When I was in New York City for union bargaining in 1949, 1950, and 1951, I found myself being drawn to Greenwich Village. In many cases, food and drinks were cheaper there than in midtown. The place had a small town feel to it. If you ate at a restaurant two of three times, chances are the waitresses or the cashier would recognize you and say hello. In contrast, if you went into the Child’s Restaurant at Broadway and 42nd Street, you would probably never be recognized. Of course, Child’s was a lot bigger, but the friendliness found in the Village was conspicuously missing in much of midtown and uptown.
The Village in those days consisted of many small shops and restaurants. Big chains were unheard of in the area around Washington Square Park. In the small clubs, entertainment acts headed for the big time were always found. And acts that were headed downward would play the small clubs to earn a payday with the hope that they would be seen and sent back to the big time clubs and network radio. Remember, television was in its infancy in the latter part of the 1940’s and the early part of the 1950’s.
Greenwich Village in many respects was a different city from the rest of New York. It was a place where people lived. It was a place where people cared about their surroundings. This is a pure guess, but I’d say the average income of Village residents in the days we are speaking of was considerably less than the residents in apartments buildings on Park or Madison Avenues, for example.
The people were friendly. The shopkeepers acted as though they wanted your business. And most importantly, there were few, if any, barriers in dealing with other residents of the Village in terms of national origin or in terms of sexual orientation. I soon learned that if, for example, the Pakistani man standing near you was also gay, that did not keep him from being friendly. And it certainly meant that he would do nothing to convert you to his beliefs. He lived his life and you lived yours and everyone got along.
In the Army, there were all kinds of people from Iowa farmers to welders from Maine. In Africa and Italy, I met all kinds of people who were different from U. S. soldiers. Before I joined the Army in 1942, I had pretty much stayed fairly close to the Midwest and St. Louis. Those places were basically German and adventuresome folks had to look hard for something inspiring and interesting to do. St. Louisans were basically decent people but they often concentrated on church, family and children. Most creative endeavors were frowned upon. When the St. Louis Cardinals were winning pennants, many St. Louisans deplored their playing baseball on Sundays. So turning me loose in Greenwich Village was a liberating move.
When I first came to New York in 1948 or 1949, going to the Village had a mystical ring to it. It was not forbidden space but it might be compared to going to Harlem, many years later. It seemed to be an out-of-the way place with many nightclubs and saloons being entered after walking down a long stairway into what seemed like a cellar. But the fact is that nearly all the people were friendly and no one seemed inclined to cheat the customers. While I liked all of New York, I came to be genuinely fond of the Village. Let me introduce you to a few people who worked in the Village and who became my friends as time went on.
When I came back to New York on a permanent assignment in 1955, I stayed at the Grosvenor Hotel on Fifth Avenue and either Ninth or Tenth Streets. When I started to work on my first day on the labor relations job, I noticed several taxis in front of the Grosvenor. I was going to walk to 32 Sixth Avenue, a distance of about 1.5 miles, so I did not need a cab. The next morning, the same thing happened. When this old country boy asked the doorman why he had so many taxicabs lined up, he told me they weren’t there for walkers like me, but were intended to take school children, who lived full time in the Grosvenor, to school. The doorman said there were some good public schools in the Village, but these children were attending private schools so they rode in taxicabs. I was impressed and astounded. The more I thought about it, the more I said, “Why not?” But I did think that if I ever drove up to the Forsyth Grade School in Clayton, Missouri in 1930 in a taxicab, I probably would have been declared insane. But going to school in a taxicab – what class!
When I came to New York permanently, I was making the princely sum of $750 per month. My pay was the product of the Killingsworth-Marsh effort to minimize salaries. Killingsworth was the President of Long Lines and Marsh was his Personnel Vice President. On the other hand my boss, Dick Dugan, knew what was going on and told me that I should not be cutting corners on food and other living expenses while staying at the Grosvenor.
All of this led me to an older eating establishment on Washington Place between Sixth Avenue and MacDougal Street. It was the Coach House which I soon found out, offered absolutely the best black bean soup and corn sticks in all of New York or in the rest of the world, for that matter. I sat down to my first dinner in New York to a succulent hamburger. I still ate meat in those days, but it only cost $1.50 to $2.00 per serving – and it was delicious.
