Lost City's "Who Goes There?" Columns

The following are the collected editions of the "Who Goes There?" columns. Each edition originally appeared on Eater.com.

As the introduction to each feature states, the purpose of the series is to crack the doors on mysteriously enduring Gotham restaurants—unsung, curious neighborhood mainstays with the dusty, forgotten, determined look—to learn secrets of longevity and find out, who goes there. (Venues that have since closed their doors are designated by an asterisk. Those designated with a hashtag have changed management.)

Who Goes There? Dominick's
Who Goes There? John's Pizzeria
Who Goes There? El Quijote
Who Goes There? Lexington Candy Shop
Who Goes There? Donovan's Pub
Who Goes There? Roll 'n' Roaster
Who Goes There? Piccolo Venezia
Who Goes There? Tom's Restaurant
Who Goes There? Prime Burger*
Who Goes There? L&B Spumoni Gardens
Who Goes There? Colandrea New Corner
Who Goes There? Lupe's 
Who Goes There? Frankie & Johnnie's
Who Goes There? El Sitio
Who Goes There? Il Tinello
Who Goes There? El Viejo Yayo
Who Goes There? Joe & Pat's Pizzeria
Who Goes There? Marchi's
Who Goes There? Lee's Tavern
Who Goes There? Sarge's Deli 
Who Goes There? Toledo
Who Goes There? The Tap and Grill
Who Goes There? El Parador Cafe
Who Goes There? Villa Berulia
Who Goes There? Randazzo's Clam Bar
Who Goes There? Liebman's Kosher Deli
Who Goes There? Bohemian Hall Beer Garden
Who Goes There? J.G. Melon
Who Goes There? DeFonte's Sandwich Shop
Who Goes There? Isabella's 
Who Goes There? Mont Blanc
Who Goes There? Hinsch's*
Who Goes There? Brennan and Carr
Who Goes There? Stage Deli
Who Goes There? Gargiulo's
Who Goes There? Charlie Mom
Who Goes There? Mario's
Who Goes There? King Yum
Who Goes There? Sam's Pizzeria
Who Goes There? Capsouto Freres
Who Goes There? Two Toms
Who Goes There? Marco Polo
Who Goes There? Sardi's
Who Goes There? Wo Hop
Who Goes There? Quatorze Bis
Who Goes There? La Traviata*
Who Goes There? La Rivista
Who Goes There? Von Westernhagen's*
Who Goes There? Puglia Ristorante
Who Goes There? Trieste
Who Goes There? Monte's Trattoria
Who Goes There? Suzie's Chinese Restaurant
Who Goes There? Sofia Ristorante
Who Goes There? Le Rivage
Who Goes There? Rolf's
Who Goes There? Armando's
Who Goes There? Fortune House#
Who Goes There? Zum Stammtisch
Who Goes There? The Red Rose
Who Goes There? El Paso Restaurant
Who Goes There? Sammy's Roumanian Steak House
Who Goes There? La Mancha
Who Goes There? Forlini's
Who Goes There? Sevilla
Who Goes There? Spanish Taverna*
Who Goes There? Donohue's Steak House
Who Goes There? Pietro's
Who Goes There? Brooks 1890 Restaurant#
Who Goes There? La Ripaille
Who Goes There? Isle of Capri
Who Goes There? Heidelberg Restaurant
Who Goes There? Lanza Restaurant
Who Goes There? Francesco Centro Vasca
Who Goes There? John's of 12th Street
Who Goes There? Gino*
Who Goes There? Le Veau d'Or
Who Goes There? Ralph's Ristorante Italiano
Who Goes There? Les Sans Culottes
Who Goes There? Gene's Restaurant
Who Goes There? Villa Mosconi
Who Goes There? Tripoli
Who Goes There? Rocco Restaurant#
Who Goes There? Pergola des Artistes
Who Goes There? Queen Restaurant
Who Goes There? Spain Restaurant
Who Goes There? Fedora Restaurant*
Who Goes There? Tour Va Bien

Lost City Asks, "Who Goes to Pietro's?"

Pietro's on E. 43rd between Second and Third seems to exist only for the people who love it and are devoted to it. You never read about this place. It's nice to know a restaurant can survive for 75 years in New York without becoming a "hot" destination, by simply catering carefully to the people who like what they do. Of course, that goes for a lot of the restaurants I profile in "Who Goes There?," but it particularly applied to Pietro's.

Excellent photos from Eater's Krieger, as usual.

Who Goes There? Pietro's

“Better than a club,” reads the slogan on the menu at Pietro’s, the stubbornly long-lived Italian joint hidden on an absolutely uninteresting block of E. 43rd Street between Second and Third Avenues in Manhattan. It’s an apt description. There’s so much gray hair around, both on the patrons and the waiters, it does seem like these people have been spending a lot of time together over the decades. The word “Regular” is all but stamped on each diner’s worn, smiling, relaxed face. There is so much chummy back-and-forth between the customers and the blue-jacketed servers—as well as between one table and another—that a meal at Pietro’s might as well by the annual pancake dinner fundraiser at a small town Lion’s Club.

Loyalty is visibly honored by dozens of small gold plaques that line the chair rails near certain tables. They read “The Hinzler Table,” “The Cohen Table,” “The Colonel’s Table,” “The Weinstein Corner,” etc. Unlike, say, the “21” club, the engraved names are nobody you might have heard of. The wall behind one table in a semi-secluded nook bore no less than eight plaques, showing that, while you may be a mainstay at Pietro’s, you still have to share your territory. The plaques are of different sizes and feature different fonts, giving the wall of fame a kind of haphazard feel. (What? Did Pietro’s use a different engraver every time? Or do the customers have some influence over what their trophy will look like?) A waiter told me that many of the honored names on the wall still come to eat often.

The plaques lend a bit of charm to what critics have made a habit of calling a “charmless” and “nondescript” room. Indeed, there’s little to say for the acoustical tile ceiling and framed prints of herbs, flowers and vegetables. Pietro’s, which was founded in 1932, used to be on E. 45th Street, where I trust the digs had more personality. They were forced to move to their present location in 1984. The owners don’t want you to forget their history, though. A big sign near the door reads “This place has been here since May 1932.”, near another sign (above) that reads “This place has been here since 1984.”

