It was more than one year after 9/11, and restaurants downtown were doing promotions to win patrons back into downtown Manhattan and invigorate commerce in the area. My girlfriend at the time was passionate about food and followed the New York City restaurant buzz. And so on November 8, 2002, we visited Les Halles Bar and Grill on John Street for a dinner deal that was too good to be true. We were accompanied by my friend Leslie, a regular reader and subject of this website.

There was a lot of buzz about Les Halles, owing to its dynamic duo – celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain and proprietor Philippe Lajaunie. The pair was appearing regularly on the Food Network’s TV show, A Cook’s Tour, featuring Bourdain’s worldwide culinary romps with sidekick Lajaunie. So, in addition to what we hoped would be fine food at a discount, perhaps if we were lucky, we’d have had an opportunity to meet Bourdain and/or Lajaunie.
When we arrived, it was mayhem. The maitre d’ was swamped, and the whole scene was out of control. I wanted to leave, however, my friend Leslie pulled me aside and suggested that since my girlfriend had been so excited about this outing that I tolerate the situation and not rain on her parade. I saw her reasoning and committed to stay the course.

As we waited outside on the street, I reflected on my travels to France. I so loved my visits there and the numerous dining experiences I had. This was a world apart from that and a huge disappointment. The situation perplexed me. Did Lajaunie, a Frenchman, need business this badly to turn the whole experience into a circus? Frustrated and irate, I turned to my girlfriend and Leslie and said that this experience at Les Halles went against everything the French stood for.
A man at a light post nearby overheard me and approached us. As he neared, I recognized him as none other than the owner, Philppe Lajaunie himself. I was quite nervous. Unknowingly, I had insulted an internationally known restaurateur and TV celebrity. Best I had shut my mouth, but now I had made my bed and it was time to lie in it.
I was sure Philippe would challenge my comment, and I wondered what he was planning to say in response to my comment that his restaurant went against everything the French stood for. He introduced himself and said that he had overheard me. Shockingly, he said, “I couldn’t agree with you more.” He gave me his business card. We chatted about France. He welcomed a photo. Wow. Instead of public humiliation, I was coming up smelling of roses.

He was not pleased with the chaos and crowd either. Regretful and apologetic, he offered us compensatory drinks. He escorted us to the bar and ordered for us from the bartender. He saw to it that we got a table in a timely manner and visited us during the course of our dinner. I was impressed with Philippe’s candidness and lack of defensiveness. It was another case of restaurant management’s Do the Right Thing

Related Posts: Random Acts of Consideration, War Against Disservice, War Against Disservice Part 2

In the 1960s, I worked one summer at North and Judd Manufacturing, one of the oldest companies in Connecticut. Begun in 1812 with the manufacture of wire hooks, eyes, and other small metal items, North & Judd added the manufacture of saddlery hardware in the 1830’s and grew into a company that produced over 40,000 items.
The history is interesting, but working there was not. As an entry level employee, I was given the least desirable work, tapping thousands of the identical part every day, working for minimum wage. It was grueling and a good look into the engine of the industrial world and the toil and sweat that keeps it oiled and running.

North and Judd and places like it across the land are shrines to the unsung soldier, the worker performing the thankless task. But it was also there, amidst the grit and grime of one of America’s oldest factories, that I found extraordinary people. Unlike Professor Robert Gurland, however, the glimmer of these individuals does not shine far, and only a handful of those around them will ever know of their extraordinary character or talents. And, of course, any close friend or associate who may champion their talents will be dismissed as merely patronizing.

I met a woman in that factory who had manufactured the same part for over 30 years. I think of her from time to time when performing repetitive tasks. Some cynics may write her off as nothing but a drone, someone akin to a robot. I, however, prefer to celebrate such an individual. Certainly, working 30 years at one job demonstrates something, if nothing more than extraordinary tenacity. Our setup man in that factory was also extraordinary, tending to the needs of dozens of pieceworkers, troubleshooting setups, and machinery, always resourceful and under extreme time pressure. I have long desired to travel cross country on a sabbatical, ferreting out such people and gathering stories for a book, Ordinary Lives of Extraordinary People.