The owner of the Coach House was Leon Leonidis who learned his craft in Greece. He could bake and butcher and he could cook. Leon’s staff was exclusively black men except for the cashier, who was a black woman. The waiting staff at the Coach House made people feel at home and anticipated the wishes of its customers. Paul, the headwaiter, became a close friend. When foreign visitors came to New York, I almost always introduced them to the black bean soup and corn sticks at Leon’s establishment. But the Coach House had much more to offer than soup or corn sticks.
Some where in the mid 1980’s, Leon said he and Paul and the rest of the staff needed to have some time off. In point of fact, they closed the Coach House. I had been their customer for almost 30 years. When the Coach House closed, that was a lamentable day. I’m afraid we won’t see its likes again.
When in 1955, it was determined that bargaining sessions would no longer be held on company premises but rather, would be held in a hotel. The hotel selected was the Number One Fifth Avenue Hotel at the corner of 8th Street. You may recall from one of my earlier essays in the New York City series that Jack Marsh, the Personnel Vice President picked that hotel because it sounded expensive and it was his intent to break the union financially. Marsh did not realize that the union’s office was in the Village on University Place at about Ninth Street, so union representatives could stroll to the bargaining sessions with lots of time to admire the scenery.
The Number One Fifth Avenue had electrical problems which made air conditioning impossible to install anywhere above the first six or eight stories. On top of that, the hotel resisted installing self service elevators until the 1980’s. That meant operators for the two manual lifts for the daytime and evening shifts, which must have been an expensive operation.
Before bargaining began, the company team moved into the hotel and stayed there until bargaining was finished. This meant a stay of from six to eight weeks each time a contract was bargained.
The bar was air-conditioned while our rooms were not. Simply put, that meant we spent much of our waking hours in the Number One bar. It was a very hospitable place with John and Louis, the bartenders and Bob the cashier providing us with gossip and good camaraderie. The maitre’ d was Carlo. Carlo had an unpronounceable Italian name, so when he first went to work in Geneva, he saw a large electric sign advertising the casino at Monte Carlo. Carlo said that from that time on, he had people call him Carlo. He was a good man.
Bob the cashier, was for all intents and purposes paralyzed. Using a cane, the length of his step was about six inches. He could not bend over nor could he turn his head. Life had dealt old Bob a cruel, cruel blow but for the most part, he made the best of it. Bob wanted to be like other men. So one evening he saw me coming down to the lobby after his own bar had closed. He insisted that we ought to have a drink together. I said, “Absolutely.” Getting Bob into a cab was some experience. The same could be said for the two of us standing at a bar west of Sixth Avenue in the Village. But it was of great importance for Bob to view himself as a man rather than as a cripple. After we had a drink or two, I hailed a cab and the whole routine of getting him into his seat was repeated. I was glad that I could be part of Bob’s effort to view himself as a normal man. Old Bob went to work six days a week and put in a full eight-hour shift. He had my admiration – all of it.
The bartenders at Number One had some interest in opera. John and Louis were both born in Italy. Aside from their bartending duties, I used to ask both of them for translations of lines I had heard in opera. They often disagreed on the precise translation of a text but when I referred to “In Questa Tomba Oscura” from Beethoven’s opera Fidelio, they both agreed it translated to “In this dark tomb.”
John and Louis were good, hardworking men who never cheated a drunk who showed up at their bar. Somewhere along the line, John gave me an Italian quotation that has served me well for the past 48 years. John attributed this saying to his parents. It was that, “It is better to be alone than in the company of fools.” Sometimes it is also said that we should also avoid the company of pigs. I have heard variations about fools, and pigs, but it all boils down to the same equation.
The Number One bar has now been closed for a long time. John and Louis have disappeared, probably to other bar tending jobs. But I still remember that it is better to be alone than in the company of fools or pigs. Good advice.
After the sun went down, the Number One bar became a nightclub under the direction of a very bright gentleman named Bob Downey. Bob was an excellent piano player. His forte seemed to be in accompanying singers, mostly females. Downey cultivated newspaper people who wrote about entertainment. On Broadway, it must have become known that exposure at the Number One cabaret and bar would be beneficial to one’s career. So soon after the Broadway theaters closed for the night, at least one or two female singers would come by to give an unrehearsed recital. Bob Downey was always good to these aspiring actresses/singers. Obviously, they were using Bob for the publicity it would bring them. And that often happened. On the other hand, Bob was using the singers from new shows on Broadway to draw a crowd – and it succeeded in both directions.