As with many “Who Goes There?” restaurants, the fans of Pietro’s will not give you specific recommendations, but only say, “Everything’s good.” My waiter, after being disappointed that I wasn’t going to order the special, chopped steak ($45 if it was a dime), steered me to the Veal Parmigiana, which arrived, big as a flounder, at my table 10 minutes later. I commented on the fillet’s astounding size. “You gotta eat a-SOMETHING!” he smilingly answered in an Italian accent. I replied that there seemed to be little danger of starving at Pietro’s. “Absolutely!” (The veal was excellent; maybe the best Veal Parmigiana I’ve had.)

Despite the colorless room, Pietro’s has a lot of odd touches. In the Rex Stout books “Bitter End” and “Too Many Women,” detective Nero Wolfe’s assistant Archie Goodwin apparently dined at Pietro’s. (Not even Wolfe, but his assistant!) So there’s a slight literary patina in play here. In 2005, the New York Times wrote lengthy piece on Pietro’s coat check lady, Alva Barrezueta, who is able to remember who owns what garment without the aid of tickets. And Pietro’s has the only restaurant bathroom I have ever encountered with a window in its door. Expect camaraderie at Pietro’s. Not privacy.
—Brooks of Sheffield

Previous Who Goes There? columns

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to L&B Spumoni Gardens?"

Never know what "Who Goes There?" subjects are going to get people excited. My account of L&B Spumoni Gardens in Bensonhurst/Gravesend pulled down more comments than any other WGT since Sarge's Deli. Here it is:

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Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Frost?"

For my third post-blog "Who Goes There?" I went to a Williamsburg Italian mainstay, Frost. Most old Italian restaurants have Italian-sounding names like Gino and Bamonte's. Frost, on the face of it, sounds like the name of a cool, modern joint. Until you realized they just named the place after the street it's on, Frost Street.

On another note, I've added former "Who Goes There?" subject Fedora to the "Recently Lost Landmarks" tally. It closed on July 25. I tried to make it, but couldn't. Some friends were leaving town that night and it was my duty (and pleasure) to wish them well and say goodbye.

Who Goes There? Frost

Eating at Frost, the 59-year-old Italian survivor on a residential intersection of eastern Williamsburg, is sort of like eating at someone's house, the kind of home where the father won't turn off the television during the meal. The single dining room is boxy and open; there's no hiding from anybody. And, as if you were in a bar, there's a TV set perched near the ceiling by the kitchen. The soundtracks of sitcoms and commercial jingles fill in for the missing muzak. The large parties settle into their seats and hash over talk about family, friends and the neighborhood. One foursome grilled an embarrassed young lady about her college choices. Another teenager ate his entire meal with his Yankees cap on. The only suit jackets or ties in sight were on the waiters.

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Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Zum Stammtisch?"

Zum Stammtisch has got to be one of the happier finds in my experience writing "Who Goes There?" for Eater. Not being a habitue of Glendale, I did not know of its existence until recently. Seeing the remnant of a German enclave around the neighborhood, I started asking people if there was a good German restaurant around? Everyone replies "Zum Stammtisch" without missing a beat.

Who Goes There? Zum Stammtisch

The name of this 37-year-old German chow hall may cause the stranger to pause before attempting the treacherous pronunciation, but it rolls like browned butter off the tongues of the aging German and Polish-Americans of Glendale and Ridgewood, Queens, who call this dark-timbered, antler-strewn restaurant their second home. Middled-aged and elderly regulars lumber and totter happily through the front doors. They find the patience needed for the seemingly endless wait to be acknowledged by the busy waitresses and shown a booth in the main dining room's tight, quarter-circle of coziness. They then settle down for a feed that could last anywhere from 90 minutes to three hours.

Most of the patrons look more like well-padded Midwesterners than New Yorkers. The women are largely blonde. The men have a woodsy, lumberjack-like look. Moustaches are plentiful, canes are common, and pendulous bellies abound. A septuagenarian comes in wearing a thick blue and white sweater with reindeer on it. In the corner booth, a ring of zesty old ladies are having a boisterous meal out. The walker belonging to one of them waits for her by the bar, and the waitress brings it over when its time to go. All uncomplainingly make the evidently arduous journey up and down the stairs to the bathroom.

One can't blame any of these happy grazers for feeling laden or sluggish. Zum Stammtisch fully commits itself to German cuisine at its fullest. You can not eat light here. You just can't. The meal doesn't begin with bread; it begins with a small loaf of bread, a knife thrust in its center. There's herring, there's goulash, there's wurst. The one listed salad is made up of nine components, including potatoes. Every fish come with sides of home fries. Entrees, like the popular, mushroom-smothered, veal Jägerschnitzel, are tripled-sized, almost ensuring a several-pound doggie bag. (It is assumed you will want to take the leftovers with you; when I hesitated, my waitress regarded me with a doubtful expression until I knuckled under and changed my mind.)

All these things are dangerously delicious, by the way. Beer (in glass, big glass, or glass boot) is the natural accompaniment. Hacker Pschorr, in several expressions, is proudly served—and advertised; the ribbons bearing the beer's blue and white colors, lit from within by white Christmas lights, are gayly draped from the ceiling like New Year's Eve decorations. They draw your eyes to the cute kitsch that line the walls: steins and tapestries, a poster for the upcoming 81st Edelweiss Ball, a the large moose head that wears a tiny Tyrolean hat.

Zum Stammtisch was founded in 1972 by John Lerner, a German immigrant. It's now run by his sons, Hans and Werner. The day I ate, the other dining room had been let out to a funeral party. As there is a funeral parlor across the street, I'm guessing this happens often. It was a jolly wake. Lots of laughter. There's a long red banquette that lines one end of the bar that divides the two dining rooms—more invited, winter's-night snugness. Hung mid-bar is a framed list of ten items, all written in German. I ask the bartender, a tall, goateed man wrapped in several yards of white shirt, what the sign is. "It's the rules of the bar," he says. What are they? "I don't know. I don't speak German."
—Brooks of Sheffield

Previous "Who Goes There?" Columns

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Monte's Trattoria?"

