Famous Dairy Restaurant
By: Terry Barr
Tags: Friendship, Deli, One Table One World, New York, Food

On my very first visit to New York City with my friends Les and Martha Jane, the city was as alive as I’d imagined it, but far more exotic, and I thought I could imagine exotic pretty clearly before entering this world. We had chosen this trip to further bond our relatively new grad school friendship. Les and I met in his first year of a Ph.D program and my first year in a Master’s program at Tennessee. We both had unwisely chosen to take a seminar in Shakespearean comedy. Unwisely not because of the Bard or the genre, but because the professor — a renowned visiting scholar — thought it appropriate to read to us every class day from his own stage history section of the Riverside Shakespeare.

These would have made nice bedtime stories, had we been reclining.

Our only grade that term was the seminar paper that he cheerfully assigned. Fifteen pages on the comedies.

I asked for a meeting with him to get further direction:

“Professor, could you give me a couple of ideas to pursue, because I’m at a loss for a suitable topic?”

He looked at me and smiled.

“Just think about it. I’m sure you’ll do fine,” and then he waved from his desk.

I was dismissed.

I did not do fine on that paper.

I received a “B,” which might sound fine to you, but in a grad program, students are allowed only two “B’s.” Only. Any more, and it’s kaput, finito. All done and over.

I think Les made an “A,” but it was his commiseration for my haplessness that began our friendship.

And so, New York.

My childhood best friend, Jimbo, had moved to the City only a month earlier, so we had a place to stay, sort of. Jimbo shared a two bedroom apartment on 96th Street with a friend form his undergrad days, Jack Hitt.

THE Jack Hitt.

Sorry Jack, but it was you lounging in your bathrobe, welcoming us and disparaging, with Les, the dulcet sounds of Depeche Mode.

Random memories of that trip include: smoking pot on the building’s roof; seeing a performance by the Alvin Ailey Dancers; attending my first Broadway play or musical, Amadeus, starring Tom Hulce; riding in a cab through Central Park to the East Side to view Man of Iron, one of those trendy Polish films that were the rage as Solidarity reigned; having drinks at Sardis and a hot pastrami sandwich at the Stage Door Deli.

Our quarters were cramped, but we had a ball.

And then Jimbo suggested a place to eat on our last day:

the Famous Dairy Restaurant on West 72nd Street.

As readers of this series know, I grew up eating in Jewish delis. But I had never before eaten in a dairy restaurant, and only vaguely understood what was happening. And what was happening was this:

Check out the menu; savor the aromas; make a decision in your mind as to what you would choose had you been there with the four of us. Only in your mind, too, because the place closed years ago. And that kills me.

What do I wish I had ordered? Well, start with the stuffed cabbage. You know you’ve reached a certain level of maturity when cabbage sounds almost too appealing (and it would have come with a potato pancake!). Or, what about the hot noodle pudding, the pirogies, the kreplach? The Kasha Varnishkhas with mushroom sauce.

I think Jimbo ordered the vegetarian cutlet, and Martha Jane, the blueberry blintzes. I got the cheese blintzes and a side of potato pancakes. We shared each other’s treats and in our fairly cramped table for four, with waiters mumbling and other patrons slurping, we had a fine meal, even though I really felt like a bumpkin in this strange place that was almost my birthright.

That fineness, of course, included Les and his meal, too, and there was a part of me that admired him, and another part that envied him for braving whatever goes into vegetarian liver. My memory says that on the sandwich, there was a healthy, one-inch thick slice of raw white onion. Les ate the whole thing, and I’ve hardly seen before or since one man look so satisfied with his choice and its taste.

So very fulfilling.

But as I intimated at the onset, it was the gift that kept on giving. I don’t mind hearing the random belch or burp. I can even take a bit of…gas. But it wasn’t just when he belched that we smelled the liver and onion. It reeked off of my forever grad school buddy for every single second of our togethered being.

It reeked the entire twelve hour journey that night — twelve because of the snow which ended somewhere in Virginia, but not before it caused us to miss the cutoff from I-95 to I-85. The trip should have taken eight hours, ten with snow. We chose to drive all night, too. That’s what I mean about being young and fairly stupid.

Les ached so badly that he couldn’t drive a mile. And poor Martha Jane had to be the one to share the back seat with him. Les is six feet four, too, so he and back seats don’t coexist well. But that’s where he sat on that entire journey (it was his car anyway), and, of course, his vegetarian liver and onion sandwich sat right alongside with him.

And with us.

We even lowered the windows for a few minutes, even in the blizzard.

Jimbo and I shared the driving, and I remember so well that I brought a cassette of some of our music, a taste of which can be found in the links below:

Lost somewhere in North Carolina, in a car with your friends, listening to various appropriate sounds, or not, the world seems so close, so clear. Jimbo looked at me once,

“This playlist…”

And even Les agreed.

Here’s to us and the Famous Dairy Restaurant. More famous and memorable than we ever would have guessed.

And to car rides after dark.