There was an occasion when the musical “Irma La Douce” opened on Broadway. “Irma” is set in Pigalle in Paris and is not intended for viewing by Sunday-school attendees. For example, some of the characters are pimps and tarts – but very nice pimps and tarts. The show opened in New York in September, 1960 with an English woman, Elizabeth Deal, playing Irma and an Aussie, Keith Mitchell, playing the male lead. The show was a great success, but after appearing in Irma for perhaps two years, Elizabeth Seal wanted to leave to pursue other lead female roles. That set off an uproar with half a dozen actresses/singers showing up for Downey’s after theater performances in an effort to succeed Miss Seal.
My favorite was a French woman who laid on the top of Downey’s grand piano. The top luckily was down. Before long, she rolled on around the piano top to accentuate the French song she was singing. Old Downey knew he had a good thing going and told her American audiences in the Village were wild about her singing and would she please do an encore or two. Well, she emoted on top of Downey’s piano turning and rolling one way and then the other. The newspapermen gave her a big story and she was hired as one of Elizabeth Seal’s replacements. As long as Bob Downey played at the Number One cabaret and bar, he always seemed to have aspiring actresses/singers for his late night performances. But none gave out emotion as much as the lady who rolled all over Downey’s grand piano.
After a time, Bob Downey returned to his home port of Buffalo for family reasons. I visited him twice in Buffalo where he had an operation in a hotel much like the one he had at Number One. Aspiring singers must have been sorry to see Bob Downey leave the Village. I’m sorry to say that no one ever took his place. Bob was a fine musician and even he will admit that attractive singers rolling around on his piano top lent a lot to the music he was playing.
A few blocks west of the Number One Hotel was a place called Bianchi and Margherita Restaurant which said on its menu, that they served “Opera a la Carte.” The restaurant occupied premises on West Fourth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. The food they served was basically Italian, and it was pretty good. But the point in going to Bianchi and Margherita was to hear singer’s performing selections from opera in an informal setting.
Bianchi and Margherita occupied ground floor premises in an old four or five story flat. There was a bar on the right as you entered and a piano was on the left opposite the bar. I started going there in the mid to late 1950’s when people smoked lots of tobacco. At the end of the bar, stood Bianchi who rang up sales on his cash register. He rarely left the cash register and showed little emotion in dealing with customers or with Margarita, whom I presume, may have been his wife. Bianchi was all business.
Margherita was a different story. When I knew her, she was in her late 60’s or early 70’s. But she was determined to be the femme fatale or the seductress. Perhaps 30 years earlier, she could have been all that but as her age advanced, her voice cracked and the evening dresses she wore made me feel sorry for her. She was a good sport who did not have a complete grasp of English after many years in this country.
Fred was the head bartender who made everyone feel at home. From time to time, Fred was assisted by a basso who could deliver a rousing rendition of “In Questa Tomba Oscuro” from Beethoven’s opera, Fidelio. Singing is a tough job. It may yield inspiring results to the singer, but most often, the singer had better find a job to pay the bills. I am sorry that’s the way things work in this country. As a result, lots of aspiring artists abandon their careers because they need a guaranteed income.
Several young people worked at Bianchi and Margherita’s in the evening while they sought singing engagements to further their careers. There was the Astoria Hotel on Broadway in the 70’s which catered to aspiring actors and singers. It was better than the YMCA, but not a great deal better. At least three of the waiters at Bianchi and Margherita’s stayed there. It is a sad sight to see someone reach the point where he or she faces reality and gives up the dream of succeeding in the theater or in a singing career. But people still come to New York in the hope that lightning will strike and they will become stars. Not many make it, but that doesn’t keep people from trying.
All that brings me to Joe D’Amico who often greeted people as they entered the door at Bianchi and Margarita’s, who served drinks and dinners and who sang in a robust baritone voice. I got to know Joe well. Aside from his singing at Bianchi and Margherita’s, Joe recorded three albums. He was a professional singer, but like so many others, he never had an opportunity to be a headliner on radio or television or in the big nightclubs in New York.