Long before other old eateries began to fascinate me, Monte's on MacDougal Street cast its spell. It was so obviously old, so stuck in time, so of another era, I became obsessed with it. I knew it possessed gobs of unknown Village history. I've been there a couple times over the years, attracted like a moth to its bewitching neon sign. I wish the food was better than it was, but I was happy to return for my latest Eater "Who Goes There?" column.

Who Goes There? Monte's Trattoria

Monte's, the subterranean MacDougal Street eatery, has seen other MacDougal Street landmarks like the Gaslight, the Kettle of Fish, Rienzi's and San Remo come and go, is ten years older than nearby Cafe Reggio, and still it makes with the lasagna and antipasti.

It is actually part of a two-restaurant empire of old-timey Village tradition. Monte's is owned by the same Mosconi family that runs the 34-year-old Villa Mosconi just a block to the south (and a previous Who Goes There? subject), and serves up the same sort of black-jacketed, red-sauce comfort food. Very likely, the Mosconi clan's tenure is a fairly seamless continuation of whatever Italian fare has been served at this address since 1918—first as a place called Razzazco, then as Monte's, all seemingly with the quirk of being closed Tuesdays.

I can find out little about the joint's incarnations as Razzazco or Monte's (which name it appears to have adopted in the mid-'50s). Whoever Monte was, though, he left behind a gem of a facade, the crowning glory of which is a neon sign featuring the profile of a fat chef toting a laden tray. Once down the steps, through the breakfront and inside the single square dining room, one gets a vague picture—in spite of the ceiling of acoustical tiles and the fairly modern decor—of what copping a cheap spaghetti meal must have been like for hip Villagers gone by. It's a quiet and unpretentious place.

The walls at Monte's hold some interesting secrets. This is the sort of old restaurant that inspires sentimental oil portraits and you'll find a framed depiction of the place near the bar. There's also a black-and-white picture of the Mosconi parents, looking stout, short and grim. And, most surprisingly, a poster of The Beatles, signed by all four of the lads from Liverpool. Papa Mosconi, the father of current chef and owner Pietro, the waiter explained to me, used to have a restaurant in London and was friends with John Lennon. 

Monte's is mentioned in a lot of guides to the city, so you get a lot of tourists here. "The steak is beautiful," an Aussie and his wife told me. They had been attracted by the TripAdvisor rating. "The lasagna is beautiful." Another family inside, on vacation, and with a kid who wore a snap-brimmed fedora, were back after having eaten there only the night before. I'm told, too, that you'll see the occasional celebrity and Yankee ballplayer eating here.

There are regulars, of course. An impressive silver-haired man in sweater vest and tie, who ate alone, checked his blackberry constantly and looked like he was the "mayor" of some block in Little Italy, was served his Caesar Salad and spaghetti marinara without asking for anything. And a voluble Mr. West whom everyone knew, lingered for an eon over a bottle of red, and promised to be back "soon, maybe Sunday." He was treated to a special panna cotta on the house and was introduced to the Italian guest chef who had made it.

You don't have to be a regular to get freebies, though. One four-top was occupied by a double date of two smart-dressed men who leaned heavily back in their chairs and kept smoothing down the fronts of their suits with the flat of their palms, and two blondes in frilly blouses who did most of the talking. The white mink hanging in the coat room very likely belonged to one of them. They weren't the politest of guests, referring to the thickly accented, kindly veteran waiter as "the Italian guy," and responding to the claim on the menu boast that Pietro has been named the 2005 Chef of the Year by Chefs de Cuisine Association of America with "whatever that means." But they got a round of after-dinner drinks gratis nonetheless. 

         —Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Sofia"?

As I've remarked before, I do every "Who Goes There?" column hoping to love the old joint I discover, and wishing to find that they have richly deserved their low-profile longevity. In almost every case (well, maybe not Spain Restaurant), I've found either a wonderful gem of a relic, or at least some saving graces. I even want Rolf's to stay open, though I found the service unforgivably buzz-killing. It's just so peculiar; and how can you hate Christmas?

But Sofia? Why has this place held on to such a prime piece of real estate for 35 years? It's musty, the service is awful and negligent, the food barely acceptable. Everyone involved is doing their job badly. People who operate a restaurant in this sloppy, careless, and contemptuous a fashion do not deserve to beat the odds. And since there's no real historical aspect to cherish here, the disappearance of Sofia wouldn't amount to much. The Hotel Edison deserved a fine-dining restaurant every bit as good as its diner, the Edison Cafe. I'd love to know the real story behind Sofia's tenaciousness, because there must be a story. I mean, just look at the comments on Yelp and Citysearch. There's no visible reason the Edison shouldn't have pulled the plug on this place years ago.

Who Goes There? Sofia

The sweet, old, Hotel Edison in Times Square has two restaurants inside its walls. One is the homey, welcoming Edison Cafe, purveyor of matzo ball soup to theater types. The other is worn, dimly lit Sofia, the enduring mystery of West 46th Street. Everyone knows why the Edison Cafe has been there so long. It's as comforting as an old terrycloth bathrobe and serves good, cheap food in cheery, classic-diner surroundings. Sofia has been there even longer—35 years—but its charms are so nonexistent, one can only suppose that the hotel manager lost the lease to the space in a poker game long ago.

Who goes here? Suckers, as far as I can tell. Unfortunate saps. Theatergoers and hotel stayers and tourists who don't know any better. No diner I asked had ever been there before, and they didn't look too happy in their choice. Few restaurants are so well positioned to take advantage of Broadway theater crowds, and few capitalize on it less. The lighting is ashen and makes you feel like you're living a sort of shadow life. The interior, with its neon-accented oval bar, weird tiered seating and stucco ceilings, looks like it last had a revamp in 1982. The imperious maitre d' wears a peremptory air and a florid tie. He knocks menus against tabletops as he brusquely tries to seat you at the very back of a nearly empty room. The omnipresent staff talks water-cooler-shit amongst themselves as if there were no diners around them.

