The bearded bartender wears a white tudo jacket and yellow bow tie and looks like he belongs on a luxury cruise ship that sailed a century ago. The music is lilting, uplifting, a playlist like none I've heard in New York. The floor is black-and-turquoise tile, the turquoise a shade found in Istanbul museums. There are anthurium in small vases, a towering arrangement of bird-of-paradise flowers preening in a corner. They're marble-topped and set with pearl-handled flatware. It's tiny, with four small tables pushed close together. I'm flabbergasted, and I'm a hard guy to flabbergast. I've pre-ordered in my mind: Clams casino for me. I'm imagining what's behind the guarded front door: crude wooden tables, red-checked tablecloths, a huge kitchen run by a guy named Sal in a sauce-stained apron screaming orders for spaghetti alle vongole. He stammers a bit and then says okay, I can come at 6:15. I explain where I am and what I'm looking for. He seems embarrassed to have been caught with the phone in his hand.
I walk around the neighborhood, Thompson and Houston. At least he's close.) Simultaneously, he shakes his head, like I have no chance. He says to come back at 6:15, when the place opens. (Turns out walk-ins are welcome if they wish to drink, but nobody told him.) I tell him my sad story of futile phoning. He says nobody gets in without a reservation.
