The wife picked this one:

Hope II, by Gustav Klimt (1907-08)

Dig this smooth cover of the Al Green classic:

Later sampled here:

…and here:

A couple of nights ago I got on the BX 7 and said hello to a driver that I didn’t recognize. It was rush hour, the bus was crowded, and the driver, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, drove in fits and starts, with a heavy foot on the break. It was enough to make you sick to your stomach, one of those instances that made me appreciate competent drivers.

I appreciate good workers in all walks of life–I’ve talked about my old barber at length in this space–which is why I make it a point to say “thank you” to the motorman–or woman–on the subway as I leave the train. I dig professionals. Who says “thanks” to them, after all? And yet, they help get us where we need to go. I always appreciate people who are professional because that’s what I aspire to be–though I don’t always succeed.

That in mind, I went to Resto, a Belgian-influenced restaurant on 29th street, with an old pal last night. I’ve been meaning to go for a minute now, mainly to try their hangover pasta, a dish that comes highly recommended. Unfortunately, they don’t serve it for dinner, but any disappointment I felt about that news was overshadowed by how we were greeted by the wait staff. It was early in the evening and only a few tables were filled. It seemed like a free-for-all in terms of who would wait on us because we were approached by three different people in quick succession.

The first dude hovered over out table. I said hello. He ignored me and asked if we wanted tap or bottled water. He left and was replaced by another guy who I said hello too as well. He said hi back, which was an improvement, but then he stumbled through the specials which I had to prompt him to share with us. When he left my friend said, “Dumb and dumber.”

“The food had better be good,” I said.

Then came the third waiter, a brunette, maybe in her early thirties, wearing the Resto uniform t-shirt with the slogan, “Funny, She Doesn’t Look Flemish.” She asked if she could help us with anything on the menu. Relieved, I asked her question after question and then asked her to recommend a salad. She didn’t hesitate in suggesting a raw kale salad with toasted almonds and brown butter vinagrette, “I get it every time I come here to eat.” She explained that the kale was  Tuscan kale, not at all the tough, dark green that we eat cooked. Since that looked like the last thing we’d order and it was the first thing she suggested, we ordered it.

She introduced her self as Lou Ann–it was something with a Lou, I think I’ve got it straight–and answered all of our questions thoughtfully and directly. She was assertive but not a hustler–and spoke to us in a plain, engaging manner. I told her that we were happy to have her helping us after the first two dipshits and she assured us that she’d be our waiter for the rest of the meal.

She was right about the kale salad. The greens had a slightly coarse, pleasing texture, and they were tender, without any bitterness. It was very simple but outstanding. We also had the deviled eggs, served over a fried pork toast, the most popular starter in the place according to Lou Ann. They were sinful but too heavy for me, a little greasy. One was enough for a taste.

We also both had burgers and they were simple but excellent, comparable, if not preferable to the ones I’ve recently had at The Spotted Pig and Five Napkin Burger.

I wanted to try dessert but there was no need. I resisted the urge to try the waffle ice cream sandwich or the apple crumble pie served with gingerbread ice cream and salty carmel. (Salty carmel? Drool.) I had a satisfying cup of tea instead and my pal ordered a regular cup of coffee that he said was so good that he’d come back just for the coffee. On our way out I interruped Lou Ann as she attended to another table to tell her that she was very good at her job. I hope her bosses notice–along with the more than tasty food, her service–attentive but not intrusive–helped make for a warm, pleasant evening.  A reason to go back, for sure.

Which I will do, for the Tuscan kale salad and a stab at that hangover pasta.

I’m hardly an expert on the mechanics of a pitcher, but even I can tell that the finish of Lance McCullers’ delivery in this game against the Blue Jays looks rather painful. When your head is completely turned toward first base just as you’ve released the ball toward home plate, there is something desperately wrong.

As a young reliever with the Padres, McCullers had the kind of talent over which scouts salivate, a powerful right arm that could manhandle opposing hitters. Some folks called him “Baby Goose” because his style mirrored Hall of Fame teammate Rich “Goose” Gossage. I remember well when the Yankees acquired McCullers as part of a package that sent slugging Jack “The Ripper” Clark to the Padres. Reacting to the news with boyish fervor, I thought that the trade would help the Yankees on two fronts. With a 95 mile-an-hour fastball and a knee-bending slider, McCullers appeared to be the young relief ace who could effectively replace the erratic Dave Righetti. That, in turn, would have allowed the Yankees to put Righetti back in the starting rotation, thereby strengthening one of the weakest areas of the team.