While the dining room has the air of a funeral parlor, the bar area is a little livelier, owing mainly to the bartender, his dark hair slicked way over his back collar. He has a voice loud enough to carry to Jersey City. "You play tennis," he asked a waiter halfway across the room. "Want to play tennis? I'll beat you. You fast? I'm not fast. But I'll beat you. You play basketball? I'll destroy you." This is the kind of loudmouth you expect to find in a bar half the time. But not BEHIND the bar.

The barroom does seem to have regulars, however, the way the restaurant does not. Everyone hugged one woman on a stool; they all seemed to know her. Two other disheveled men talk sports and such as if they planned to be there all night long.There are a couple warming trays filled with free food in the corner. The place could be in Woodside. No one would guess that Scarlett Johansson is playing down the block.

Sofia is apparently part of a local mini-chain. The other locations are in Bay Ridge and Sheepshead Bay, which, you know, kinda explains a lot. Class this joint ain't got. A homeless man came in to ask, embarrassed, to use the bathroom, and the maitre d' angrily berated him for all to hear. The pasta is store-bought and the sad, frostbit desserts are obviously whisked from freezer to plate to table. I gnawed at my overcooked bucatini and thought of that bowl of matzo ball soup down the hall that could have been mine. —Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Von Westernhagen's?"

I remember, last fall, just before I went in to Glendale's German restaurant Zum Stammtisch to discover "Who Goes There?," looking down the road to its rival eatery Von Westernhagen's and feeling sorry for it. Zum sits right on a busy intersection. There's foot traffic. Von W, though only a block or so away, might as well be on a country lane. It stands there by its lonesome, no businesses to the left or right of it. I liked the place on first sight and vowed I would return soon to Glendale (two trains and bus ride for me) to pay a call. 

So which is better, Zum or Von W? Hard to say. Zum's food is probably a notch above, but Von W. has homemade bratwurst in its favor. Zum's atmosphere is cozy, but also a bit theme-parky. Von W. has no pretensions, and puts you immediately at ease. Simply put, Zum feels like a fun restaurant, but Von W. feels like a home that also serves strangers food. I like them both, but Von W. has my heart.

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Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Heidelberg Restaurant"?

A trifle weary of eating French, Spanish and Italian in service of the Who Goes There? on Eater, Lost City found some culinary respite at Heidelberg, one of the few German restaurants in town that can call itself old. I was a surprised to see how corny the interior of this beer hall is; you'd think it was set up a few years ago with the intention of capturing the quintessential beer garden "feel." I guess the pursuit of kitsch is an older one than is commonly imagined. Still, there's plenty of genuine Germanic feeling to the place, deriving from the rare German beers on tap, German help and overheard German conversations.

Here's the piece:

Who Goes There? Heidelberg Restaurant

The next time I have $100 in my pocket that’s not doing anything, I’m going to head back to the Heidelberg Restaurant in Yorkville and drink beer out of a glass boot. It’s not so much the beer that’ll set you back at this 72-year-old UES relic (though that will cost you roughly $30). It’s the boot-shaped steins, which are lined up being the bar like so many of Kaiser Wilhelm’s footsoldiers. You have to plunk down a $60 deposit just to use one. Hey, I can’t blame management. If I had just drunk two liters of beer, I might be liable to drop my glass, too.

Most of old German Yorkville died out long ago. Restaurant-wise, the Heidelberg on Second Avenue is what remains. It’s part authentica (German beers, like Dinkel Acker and Erdinger Hefe Weizen, that you’d be hard pressed to get on tap elsewhere) and part kitsch (waiters in black lederhosen). The bar’s an experience in itself. You’re cautioned that beers are drawn the German way. That means a seven-minute wait for each draft. Your patience is rewarded with a head as big and frothy as the ones that beer commercials always promise you.

The bartendress was not just German-American, but GERMAN. And how. When I moved from the bar to a table in the dark-timbered dining area, she issued a friendly order along the lines of “You will pay for your beer now.” The menu has bratwurst, sauerbraten, wiener schnitzel, sauere nieren (sour kidneys) and eisbein (boiled pigs knuckles). A young regular at the bar who’d grown up in Yorkville, and called the Heidelberg Little Germany’s “last stand,” recommended the schnitzel. I went that way and wasn’t disappointed.

While eating, I ran into a friend who lives in the area and eats there regularly. He said the place is regularly packed with locals and loyal survivors of the once-strong German community. German conversations are not uncommon, and you’ll hear other languages as well, since a good number of European tourists seem to know about the Heidelberg. I don’t doubt my friend’s information, but mid-evening the night I ate there recently, I was one among maybe eight diners. All of us were entertained by a one-man band, who wore a Tyrolean hat, made accordion noises with his keyboard, and played “Edelweiss” and “Santa Lucia,” among other treasured Teutonic standards. Between his dreamy song stylings, the heavy food and the lager, and the overwarm temperature the room is kept at, Heidelberg could easily induce a midmeal nap. So be sure to get coffee at the end of your meal.
—Brooks of Sheffield

Previous "Who Goes There?" Features

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Francisco Centro Vasco"?

After a year of visiting New York's mysteriously enduring restaurants in service at the Eater feature "Who Goes There?," Lost City has learned a few things. One of the main lessons is this: in terms of enduring eateries in this town, the cuisine tends to be of one of three types: Italian, French and Spanish.

These are three of the ethnic groups that immigrated to New York City early on, so it makes sense that their food should be represented among the metropolis' culinary holdouts. They are also the three main "foreign" foods that New Yorkers first became accustomed to after they decided there was a world beyond steaks and chops. There were plenty of Scandinavians and Germans in the immigrant waves, but, for some reason, few of their early restaurants have survived. When I look at my list of Who Goes There candidates, I see a lot of Paella, Coq au vin and Spaghetti Bolognese in my future. (I will get to the Heidelberg in Yorkville one of these days, and if anyone can point me to a Norwegian or Swedish food survivor, I will happily check it out.)

