Archive
01/09/12 - (2)
Sweet Tooth
It's April 17, 1950, and I have a really good excuse for being out of school: I'm turning nine, today; it's my birthday, all this long day long. My dad and I are together, in New York, staying at the Savoy-Plaza Hotel. This morning, he's conducting business as usual, in our suite's living room. I'm being Mr. Lazy, just watching five channels of television, Taking the elevator, to the Mayflower Coffee Shop, on the first floor, To buy a large Coca-Cola and a dozen chocolate-glazed donuts, to go, While he "merchandises" his line, to cussing, cigar-smoking buyers (Later, he'll order in sandwiches, so they can work, nonstop, till five).
My favorite day has always not been Christmas (We never do Chanukah, thank God; its gelt's a big gyp!) But this one, in the middle of April, when I'm the center of attention, And all just because I'm me, my proud mom and dad's firstborn. This afternoon, while my dad's been in the hot seat, kowtowing, Doing what he has to, to be polite, diplomatic, bite his tongue, Make each buyer feel that he's King Farouk, William Zeckendorf, I've been across the street, exploring heaven's earthly depot, Lost in FAO Schwarz's second-floor maze of electric-train displays.
When Dad's done, he asks me where I'd like to have my special dinner, But he knows: at the greatest restaurant on the face of any planet, God's favorite Jewish deli, frequented by celebrities of all stripes, Including the likes of Jack Dempsey, Christine Jorgensen, Buster Crabb, Charlie Chaplin, Kate Smith, Melvyn Douglas, Joe E. Brown, Arthur Godfrey, Judy Holliday, Eddie Cantor, Claudette Colbert, Marlene Dietrich, Jackie Coogan, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Sid Caesar, All of whom have autographed Reuben's postcards, for me, At the request of my dad's favorite waiter, Artie Lyons.
Now, Dad and I are seated in the dim-lit dining room. It's all dark-brown half-timbering and red leather, everywhere, And absolutely all I can think of is giving Artie my order For the one thing I've been craving since I was last here, The dessert, other than their world-class cheesecake, For which they're best known, across the entire universe: Their fantabulous, foot-wide, bubbling-hot apple pancake, A crispy, gooey, cinnamon-sugar-and-caramel encrusted treasure So scrumptious that I almost cry, on taking my first five bites.
My dad has his slightly less dramatic but equally tantalizing Reuben, A skyscraper of corned beef, Swiss, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing, Most of which he asks Artie to package up, in a doggy bag, So he can leave room for a slice of cherry cheesecake — his treasure. For the next half hour, I'm the happiest kid in Midtown Manhattan, Getting to celebrate my birthday, with my pal, buddy, travel mate, The dad I rarely get to see, have dinner with, when I'm home, For his being away or working late. But this is my night to be with him, One sweet-tooth night I just know we'll never, not ever, forget.
01/09/12 - (2)
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