My Night at Rao’s

The summer of 1974 is forever etched into my memory as a result of two events—the ridiculously dramatic, televised resignation of President Richard Nixon and the very excellent dinner I had at Rao’s, a legendary New York City restaurant, so exclusive that I will probably never get a chance to eat there again.

My summer fling, let’s call him B,  picked me at my apartment on Riverside Drive in a black muscle car.  We were going to his “uncle’s” restaurant, Rao’s, unfamiliar to me then, but  soon regularly appearing on Page Six as a celebrity hangout.  B took the Batman route across Manhattan and after a brake-squealing, dual-exhaust roaring ride, we arrived at the tiny restaurant on the corner of East 114th Street and Pleasant Avenue.

It was early, probably about 5 p.m. and the restaurant was quiet.  Warmly greeted by B’s “uncle”, the juke box playing Dean Martin, we were seated at an ancient wooden booth, its table grooved and pitted by decades of former diners.  Late afternoon sun leaked through the slats of the blinds. Immediately, a small glass of red wine in a plain glass was placed before me.  The only red wine I had ever drunk before was sweet and cloying Manischewitz. This wine was tart, fruity but not sweet. It took several sips to get used to the drier, tangy taste. An immediate warmth spread through my body.   “Chianti,” I was told.

We were offered no menu, however, a plate appeared with seafood salad, calamari, mussels, clams, all unfamiliar, in a delicious garlicky brine, green with parsley. Lots of chopped garlic. New flavors for my unsophisticated palate.

Another glass of Chianti to wash it down with. Red with seafood? Still good! Next, a platter of lemony veal piccata, pounded paper thin, buttery, delicious and more garlic and oil dripping from crispy bread.  A little spaghetti on the side? Downing a third or maybe fourth glass of wine, (after all, they were so tiny), I brazenly tried a new vegetable, escarole, more garlic and oil. I ignored the slight burning developing in my chest.

Feeling a little woozy from the wine— the Chianti no longer tasted strange, but was now an old friend, a lifelong buddy. 

Finally, it was time for dessert.  Whole fruit was placed in the center of the table, an apple, a pear, a small paring knife.  B expertly sliced the pear and handed me a piece. A small espresso pot and tiny cups followed.  A restaurant where you sliced your own fruit and poured your own coffee!   I watched as B took a small piece of lemon rind and rubbed it expertly on the rim of his cup. I did the same.   A half empty bottle of clear liquor, slightly sticky, was placed on the table—Anisette.  B poured generous shots into our cups.  The burning in my chest increased.

Did I have room for a cannoli?  A bite, maybe, crunchy, exquisite.

Driving home westward, into the setting sun, B took the pot holes more gently,  as if he knew one extra bump would push me over the edge.  It was warm in the car and the many glasses of Chianti made me sleepy. I closed my eyes as we drove through Central Park.

Sleeping fitfully that night, tossing and turning— the burning in my chest was relentless. I learned in the morning that there is a word, a special word in Italian to describe this feeling—agita, (heartburn).  “I will never eat garlic or drink red wine again,” I vowed.   This resolution has consistently failed.  But, adding agita to my vocabulary—as well as Chianti, calamari, piccata, Anisette and cannoli— has forever memorialized my one and only excellent dinner at Rao’s on a hot summer night so many years ago.