Another thing I've found out: In the olden days, diners weren't so keen on people watching them eat. The facades of most of the restaurants I've visited are virtually opaque. The windows are small, and what glass there is is shaded by metal bars or thick curtains. "Air and light be damned! We want privacy!" If you want to see what these restaurants are like, or even look at a menu, you have to go inside. No noses pressed to the glass wall.

This week I went to Francisco Centro Vasco, known to all New Yorkers by the neon lobster sign hanging above 23rd Street near Seventh Avenue. Here's the piece:

With good reason is there a neon lobster hanging outside Francisco’s Centro Vasco, the old-school Spanish restaurant that has stood for 30 years, inscrutable and incongruous, on a bustling expanse of central Chelsea. When you sit down, before you’re even handed a menu, the waiter places a hand-lettered index card on your table, indicating the size and cost of the lobsters available that night. Everything from 1 ½ pounds ($20) to 14 pound whoppers ($225).

Very easily half the tables on a recent, busy weekday night ordered the butter-bathed red crustaceans, which flew out of the kitchen at an alarming rate. (There must be multiple caldrons of boiling water in the basement.) One can feel like a second-class citizen ordering something else from the menu. “Is the fact that no one’s ordering the Paella a signal that it’s not very good?” asked a woman.

The huge amounts of cash being laid down for high-end seafood has given Francisco’s a somewhat grand sense of itself. A short velvet cordon, controlled by a very proud, small and bald maitre’d, separates the bar from the dining room. He will lift it for you after you state your intentions. This formality is kind of funny, since Francisco’s may be the only restaurant left in Manhattan to hand out plastic lobster bibs (the waiters tie these around the diners necks with gracious ceremony) and to employ a guitar player, who strolls around the rather aesthetically chaotic dining room—fake marble, fake timber, fake brick, a large mural of some Spanish port, and lobster claws hanging from the stucco ceiling.

So, who goes here? People celebrating birthdays, that’s who. Within one half hour, the guitarist sang “Feliz cumpleaños” at three different tables. It was comic, but no one blinked. I was told that birthdays are commemorating with lobster tail and sangria every night at Francisco’s. No wonder they need a musician on the payroll. Beyond that, the crowd was one of the most pluralistic I’ve ever seen in any New York restaurant. There were tables of Asian-Americans, African-Americans, Jewish couples, Hispanic parties, Spaniards and one gathering of Wall Street young bucks. It was a melting pot. All were chowing down of mountains of seafood with the gaiety of invitees at a particularly jovial wedding reception.

My waiter said the place gets locals and “people from Long Island.” He could not explain why a place on 23rd Street was a magnet for folks in Nassau County. But then, it was hard to learn anything, for the staff is almost exclusively Spanish-speaking. So I turned to my neighbor, who had been to the restaurant many times, to get an opinion on Francisco’s bread and butter. “The lobster?” she said. “It’s OK. I like the king crab.”
—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Wo Hop?"

As stated before, I'm still doing the "Who Goes There?" columns for Eater. Here's the latest:

Who Goes There? Wo Hop

The first time I ever went to Wo Hop, the 72-year-old Chinatown restaurant, I was chastised by readers as having gone to the "wrong" Wo Hop. There are two spaces on Mott Street, you see, a roomy ground-level restaurant at 15 Mott, visible from the street, and a harder-to-spot basement place down a long flight of stairs at 17 Mott. (Chinatown must have more mysterious subterranean eateries and businesses than any other neighborhood in New York.) The upstairs joint is for tourists and suckers, and the food stinks, I was told. Go downstairs for the real experience.

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Lost City Asks: Who Goes To Spanish Taverna?

My latest "Who Goes There?" column for Eater:

Who Goes There? Spanish Taverna

Spanish Taverna, which hides on a corner of W. 38th Street and Seventh Avneue, used to be a whole lot more anonymous, and forbidding, than it does now. The façade was dusty and unwelcoming. One looked at the place and wondered about its standing with the Health Department. Someone must have said something, however, because a new awning’s been installed in the last year of so. And a smaller sign over the door now reads “Spanish Tavern Restaurant,” a helpful nudge for those who couldn’t figure out what Taverna meant.

The inside, however, is as drab as ever. Tan, brown, yellow—the colors of the 1970s. There’s a nook of a bar up front, and an oddly airless, somewhat depressing dining area in back, with rows of booths on either side. A wealth of mirrors on the sides and in the back lends the illusion of space, as do the unusual plastic arcs which hang from the ceiling and partly divide one booth from the next. I’ve never seen this latter design feature in any other restaurant. It must have seemed terribly modern 34 years ago when Spanish Taverna opened.

Those who come here (Garment District workers, who like to haunt the bar; foreign tourists from Australia, Spain and elsewhere; a few elderly pre-theatre diners) seem to regard it as a hidden gem purveying some of the most authentic Spanish grub in the metropolis. Indeed, the food, while hellishly expensive (entrees range from $18 to $30; a glass of sangria is $8) is more than decent, and undeniably bountiful. I particularly like the mariscadas—various kinds of stew brought to the table in weathered pewter kettles. And everything is served with a dish of very nice, thinly slice fried potatoes. The menu may, in fact, be TOO authentic for some. One tourist quartet—including a woman all in white with Dolce & Gabanna eyeglasses on her face, and Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses perched on her head—were utterly stymied by the utter foreignness of the menu.

There may be another tourist danger here. The prices on the menu posted outside are a few dollars lower than the menu that’s handed to you inside. This may be an oversight. However, on one visit here an item I hadn’t ordered appeared on my bill. The staff was apologetic and corrected the bill. Though it felt suspicious, I let it go. But, the next time I came I noticed that the table next to me found an item they hadn’t ordered on their bill. Again, the staff was apologetic and amended the bill. I’m not saying—I’m just saying.
—Brooks of Sheffield

Previous Who Goes There Columns

Lost City Asks "Who Goes Barbetta?"