Unfortunately, the Yankees didn’t receive my memo. They stubbornly resisted the temptation to change Righetti’s role, instead announcing that McCullers would become his primary setup man in the bullpen. McCullers then compounded the problem by flopping in his first season in pinstripes. After having pitched remarkably well for three seasons in middle relief, McCullers did not take well to a similar role in the Bronx. His ERA rose by more than two runs, from 2.49 to 4.57, despite a reduced workload in 1989. Often unhittable in the National League, McCullers found hitters in the junior circuit to be far less impressed with his arsenal of riding fastballs and diving sliders.

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A month into spring training has yielded little in terms of newsworthy occurrences in Yankee camp.

The team announced it would not discuss or negotiate contract extensions for Mariano Rivera, Derek Jeter, or manager Joe Girardi until after the season, which is consistent with recent club policy. Nick Johnson missed time with back stiffness (uh-oh), but then rejoined the lineup (phew!). Indications, per Girardi, are that Johnson will bat second and that speed isn’t important, since Mark Teixeira and Alex Rodriguez are hitting behind him. That means Curtis Granderson, who Girardi hinted would be the team’s starting center fielder, will likely bat seventh or eighth, depending on Nick Swisher’s exploits. Granderson in center, coupled with Brett Gardner’s wet-noodle bat, means Randy Winn, um, win(n)s the left field job.

That brings us to the first of three major subsections of this week’s column.

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Lauren Bacall’s silver screen debut. Not a bad start, eh? This scene is still smoking hot.

William Faulkner helped on the script, based on the novel by Ernest Hemingway. The movie features a memorable performance by Walter Brennan in a supporting role and a couple of charming routines by the one and only Hoagy Carmichael.

Free baseball on YES. Yanks unt der Braves.

Embroidery: The Artist’s Mother, by Georges Seurat (1882-3)

Conte Crayon on Paper: 12 1/4 x 9 1/2 in. (31.2 x 24 cm)

The Sunshine Bores the Daylights Out of Me…

In some subway stations around town the token booth clerks now wear red jackets and just answer questions. I haven’t run into any of these clerks yet–fortunately, my man Rob on 238th street still sells me a metro card–but my cousin did the other day on 23rd and Broadway.

Sees a guy come up to the clerk, a spoiled-brat European-looking guy, waving his Metrocard and says, “I put it in once. I put it in a second time! Now it says “Just Used!”

And the clerk replies…

The guy didn’t laugh. But my cousin did.

Zabar’s started small…

And now rules most of the block.

It was the Upper West Side food store, along with Fairway, when I was a kid. My old man would send me there for a beef salami and a seeded rye…”Sliced.”

I don’t go too often anymore. It is crowded, it is expensive, but it also is what it has always been: food heaven.

La Prière, by Man Ray (1930)

From WCBS…

Joba goes for the spring training Bomb Squad this afternoon as the Yanks face the Tigers.

Yes my man Ron Carter is on the bass…

When my Old Man was still drinking he’d take my brother and me to the bar at the Ginger Man where we’d drink Cokes on the rocks with twists of lime. Sometimes my twin sister came too but I don’t have any memories of her being there. I was ten, eleven years old but felt like a grown up at the bar so it didn’t occur to me that there was anything strange about a father taking his sons to drink with him.

Eventually, that changed. One day, I was sitting next to a friend of the old man’s who was so loaded, slurring his words, putting his arms around me, that I thought he was going to fall on me. Maybe what the rest of the family said was true, after all–maybe my dad was an alcoholic, though I wasn’t sure what an alcoholic was. 

While the Old Man was getting drunk on Vodka tonics, we pretended to get drunk on Coke, which came out of a magic soda gun, not a bottle. We ate salty peanuts which was special because we never had those kinds of peanuts at home. And on occasion, they’d serve home made potato chips that were still warm.

One of the bartenders showed us how to rim the glass with the slice of lime and to this day a Coke doesn’t taste the same unless it’s on the rocks with a twist of lime.

I was going home last night on the 1 train when a guy with a guitar walked into the car. He was a short Latin man with spiked black hair, a black pea coat (with the collar turned up), grey slacks and polished black shoes. He stood in front of me and put his fingers on his guitar, in no hurry to begin. I made a face when he strummed a few chords because his instrument was not in tune. Then he began to play and sing. I looked at his fingers and saw a white callus on his left index finger that looked like an extension of his finger nail.

He sang with conviction and strummed with force. He was stern almost somber but his voice was emotional, direct. I wondered if he just didn’t care that his guitar was out-of-tune. When he was finished, he spoke so softly that even sitting a foot away I couldn’t make out what he was saying. But as he walked through the car, people gave him dollar bills, not coins.

Nobody cared that his guitar was out of tune. His music still moved them.

Nonchaloir, by John Singer Sargent, 1911

CC goes today in the sunshine…

And Edwar goes to Texas…

These are the Breaks…

Happy Days…