The high point of the weekend, however, came on our first night. We had planned to dine at Felidia, an upscale Italian restaurant on the East side, but before dinner, I thought we might take one more shot at the legendary Rao's, where I had been unable to secure a reservation. I had been curious about this place for years. According to the Zagat survey, "It'll be real tough to get into this East Harlem landmark ... if you don't know Frankie personally, but ... homestyle Italian at its best; the place looks like a Cagney movie set ... you're likely to sit between the Godfather and the governer." I had called a month ahead, three times before Frankie would speak to me, only to hear his solemn declaration, "We're booked for the year."
After a couple of drinks in the hotel room, Lin was willing to try her luck. Her approach was far more imaginative than mine had been: "Is Frankie there? This is Lin ... Hello, Frankie -- Lin, from Texas ... looking for a place to eat tonight." Then, in a voice I hadn't heard before, "Oh, Frankie, don't say that -- we came a long way for this," and finally, "Four of us ... 9:30 is fine."
We got out of the cab at 114th Street and Pleasant Avenue in Harlem, in front of a shabby red storefront. There were no other lights on the block, and no sign on the building, but the presence of several large Italian men leaning against black limousines was reassuring.
We were met at the door by a gruff fellow who was not at all impressed by our entrance, but an older well-dressed man walked over, looked at me and asked, "What's the lady's name?" When I gave the right answer, he offered his hand and announced "I'm Frankie."
Frankie led us past a tacky bar (with Christmas decorations?) into a small room with six booths and 2 tables. He gestured toward the table in the back, which was set for four. The place was otherwise packed. Lin later insisted that one of the booths had been occupied by tourists, but it was my strong impression that we were the only outsiders in the room. In any case, the governer didn't show that night, but there was an old man with a colorful entourage at the other table who accepted kisses on the cheek from departing guests.
When we were seated, a young man with glasses joined us, introducing himself as Frankie. "The old guy," he explained, pointing to our host, "is my father -- he doesn't do anything around here." He took our order after noting that we would be dining in the "family style". (Perhaps sensing our amusement upon hearing a word that none of us would have dared to say aloud, he elaborated: "That means you share everything.") There were no menus, of course, but Frankie was quite helpful in the decision process, which went quickly.
"If you need anything," said Frankie, "just yell `Anthony' and the fat guy or the little guy will help you." Indeed, the two Anthonys took good care of us for the rest of the evening. We started with baked clams and a seafood salad, followed by a pasta Fra Diavolo with lobster and other shellfish, and three main dishes: sole Livornese (tomatoes, capers, and anchovies), veal marsala, and a baked chicken. The quality was as advertised -- not haute cuisine, but as good as that stuff gets. We managed to put it all away, but passed on dessert. Big Anthony announced that Frankie (?) would like us to have a drink on him, so we finished with a round of grappa. We were a bit nervous about the bill (we hadn't seen any prices and it was clear that credit cards would be of no use), but it was quite reasonable: $270 for four, including three bottles of wine and a generous tip.
Still more excitement was to come. When I asked the younger Frankie for a cab, a number of other guests were also leaving, so he instructed one of the Anthonys to "call for some cars". After much heartfelt handshaking, we wandered outside, where we were greeted by the Dead End Kids. To our relief, they turned out to be part of the operation and assured us that our car would be along presently. A moment later, a procession of Mercedes and Lincolns pulled up in front of the restaurant. We climbed into a back seat and were whisked back to midtown reality, with opera in our ears. As in the restaurant, no prices were advertised. The driver accepted $13 without flinching.
I'd like to think that a reservation at Rao's might come more easily the next time, but we were unable to get anything like a secret password out of Frankie. "Call when you're in town," he advised, "and we'll see what we can do."
After returning home, we found the following review on the Web:
Wanna eat Italian food just like your grandmother would make if she were Italian and having a truly inspired day in the kitchen? Wanna dine with kings and rockstars, politicians and playwrights in an atmosphere of perpetual yuletide and red naugahide? How about sharing an anisette with countless extras from The Godfather and Goodfellas? All this is possible and more at RAO'S on east 114th st. When I went there Frankie Sr., the owner/operator/chef of this 98-year-old eaterie, was quick to point out the celeb clientele that was dining around the seven odd tables that night. If you'll notice on table one, the bald man with his back to us is Sen. Al D'Amato. Table 4, Darryl Hall, you remember him from Hall and Oates, sitting with that guy who is married to Mariah Carey, he's the head of Sony. Anyway, over there is Dick Schaap, sports commentator and Clinton's golfing buddy. Why do so many celebs flock to this god-forsaken part of Manhattan to eat in cramped underground restaurant? Frankie Sr. will tell you it's the sauce, and he'sright. The best red sauce Italian food I've ever had. And the atmosphere couldn't be weirder if it tried: from the jukebox filled with the greatest hits of Tony Roselli, Al Martino and Jerry Vale to the walls covered in photos of wiseguys, movie stars and presidents who have frequented this establishment this place is the genuine article, an Italian social club that is run the same way it has for the last 100 years. Try to get a reservation. You may wait several months, but we found tenacity got us in the door. Call up and ask for Frankie Jr., the son. Come up with an Italian last name, it'll help. This place is a gem.
- Rosetta