Despite the poverty of my checking account, I had actually been to Barbetta a number of times before I decided to make it the subject of a "Who Goes There?" column. Once, I interview actress Mary Steenburgen there, and another time I interviewed owner Laura Maioglio, who is genuinely cuckoo in that way that you associate with the progeny of aristocracy and the very rich. She wears custom made, one-of-a-kind clothes of which there are no duplicates and owns a palace in Piedmonte. I dearly love the place, its beautiful sign and ridiculous chandelier, the fact that it has Brachetto by the glass and a white truffle festival every year, that it boasts of having served the first espresso in New York, that it's named after the founder's brother's moustache.

Who Goes There? Barbetta

 The front part of Barbetta, the 104-year-old, grand Italian restaurant on W. 46th street, looks something like a old hotel lobby, what with its plush seating area, stately bar, wood-paneled walls and the presence of both a piano and a harpsichord(something not even the Waldorf Astoria can boast). Further on in the main dining room, which also seems to belong to a hotel: High ceilings, overstuffed furnishings and a huge, glass chandelier that once belonged to the Savoys. 

Laura Maioglio, the flamboyant daughter of Barbetta's founder, decorated the place with European antiques back in the early '60s and hasn't changed it since. It seems to live in an interesting place between louche and elegant—much like the raven-haired hostess, who had a Continental graciousness, but wrapped it up in Long Island high heels and a mini-skirt. Still, gauche though it may be in parts, Barbetta sure as hell casts the rest of Restaurant Row as a shabby affair.

On a late summer day, that faux-19th-century dining room is deserted. Everyone is out in the garden, which has some of the most celebrated al fresco seating in the city. It's situated behind two neighboring buildings. (Maioglio owns both the Barbetta house and the two townhouses immediately to the left. Her father bought them from the Astor family.) There are trees and a central fountain framed by four stone cherubs. The atmosphere is genteel, subdued. Leaves gently fall on your table.

A borderline supercilious head waiter rolls an old-fashioned dessert cart carefully over the stones, past the French-speaking couple with the bottle of red; the couple from England who want their photo taken; the Asian couple; the group of three old lady friends; the husband and wife whose little girl is dressed in a pink tutu. Barbetta gets a lot of international tourists in the summer, my waiter told me. In the fall, it switches over to regular New Yorkers, mainly older ones who remember when going to the theatre was a dignified affair. Occasionally you'll see a theatre bigwig, usually a producer or an English actor slumming it on Broadway.

You need money to go here. The pre-theatre prix fixe is $58, and it goes up from there. The daunting wine list has pages upon pages of Barolos and Barbarescos (some of them rare) that will rob you of half your rent. The cellar is enormous and runs under all three buildings. Maioglio is fond of proclaiming Barbetta's many firsts in the areas of Italian food and wine. It was the first New York restaurant to serve espresso, she claims. Also Grignolino, Gattinara, Ghemme, Tiramisu, risotto, polenta, white truffles. It goes on and on. Hard to prove all this. But if Barbetta, a lone haute Italian place at a time when New York was blanketed with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, didn't blaze the trail, who would it have been?

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to DeFonte's?"

I know one person who goes to DeFonte's in Red Hook. Me. Have for years. Unlike most of the subject of the "Who Goes There?" column on Eater, Defonte's was already a place I was quite familiar with. To be truthful, I find their work somewhat unreliable. Sometimes I walk away thinking "That sandwich should have been better than that." Other times, I am very happy. On this occasion, I had a meatball sandwich and was very satisfied.

Recently, my wife made friends with someone who lives down the block from DeFonte's. She can back excited one day, saying "I found this great sandwich place in Red Hook you have to go to. It's called DeFonte's. I looked at her like she had two heads.

Who Goes There? DeFonte's

Seen from the corner of Commerce and Van Brunt Streets, DeFonte's looks like an apparition; an isolated four-story, hospital-green mirage at the center of a crumbling, five-way intersection, roped in by telephone lines. The Ghost of Red Hook Past. And it is. The sandwich place is the oldest surviving eatery in the neighborhood by a very long shot. It was founded in 1922 by the DeFonte family, who still run it, and own the building it's in, and it is one of the few links to the area's industrial, longshoremen, shipping past.

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Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Prime Burger?

I used this week's "Who Goes There?" column on Eater to pay my respects to Prime Burger, which is closing today, Saturday, May 26. Here's an account of my visit:

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Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Piccolo Venezia?"

"Who Goes There?" readers have been urging me to go to Piccolo Venezia for three years. I finally did earlier this month. I should have gone a lot earlier. This place is great (if too expensive). There are red sauce joints and there are red sauce joints. Some have atmosphere. Others actually have great food. Piccolo has great food. If I lived in the neighborhood, I'd go all the time. If I could afford it.

Who Goes There? Piccolo Venezia

The general feeling you get upon walking into the dining room of Piccola Venezia —Astoria's middle-of-nowhere outpost of Northern Italian cuisine—is of rampant happiness. "Hello! Welcome!" boomed the smiling maitre d'. "I like that hat!" The tables are surrounding by people who are are happy to be with one another, and have obviously congregated here before.

There are a number of large round tables. One was surrounding by 13 members of an extended family celebrating a birthday. Another next to it hosted a group of eight former high school pals, now all middle-aged. At a four-top, four graying old men leaned forward over full glasses of red wine, filling each other in on the recent events in their lives. The wine bucket near them, full of empties, betrayed that they, like many other, knew the restaurant as a destination for those who follow Wine Spectator.

The wines are a relative bargain here. The food is not. Prices on most every entree soar above $25. But that doesn't stop the patrons from ordering heaps of seafood, a specialty here (name your fish and tell them how you like it—they'll prepare it), and osso buco, which my waiter and the owner told me was the best in town. I haven't tried every osso buco in town, but I'm going to go with them on this one. The meat was unbelievably tender, the sauce deeply flavorful, and the big, Trieste-style gnocchi peerless. It was $33, and it was worth it.

