Last night I met a friend for dinner at Scarpetta, which rated 3 stars out of 4 in the New York Times. I was very excited to go but, just as I entered the establishment, I felt a pinch of sadness. Scarpetta is in the space that was once occupied by New York's trashiest-ever bar, The Village Idiot.
If you never went to the Idiot, I feel sorry for you. Sure, there were roaches the size of cats in the bathrooms. But the bartenders were all scantily clad, gorgeous women. Beer was $5 for a pitcher. Shots were a mere buck. Johnny Cash was always on the jukebox. There was a pool table in back. There were free peanuts. Did I mention the hot bartenders?
In short, not even the Ayatollah could walk away from this place sober, not having had a good time. Some of my fondest memories:
•A naturally beautiful bartender (she was more normal-looking than her coworkers; she had that Midwestern appeal, not the starved-model/actress look of the others), I thought, was actually expressing some interest in me. She and the other bartenders were hungry, and told my friend that if he went around the corner to pick up their order, they would buy chicken fingers for him as well. He agreed. "You're such a sucker!" I said to him. The beautiful bartender turned to me and said, "He's nicer than YOU." I was crushed.
•That same night, one of the friends I brought, a female coworker, entered the establishment kicking and hollering. "We're having a drink HERE?! OK, but just one," she declared, disgusted before she even got through the door. Within an hour or she'd had several shots and beers, and met a one-eyed biker from the Deep South, covered in tattoos. "I'm in love," she said to me while he was in the bathroom.
•On a particularly crowded night, I was on the receiving end of a bump-and-shove as I tried to make my way to the bar. From the look of the other patron's expression, he believed I was at fault for the contact, and I joked, "Hey, I don't want to start anything. I just got out of prison, and don't want to go back."
"Really?!" he asked excitedly. "Me too! What were you in for?"
"Assault," I lied.
"Breaking and entering!" he said, pointing at his chest.
We bought each other a round of beers.
Maybe it's not such a bad thing that the Village Idiot is now a part of New York City drunken-moron history. To be honest, I'm probably too old for the place nowadays anyway. "Who's the creepy geezer?" I'd probably hear upon entering, instead of the greeting patrons then received, which was, "Wooooooooooo! What're you guys drinking?!?!?!?!"
Much as a person has to grow up, so does a city. We don't have to like it, but it does have to happen for better or worse (for worse, just head a little further west into the rest of the Meat Packing District, where you'll find a plethora of overpriced, bridge-and-tunnel, mediocre restaurants).
Scarpetta is indeed a fine restaurant -- one of the best I've eaten at in a long time. The Spanish mackerel crudo was delicious, the duck and foie gras ravioli perfectly cooked and remarkably complex in its flavors and the pancetta-wrapped veal was among the most juicy and flavorful pieces of meat I've ever enjoyed.
And before we sat down, the bartender--very pretty, though far higher-class than a former Village Idiot girl--made one of the best martinis I've ever had. It was $16, but worth every penny. It felt, I don't know...adult? Whatever it was, it felt right.
Though perhaps next time I go to Scarpetta, I might ask the bartender to scream, "Wooooooooooo! What're you drinking?!" just for nostalgia's sake.
