Sunday. 7 pm.
My 75-year-old friend, Mr. Old School, sits alone at his signature table just to the right of the entrance. He may be 75 with a bum hip, but he’s sharp as a knife and one of my favorite people. His table faces everything. That way he can see who walks in, see what is happening and, more importantly, see the good ole’ American World Series game that hangs over the bar.
Like Mr. Old School, this place screams old time New York and has tons of swag. It also has tons of comfort and just enough classy decor and good looking servers to make the high price tag reasonable. Although only a year open, you feel as though you can step back in time, and Humphrey Bogart or Rita Hayworth might walk through the door. Hunter green banquettes sit on dark green carpet, while shiny green brick tile climbs the wall. To stay with the theme, Mr. Old School is wearing a green sweater.
“I love green,” he growls in his Bronx accent with a Groucho Marx lift of the brow. “It’s a good color.”
His eyes are half on our conversation and half on the game. I pretend to be interested in the game too, as most women do but don’t really care. I’m actually caught up in the hot couple at the bar playing their own game of tag with each other.
“Do you like me?” she asks.
“Do you like me?” he replies.
“I asked you first.”
I like you both. This could go on all night, but I don’t mind. Good looking, young, well-dressed, and just enough wine in them so they have no regard for those around them. I think I saw them piggy back to the bathroom earlier. My kind of people. They seem genuinely interested in each other or they’re genuinely drunk.
“Let’s start with the shrimp cocktail. With the red sauce. Make sure you bring the red sauce. Horseradish too. But don’t forget the red sauce,” he explains to the server who gives him her winning smile and nods her head. She knows him. She gets him. This is his table.
My eyes then look to the hot sauce bartender who doesn’t pay me any mind. He probably thinks I’m with my Old School. That’s ok, I don’t really care. At 75 he’s a better date than most men I meet, and I enjoy his stories—with or without the red sauce.
The shrimp comes and, distracted by the couple, I take a large bite. Fire runs up my nose, out of my eyes, and I fiercely grab for my napkin.
“They forgot the red sauce,” he shakes his head. “All horseradish. Good job, dear.”
To make me feel better he starts quoting old American movies.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world..” He smiles with pride. He does that. He knows all the good quotes. As Audrey Hepburn believed, “Everything I learned, I learned from the movies.” Mr. Old School once gave me a book about Katherine Hepburn, whom he met in real life at a bar. You want a story? He has one. You want advice? He’ll give it you. You want a quote from “Curb Your Enthusiasm"? No problem. He’s a real life Larry David whom he actually did meet once, and he’ll tell you the story. But whatever you do, don’t get too serious and deep with him or his eyes will turn back to the World Series. As Katherine Hepburn would say, “Never complain. Never explain.”
Just then, a hot mixed couple walks in. A beautiful Beyonce type with her Billy Idol boyfriend. Man does she have swag. If I could just have one ounce of that swag, I wouldn’t care one bit about how it looks if I finish this entire, perfect 12-ounce New York steak. As far as she is concerned, the more swag - the more to love. “So eat up, girl,” I say to myself. This is probably the best steak I’ve had in a while, too. From her inspiration, I take another bite.
“You’re a good little eater there,” Mr. Old School says.
My eyes widen, terrified.
“You’re eating very well, dear,” he laughs.
Swag denied as I push my meal to the side. I claim I’m done (even though I’m not) and watch him finish his to-die-for meatloaf, jalapeno creamed corn, and mashed potatoes.
Later, I listen to him tell stories over a large bowl of cappuccino ice cream and two coffees. He shares the tale of how he met his now ex-wife 50 some odd years ago. How he whisked her away to San Francisco on their very first date. I guess chivalry isn’t dead. He is alive, sitting right next to me.
The coffee now has me wide awake, but Mr. Old School likes to be in bed by 8:30; so although the night is early, Mr. Old School is done and ready for bed. He loves his nightly routine of getting into bed and watching his favorite shows. With a kiss on the cheek and a big hug, he turns to me and says, “Well, you know what Napoleon used to say.”
“No. What?” I indulge him
.
“That he preferred his bed to his throne. But don’t confuse me with Napoleon.”
I love this guy. And for me the night is still young. Goodnight Mr. Old School. “Tomorrow is another day.”
RATING:
CRAIG'S
8826 Melrose Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90069
(310) 276-1900
http://www.craigs.la
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