The waiters, who wear black pants and red vests, proclaim their experience through their careworn faces. These are career men. Some were very likely hired on when Ezio Vlacich opened the place in 1973. A native and tireless booster of Trieste ("The best food in Italy! A little Italian, a little Austrian, a little German!"), he still oversees the service. Dressed in suit and tie, Vlacich visits every table, whether occupied with regulars or strangers, to see if you're enjoying your self. Say something nice about Trieste, and he might kiss your hand.

If you want to know exactly who goes here, all you have to do is peruse the hundreds of little gold plaques that line the chair rail around the room. Come here often enough and you'll get one. (I've seen this sort of homage at only one other NYC restaurant: Midtown's Pietro's.) There are individuals (Eddie Goldblatt, Peter & Anne, Margie & Barry Forrest), clan names (The Rodin Family, The Welzs Family) and companies (City Ride Transportation Family, Julius Fine or Fine & Klein), indicating that this is a favored place for business meals.

In the men's bathroom, a couple of guys from the round table of erstwhile high-school chums were rhapsodizing about the meal that just was. "I'm gonna say something," slurred the ringleader of the group. "Yeah?" replied his friend. "I'm gonna make a bold statement. Maybe the boldest ever!" "Yeah?" "We came here. We all came here and got together and we did it. We made it happen. Here. On sacred ground. This is sacred ground."

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Joe and Pat's Pizzeria?"

Another "Who Goes There?" from Staten Island, and another pizza joint. I'll be filing a few more of these before I run out of column-worthy S.I. pizzerias.

Who Goes There? Joe and Pat's Pizzeria

The unending debate about who makes New York's best pizza rarely ranges beyond the usual suspects in Manhattan and Brooklyn. Yet lowly, ever-disrespected Staten Island has more than a few seasoned veterans in the game.Denino's is the best known. But Joe & Pat's Pizzeria on Victory Boulevard is hardly a neophyte. Giuseppe and Pasquale Pappadardo, from Naples, opened the restaurant in 1960. The only trace of the old building is the neon sign, for the old place burned down in 1999. It was a rebuilt in an anonymous fashion, with Greek diner-like tables protected by a long barrel ceiling painted with a cloudy blue sky and a mannered sunrise and crescent moon. Call the style Pizzeria Tiepolo.

Better to sit at one of the small tables in the less glamorous front room, opposite the enormous pizza ovens and near the rear table where the waitstaff and Joe Pappadardo hang out when not working. Pappadardo himself—sporting an alarming, but endearing, toupee as thick as shag rug—helped push together two small tables together when my wife asked if it could be done. "The wife's always boss," Joe said with a smile. Joe's brother Pat left the business in 1974 to start a real estate company that still stands across the street. A picture of the two young men back in 1960 hangs on the wall. The resemblance is hard to catch. There are also a lot of framed reviews and articles on the walls, but one doesn't get the impression that the restaurant's reputation has gone to Joe's head. It's still very much a workaday pizzeria.

Joe & Pat's pie is known for its crust's delicate thinness and the sauce's sweetness. As with the pizzas made in Naples, a grown man would have no trouble eating a whole pie. There's a menu full of other dishes, of which my wife was perfectly happy with an angel hair pasta with broccoli, eggplants, garlic and oil. The cashier told me that people come from all over to eat at Joe & Pat's, but that the clientele is mainly Staten Islanders. And, yes, pizza people on the Island have their fierce allegiances. Joe & Pat's devotees stick to Joe & Pat's.

When I profiled a rival pizza joint, Lee's Tavern, on this site a month back, a reader commented "I guess this place is technically within New York City [but] probably 90% of the viewers of this site are more likely to get pizza in Moscow or in Tokyo in their lifetimes than in Staten Island." Perhaps true. But I'm going to continue to visit Staten Island in the future, just as I will pay calls on The Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn. The outer boroughs have done the better job these last ten years in preserving their mercantile masterpieces. While the avenues of Manhattan increasingly drown in an ocean of Dunkin' Donuts, Starbucks and Applebee's, the sprawling lands beyond the bridges still have places that make you ask, "Who Goes There?"

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Dominick's?"

My latest "Who Goes There?" column for Eater takes me back to The Bronx's Belmont neighborhood for the first time since I visited Mario's two years ago. As chance would have it, Dominick's is right across the street from Mario's. Between those two times, I managed to get to Liebman's Deli in Riverdale. Next time, maybe Morris Park or City Island.

Who Goes There? Dominick's Restaurant

An old Italian lady gets out of her car on Arthur Avenue. With her is a woman on crutches. She is younger but somehow less spry. "So, where shall we eat?" asks the younger woman. "Well," says the old lady in a voice of authority, "there's Dominick's—that's one."

There's Dominick's. The Arthur Avenue area of the Bronx boasts many fine, and not so fine, Italian restaurants. But when you think of the street, a few names pop up immediately and always: Mario's, Roberto's, and Dominick's. I've had good food at all three, but at Dominick's you also get an experience. It is one of those New York eating institutions with its own don't-ask-just-eat way of doing things. Basically a Roman tavola calde removed to The Bronx, seating is communal and—if you're not a regular who long ago memorized the bill of fare—you have to rely on the waiter to find out what was cookin'. Prices remain a mystery until the waiter announces how much you owe at the end of the meal. And you pay in cash; no cards accepted.

Things have changed a bit in the past year or so. There actually is a single menu now, with prices, displayed outside the restaurant. "We put it there last year," explained my waiter. "That way, people who don't know can study it and figure out what they want before they come in." Exactly what I did. Others, however, weren't so happy about the change. As a large group of thirtysomething men—obviously natives of the neighborhood returning for a visit—filed in, one spotted the menu. "Prices?!" he snorted in disbelief. "When did that happen?"