Recently, I was traveling in the hinterlands of Staten Island. It was mid-afternoon and hunger had come upon me. It was too early for dinner, but I needed something. I had no interest in doing online research, so I chose a place at whim, Tony’s Pizzeria on Arthur Kill Road. The place looked rather unappealing, but I entered nonetheless, expecting a New York-style dirty and rundown interior behind its garish exterior.
It was immaculate.
I was immediately greeted by the counter person, who seemed genuinely concerned about my every need. Much like my experience with the Italians in the South of France, where everything was No Problema, here, too, no request presented any problem but, to the contrary, was heartily embraced. When I later asked for a cup of ice, he responded, “of course.” My dining companion concurred that this individual was the most attentive and accommodating wait person we had ever encountered. I got neither his name nor a photo.
It is unlikely that I will be there again and equally unlikely that you will visit Tony’s Pizzeria yourself. He will, like so many extraordinary individuals, go largely unnoticed, and our chance encounter will be little more than Two Ships That Pass In The Night

New York City is much loved by many. However, it is no paradise, and the slings and arrows can easily outweigh the pleasures. I cannot speak to the experience of living full-time anywhere else, but this is no heaven and unless a masochist, the resident is best to lower their expectations for bliss and look for Pockets of Joy and Small Gestures, not Eden. Random acts of kindness will stand out and become noteworthy events, set against acts of rudeness. Here, acts of humanity come in small bites, not large meals.

Yesterday was Labor Day and for many New Yorkers, the last hurrah of the summer season. The desire to get away is great, and much of the city is peculiarly quiet. For those who have not made the mass exodus, it is an opportune time to indulge in the luxury of leisure with a minimum of neurotic energy. I opted for a day with no agenda, perhaps atypical of the city denizen who seems eternally driven to some purposeful activity.

So it was, that I found myself exploring the city by car with my girlfriend, much as I did as a child with family on the classic Sunday afternoon drive. Our ride took us to the Upper East Side, originally with a mind to visit Central Park. The threat of rain, however, became a deterrent to any out of car strolling, so we agreed that we would spend the afternoon exclusively riding around. I zigzagged the cross streets of the neighborhood, primarily those blocks between 5th and Madison Avenues, often referred to in real estate parlance as the “park blocks,” owing to their abutting Central Park. It is here, along with 5th Avenue itself, that one will find some of the world’s finest residential buildings. I particularly love the limestone mansions and the gracious elegant pre-war apartment buildings. Here, peering into the occasional window, one will often find beautiful cinched drapes as window treatment, not the more common unadorned window or vinyl roller shades.

I dream of the luxury behind those windows – tall ceilings, plaster moldings, ornamental crown moldings, foyers and spacious rooms lit by chandeliers. Architectural details and roomy comfort define these places, and to have the privilege of living in such a home is to enjoy being in what feels like a refuge from the city and a veritable fortress from its ills. Although the stereotypical snooty resident of the Upper East Side would indicate that this neighborhood is likely not my style, I remain fascinated and desirous of a place that is quiet and free of so much of the tacky, touristy shops and crowds that one must tolerate in the Village, where I have lived for over 4 decades.

As we drove, my girlfriend, who herself prefers a diet of small bites and snacks over large meals, expressed her desire for a pretzel. The classic New York City street pretzel is to be found in carts everywhere, and as we turned the corner at 86th Street and 5th Avenue, my girlfriend pointed out a cart boldly advertising $1.50 pretzels. I left her in my vehicle in front of a fire hydrant – this is legal for standing in New York City and typically the only free spots available in most areas of the city.

As I approached the food cart, there was a small altercation. Apparently a member of a group of individuals was bargaining the vendor from $1.50 to $1 for a bottle of spring water, claiming they had only the single dollar between all of them. The vendor acquiesced. I empathized with him and I told him that it seemed to be an impossibility that an entire group of well-dressed people would not have an additional 50 cents between them. We both agreed that is was just a typical negotiating ploy. The vendor, however, told me that business was painfully slow and that he took what he could get. I purchased a pretzel and immediately noticed how warm and soft it felt – unusually fresh for a street pretzel these days. My girlfriend confirmed, and went further to say that it was perhaps one of the best pretzels she had ever had. I concurred.

As I drove away, I reflected on the entire experience – Mohammed’s generosity and kind manner in spite of the rude and aggressive disposition of his previous customers. Although not a momentous event, it seemed worthy of a story. I circled the block, parked again, and I approached the vendor, who I learned was Mohammed Hussien Abdelmohsen and hailed from Egypt. I took a photo, gave him my card, and informed him I would be doing a story. I told him that in the course of the time to circle the block, the story title had already made itself very quickly obvious because here, in New York City, whether it be acts of kindness or well-made pretzels, Humanity Comes in Small Bites