Joe was born in Rosiaria de Santa Fe in Argentina of Italian parents. He returned with them to Catania, Italy at age seven. Joe came to the United States at age 20. He performed with the London Opera Company in the Northeastern states of the U. S. After he was drafted, Joe won an All-Army Talent Contest. That meant a transfer to Special Services where he performed for troops in all sectors of Western Occupied Germany. I tell you all this to establish the point that Joe was a polished, professional performer. He was good looking and had a very pleasing personality, but in the end, Joe like millions of others never made it to the top rungs of professional success. So he stuck with Bianchi and Margherita hoping that one of the opera producers or show business people would discover him and send him on his way. He was a major talent that was unfortunately overlooked.
As 1977 approached, AT&T had moved its headquarters to various locations in New Jersey. By that time, I was spending much of my working hours in Europe and the Orient, so I was not around when Bianchi and Margherita’s gave up the ghost. Not long ago we went to West 4th Street and found where the cabaret-restaurant used to be. It is now a laundry and no one there remembers the pleasant nights at Bianchi and Margheritas.
After all these years, two thoughts still stick with me. As Joe D’Amico was preparing his third album, he told me with considerable excitement and pride in his voice, that he had musical arrangements for his newest album. It was no longer just Joe and a piano player and a guitar; for this one he had arrangements. I suppose that the album had to be plugged by people with contacts. Joe did not have many of those people. What a shame.
On another occasion, I found out where Joe’s mother lived in Rome. Through an arrangement with the Italian telephone authorities, I was able to get her number and to have a call set up for early evening. We had to use a phone booth near the men’s restroom because Bianchi would never permit his phone to be used for frivolous purposes. Joe did not know about the arrangement for his mother to call. When I sent him to pick up the phone, he did so with a sense of disbelief on his handsome face. After talking to his mother, Joe thanked me profusely.
I’m sorry to say that I no longer know where to find Joe D’Amico. He was a fine singer and a very good man.
The title of this essay is “A Picture on the Wall and Music in the House.” We’ve had quite a discussion of music with Bob Downey and Joe D’Amico. It’s time now for truth in titles, so we’ll talk a little bit about how I came to know a fine Russian artist and how I bought some of his works.
The title of this essay comes from an expression by Phillip Murray who was a power in American Labor circles. When the AFL (American Federation of Labor) joined with the CIO (Congress of Industrial Organizations) to form the AFL-CIO, it soon selected Phillip Murray, the former president of the CIO to head the combined union. In dealing with coal operators in his native Scotland, Murray told the bosses that the people in the pits didn’t aspire to great wealth. He said, “All we want is a decent place to live, with a rug on the floor, a picture on the wall and with some music in the house.” After two or three years in New York, I yearned to have an original oil painting to hang on my wall of our house. We had plenty of music in the house and a rug on the floor, but what we were missing was a painting.
Every year around Memorial Day and Labor Day, outdoor art festivals took place in Greenwich Village. The artists showed their paintings and sculptures on the east side of Sixth Avenue starting at about West 3rd Street extending up to Waverly Place. Often some art work would also be shown on MacDougal and Sullivan Streets and sometimes the artists would sneak their work into Washington Square Park.
The festival lasted about three weeks. Painters hung their works on fences and sat on folding chairs to answer questions and to drum up sales. When the festivals were in operation, I spent many lunch hours and early evening hours admiring the paintings.
I started examining the paintings in 1955 when AT&T was paying me a very modest sum. I couldn’t qualify for food stamps, but I had no money to waste. I looked at the paintings hanging on the fences and yearned to have a real painting as Murray would say, “To hang on my wall.” My mind was set on an impressionist street scene painting by Vladamir Lazarev which had a price tag of $300, as I remember it. With a growing family and a house to be bought, this was a major purchase. I saved for two years until I had enough for the Lazarev painting.
The painting is of a street in Monmartre in Paris. There is snow on the ground. It gives impressionistic artists great glee to paint snow scenes. Impressionistic paintings are meant to be viewed from 15 feet to 20 feet away. In close quarters, I found that lens manufacturers make a reverse magnifying glass which allows impressionistic paintings to be viewed from close range. Painters use such a device as they are painting their works.
