In the heady days of my youth—a headiness wholly unrelated to cough syrup, I promise—there were a few restaurants I frequented with my parents on trips to New York City. One was Trattoria Dell’Arte, which I can only presume is still passably good, and the other was Café Un Deux Trois, still a popular pre-theater choice.
I remember Trattoria Dell’Arte for the decoration, which included huge, oversized plaster blow-ups of body parts. An ear, a nose, a hand; they were broken into individual pieces and spread throughout the walls of the restaurant. What I recall most vividly is a visit when I was about twelve. As I scooted in my chair to the table, I looked up to find that we were seated directly under a giant, Woody Allen in Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex but Were Afraid to Ask size breast.
My parents were sitting with their backs to it, which meant I spent the entire meal looking at it out of the corner of my eye. These days 12-year-olds have more than 2400 bps access to the Internet and therefore are acclimated to boob viewage—think about how slowly pictures download at that pace--but it was still scandalous to me.
I was reminded of that meal after my mother came into the city yesterday and we ended up at Un Deux Trois. It’s fine, no better or worse than the other French restaurants in the neighborhood. They still have paper tablecloths with crayons at the table, and it remains great fun to doodle on them, even if their beef bourguignon tastes like the stew from family meal.
