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Only The Name is the Same
El Quijote ain’t what it used to be
Without my knowledge or permission I’ve turned into That Person. Sad to say but true. I’m the one who now has to slap her mouth shut before launching into all the ways that New York isn’t New York anymore. And more often than I care to admit, that slapping doesn’t happen quickly enough. Like right now.
The absolute Emperor of New York isn’t New York Anymore passed away in 2012. His name was Peter and he was my friend. He was also one seriously aggravating person. I say this with love in my heart.
Peter, Neil, and I were inseparable back in the aughts. We were always either at Neil’s “Breadbox” (no bigger than…), Peter’s six-story walk up on Mott Street — in the land of the $600 clutch purse — or my “vast, palatial estate” up in Harlem for movie night. Every Saturday was brunch at the Village Den and every Saturday night was dinner at The Dish.
And for special, we’d go to El Quijote next to the Chelsea Hotel.
Neil is the master of nicknames and so it became The Old Coyote. If you’ve read Patti Smith’s “Only Kids”, you’ve heard about her Old Coyote. By the time we staked our claim, the place was a gloriously shabby old mess. I’ve never seen a place with so many people to seat, take orders, serve, and bus tables. There was even one gentleman…
