You come for the ambiance." That cozy atmosphere includes small tables; a low tin ceiling; NPR on the radio; a rotary pay phone; and a framed napkin signed by Lauren Bacall. Also, a communal greeting for every familiar face that passes through the door; the warm presence of the white-haired, Italian-born Ms. Dorato herself; and a sassy, youngish waiter named Georgie who knew one diner would want a Bloody Mary right away and let the lone lady at the bar pour her own vodka and tonic (into a huge brandy snifter filled with ice!).

Fedora, Not So Much

There was much talk when restauranteur Gabe Stuhlman took over the old school Greenwich Village haunt Fedora that he would honor the spirit of the original owner and eatery.

But talk is cheap. Things didn't look good when Stuhlman chose not to keep the original neon sign (which should have been landmarked long ago), but replaced it needlessly with a facsimile. (Stuhlman told JVNY that he has saved the old sign and will use it somewhere.) And now photos have been released of the interior. The above doesn't look anything like the Fedora I remember, aside from the egress being in the same place. Fedora was dark as night, and rustic in the extreme. This place could be in the Hamptons. The bar's in the same basic location, but I can't tell if it's the same bar. According to Eater, "much of the bar" is the same, but the ceiling and floor are not the same. (Another report says the floor is the same.) I remember talk of the old cash register being kept, but I don't see it. And who needs trite photos of Monroe and Warhol; any bistro in Topeka can hang those worn images on the wall and call itself classy.

I wish the restaurant well. (And I respect the way Stuhlman actually responds to worrisome cranks like myself, explaining his motives and reasoning.) At least the name is the same, and fans of the old place can go in and dream. If fact, I'll probably go myself. Just, you know, sigh.

Greenwich Village Classic Fedora to Close

The deaths of giants will not let me rest. Last week, I felt compelled to report on the demise of 107-year-old Carmine's. This week, it's Fedora, the ineffable living museum of mid-century Village life.

This is not surprising. Not because fancy restaurateurs have been circling the place like vultures for months. But because proprietress Fedora Donato is 90 years old and it's always been clear she had no successor to take over. The lucky inheritor of the cozy basement space—so redolent of memories of cheap, bohemian, Italian feasts of the post-War period—is Gabe Stulman of Joseph Leonard. (We can thank our lucky stars it wasn't Graydon Carter, I suppose.) He has signed the lease, and Fedora will serve her last lasagna on July 25. Then the place will under a renovation, no doubt scrubbing from the walls every bit of raffish charm. 

Stulman says he means to retain many of the interior's design aspects and the name of the place. And, like McNally's conversion of the Minetta Tavern, the result may be very nice indeed, even if Stulman intends it to be a "casual elegant supper club." (Uh! Was Fedora every any of those things, besides casual?) But it won't be Fedora. How could it? Fedora won't be there. And the lady was always the heart of the eatery. 

But I guess we can be thankful the old bar will remain. And maybe the telephone booth. And the great neon sign.

One weird note: the new Fedora will stay open until 4 AM, every night. Interesting.

Fedora was my second "Who Goes There?" column. I may pay one last visit before it goes.

Fusty Fedora Considered by Ritzy Carter

This is surely an odd piece of new. Graydon Carter—the celebrity-addled editor of Vanity Fair who's turned into every shallow, pompous person he every made fun of as the editor of Spy magazine—is mulling over taking on the basement space occupied by Fedora, the 60-year-old Greenwich village veteran bistro.

Read more »

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Fedora?"

For the second in my new running feature at Eater.com, "Who Goes There?," I visited Fedora, one of the last untouched vestiges of post-War Greenwich Village. The door to that place is a time portal. I felt I was in another world entirely once inside, away from all the cares the world had produced over the last 40 years. Had a light snow been falling outside, the place couldn't have felt more protective and cozy. I was also lucky enough to witness the nightly entrance of Fedora herself, the event coming earlier—around 6 PM—than is usually the case. The woman is very motherly; it's probably no mistake that I ordered Manicotti and banana cream pie—the menu I often requested on my birthday when I was a child. (Sorry. Too much information, perhaps.) I do believe I will truly mourn when and if this restaurant ever closes.