If you ignore the menu and sit down not knowing what you want, be prepared for the waiter to unroll his spiel. "You like pasta? We got got pasta with white clam sauce, with red clam sauce. We've got chicken scarpariello, chicken marsala, chicken francese. You want veal? Veal parmigiana, veal picatta, veal sorrentino, veal and potatoes." He'll keep going until to pick something. Often, uninitiated diners just give in and have the waiter decide. He usually chooses well.

I knew what I wanted: Linguini all Gianni (with diced shrimp and clams, one of the best pasta dishes in the city), and sides of sausage and broccoli rabe. All were delicious, and I couldn't finish any of it; portions are huge. The wine ("red"—no other specifications) came in a juice glass, and the espresso came in the same sort of glass. Neither were good, but I loved the way they were served.

Dominick's, which is run by Charlie DiPaolo, was founded on the location it now occupies about 50 years ago. Old photos show a sweet wood-marble-and-tile place that looks more like a cafe, and was called Caputo's. Stools, tea tables, big coffee urn. That place is gone. The relatively charmless interior of today is one of generic artwork and everyday decor. (Specifics on the joint's history are hard to find.)

The place is routinely packed, with both locals, and, more commonly, people who used to be locals and now make a point of eating there whenever they're back in the borough or back in the city. Celebrities often stop by on their way back from attending a Yankees game (Adam Sandler) or playing in one (A-Rod). Based on the faces of the non-famous diners, you'd think that Arthur Avenue was still a purely Italian-American community. That said, there is some diversity among the clientele, and all are made welcome. Even an obvious non-Bronxer like myself. "$39," said my waiter when I asked to settle up. I left the money on the table. "So, I guess we'll see you again, huh?" he said as I reached for the door. Yes, I guess you will. 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to Il Tinello?"

Over the years of doing the "Who Goes There?" column, I've learned there are two kinds of long-standing, unsung New York eateries. There are the kind have a faithful, stealth foodie fan base (Sarge's Deli, Villa Berulia, Liebman's Deli). When those restaurants are profiled, devotees crawl out of the woodwork and sing the joint's praises, or scold me for spoiled the anonymity of their city secret. And then there are those restaurants (El Viejo Yayo, Toledo, Tap & Grill) that have a faithful base made up of regular people, the kind of businesses considered too uncool or unremarkable to be taken up by any fanatical foodie contingent.

Writing up Il Tinello, I knew it would fall into the later category. (I'll be surprised if the column garners two Eater comments by the end of the day.) It's the sort of dull, but dependable haven of fine dining that culls favor with conservative diners but doesn't provoke the curiosity of the hip and trendy. I can understand that. Il Tinello is not exactly exciting or distinctive. That said, my curiosity is raised by any joint that sticks around for 25 years.

Who Goes There? Il Tinello

Among the disparate array of dining choices that shiver along the shadowy block of W. 56th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, Il Tinello, though only 26 years in business, is very likely the grand old man. Conservative in its cooking (traditional Italian dishes and very good homemade pasta), decor (white tablecloths) and service (white jackets), it draws a conservative, moneyed crowd. Judging by the large number of well-filled, expensive suits that filed in—including a line of ten Japanese businessmen that made a beeline for a large table in the back—its quiet dining room is a preferred sanctum for business meetings. Many orders for vodka on the rocks and single malt Scotches filled the air. (Il Tinello serves the former in a water glass, the latter in a Brandy snifter. Go figure.)

Older marrieds and old friends catching up—as well as a smattering of celebrities seeking solitude and solicitousness—add to the clientele. Owner Mario Fabris, who hovers around the small bar area, greets everyone as an old friend as their come through the door.

It's all about tableside service at Il Tinello. You expect a place like this to have a dessert trolley. But an antipasto trolley? And there was not one, but two, fish specials that were filleted at table. Old school. Fabris eyed these delicate operations from the bar, sometimes swanning over to the action with a nervous, judging eye.

What Il Tinello looked like for its first quarter century, I can not tell you. It recently underwent a four-month renovation. There are mirrors, there are oil paintings, there are wine cabinets. Nothing so visually interesting that it would distract you from your meal and conversation for long.

The loyalty of a few regulars was not shaken by the brief interruption of service. Regis Philbin, one of the faithful, is still honored on the menu with a pasta dish. Would you want to eat something called Agnolotti All " Regis"? Well, you can if you want, and if you have $25. (Prices run high here.) Less celebrated is the Pasta All "Icahn." I asked my waiter if it was named after the corporate raider Carl Icahn. He said it was. Icahn is a habitué. In fact, according to one article I read, the moneyman once tried to make a $10 million deal over a meal at Il Tinello.

"He's coming tonight," the waiter added. Should I order Pasta All "Icahn," I asked. He scrunched up his face. "It's a simple dish. The special is much better." 

—Brooks of Sheffield

Lost City Asks "Who Goes to King Yum?"

I made one of the biggest hauls in the history of "Who Goes There?" to get to King Yum in Fresh Meadows. Had to take the F all the way to the Kew Gardens stop and them hop the 46 bus a few miles down Union Turnpike. Took an hour or more. But I'm glad I did it. I've been hearing about this place for years. Wonderful decor inside (see below). But the food is terrible. I wish I could say otherwise. The stuff at the late lamented Jade Mountain, while never great, was better than this. Torpid salty sauces and low-quality ingredients. There's no call for it, particularly at the prices they charge, and given they own the building. It's all profit. So why not up the quality a notch or two. I hope they do. I'd like to see the place stick around. But you can't eat atmosphere.

Who Goes There? King Yum

There's been a lot of talk in food and drink circles this year about the tiki revival. I wonder if any of it has penetrated the thick walls of King Yum, where large tiki masks have stared with glowing eyes, and irony-free umbrella have graced "exotic" drinks for 57 years. If it has, it hasn't caused the Fresh Meadows institution to change a single thing about the way they do business. The old, thin Chinese waiters wear their red jackets. The unreconstructed Cantonese-American dishes come to the table in metal serving dishes, the kind with a silver lid over them—something I haven't seen since the East Village's Jade Mountain closed years back. And you get a fortune cookie at the end.

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