Lazarev commandeered the fence on the east side of Sixth Avenue near Washington Place. Lazarev and his American born wife sat or walked near his work. Vladamir had limited English skills but even with Mrs. Lazarev absent, his vocabulary was sufficient to make me believe that he was a first class piece of work. When his wife was around, Vladamir let her do the talking, but she was a pleasant woman, so I enjoyed both of them.
Vladamir was a disciple of the famous French impressionist Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot. The painting I had lusted over was a Monmartre street scene. Lazarev clinched the sale when he pointed out houses owned by famous artists and singers. I don’t remember their names anymore, but Vladamir knew them all and their houses are in the painting.
As I got to know the Lazarevs, I enjoyed tutorials from them. Impressionist painters usually paint outdoor scenes. The Monmartre street scene with the snow was clearly in the impressionist tradition established by Camille Corot.
Lazarev was in his fifties when I met him in 1955. He came from Rostov-on-Don in the Crimean region of what we knew then as the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. When the World’s Fair was held here in 1939, one of its attractions was the Don Cossack Choir and Dancers. The choir and dancers made several appearances in New York theaters as well as in theaters across this country to earn capitalist dollars. Then they settled down to appear at the World’s Fair. Lazarev was a dancer with the Don Cossack Dancers. When the Fair was over, Lazarev defected to the United States. He supported himself by painting and by dancing at the Russian Tea Room located near Carnegie Hall.
I visited him a few times at his studio at 41 West 8th Street in the Village. Directly above his apartment was the roof of his building. He used it for a studio. Vladamir and his wife knew I didn’t have all the money in the world, but they spent time with me at lunchtime and after dark, explaining about painting and about dancing.
Now that I had one of Lazarev’s paintings, I began to lust for one he had painted of Don Quixote with Pancho. It is also an impressionist painting which borders on the dramatic side. AT&T was paying me a little better in the 1958–1960 period, so I made a pass at the Quixote painting. I found out that it had been sold. The Lazarevs knew I was disappointed, but Vladamir said, “I will do one for you and it will be better than the first one.” So he went up to his roof top studio and in two or three weeks, he told me to come get it. I think the price was around $350, but it was well worth it.
I went to Washington from 1966 through the summer of 1969. When I returned to New York, I found another Lazerev painting that appealed to me. That would have been in 1970 when Vladamir was somewhere beyond 65 years of age. And he was still dancing at the Russian Tea Room.
But good things come to an end. Whereas 8th Street formerly had small shops, landlords raised rents and forced the small merchants out. What had been a very nice, old fashioned jewelry store was replaced by an Orange Julius fruit drink stand. All along 8th Street, long time residents were forced to move because they could not pay the new higher rents. The Lazarevs were among its victims. He lost his studio. He continued dancing until he was nearing 70 when the Russian Tea Room was closed for an extended time for renovation. I am sorry to say that I lost track of the Lazarev’s after they were forced to move. He was a hard working man. Vladamir and his wife were very good to me when I was trying to feel my way in the art world.
The moral of this story about Greenwich Village is that good people come in all sizes and in all occupations. The Lazarev’s were good to me and I learned a bit about painting and dancing. Unfortunately, I can do neither. I hung around Leon Leonidis and his waiters at the Coach House and I’m sorry to say I can’t make black bean soup or cornsticks the way they used to do them.
At the Number One Fifth Avenue bar and cabaret, Bob Downey, the Maitre D’ Carlo, bartenders John and Louis and the cashier Bob were good men. I enjoyed all of them. A few blocks to the West was Bianchi and Margherita’s place with Fred, the bartender and my good friend Joe D’Amico and other artists.
In the telephone business, I certainly did not make enough money to rival the deal makers on Wall Street. That is quite alright. I made enough money to get along fairly well and my life was filled by music and art. In the long run, I am a happy man. I will soon be at the age where life insurance tables run out so I suppose I’d better find Joe D’Amico or Aldo Bruschi to play at my farewell appearance. Before I go, I will pick out the music for them. Voga E Va would be a good farewell song and Joe and Aldo know it well. And so do all the sopranos Aldo has trained since 1960.
E. E. CARR
July 3, 2002
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If memory serves, the first painting mentioned in this essay now hangs in Austin, Texas in the company of my parents. I’ll have to grab a picture of it next time I’m home.
Judy was able to find the menu and the map that went along with this essay. Many thanks to her!