Nine
BY the time I got to Madame, she wasn’t just “in a pickle,” she was well on her way to being pickled.
“I’m stranded,” she went on to explain in her phone message. “And my mobile refuses to recharge!”
Without the use of her phone, Madame couldn’t order (or pay for) an Uber. She had cash, but at this late hour, yellow cabs seldom trolled for passengers along the desolate riverfront, and she didn’t think it prudent to venture out alone.
I didn’t think so, either, and quickly called her back on the bar’s phone. When she asked me to order an Uber car for her and put it on the Village Blend’s tab, I insisted on driving her myself.
“Then let’s make the best of it, shall we? Meet me on Pier 66, and you can enjoy a late dinner!”
With my appetite back, I agreed and (reluctantly) ended the call. I wasn’t about to grill the poor woman on a public phone, but I was dying to ask the obvious—
Where in the devil is your swipe-to-meet date? And why isn’t he seeing you home safely?!
FIFTEEN minutes later, my curiosity on steroids, I parked our shop’s van under a streetlight on 26th Street.
I’d hastily spruced up before coming, brushing my Italian roast hair free of its ponytail and swiping on some lipstick. My new jeans and boatneck sweater were presentable enough, so off went the Village Blend apron and on went my wool peacoat. The night was temperate for fall, but temperatures would drop near the river.
Sure enough, as I crossed Twelfth Avenue and the city’s Greenway, a frigid wind whipped off the dark water, sending my newly freed hair flying. I pulled the strands off my face and pushed on, shoving chilled fingers into coat pockets.
Despite the cold, I liked being outside. The brisk ocean air was invigorating, a fresh reminder that New York, though crowded and claustrophobic, was also a port city with a long maritime history. No matter how oppressive the city became, an escape to the peace of wide-open water was only a few miles away.
The very idea was mentally freeing, especially to hardworking stiffs like me—one reason city advocates labored to keep the West Side waterfront accessible to the public (not just multimillionaires). Over the years, broken-down docks were transformed into lush green parks, and sinking piers into grown-up playgrounds.
My destination was one such playground: Pier 66.
Formerly a loading dock for train cars, the pier was extended into the Hudson by way of an attached railroad barge, and the whole shebang converted into an outdoor bar and grill.
As my ankle boots thumped across the dock’s stout wooden flooring, I couldn’t help admiring the weather-beaten hull of the US lightship Frying Pan, now permanently anchored on the south side of the pier as an extension of its restaurant.
When I first heard the ship’s name, I thought it was a food service gimmick, but I was wrong. For much of her life, Frying Pan had worked as a warning vessel, protecting the hazardous Frying Pan Shoals off the coast of Cape Fear, North Carolina. Once, she even sank into the sea, where she foundered for three years before being raised and awarded landmark designation.
Now the old red boat shined again, not as a floating lighthouse but a lively venue for happy revelers. My spirits lifted seeing the pulsing life on her restored topside, above the lower deck’s rust and barnacles. Her tower light no longer shined as powerfully, but the bright sounds of laughter and conversation certainly lit up the dark.
In many ways, she reminded me of the redoubtable employer I’d come here to meet . . .
All her life, storms had battered Blanche Dreyfus, even as a little girl. Winds of war had swept her from a beautiful Paris home to a Lower East Side tenement. During that harrowing journey, she’d lost her beloved mother and sister, a terrible blow at such a young age. But she overcame it and worked to build a new life in the New World.
As a young woman, she found happiness again in the form of a handsome Italian American man with a thriving coffee business. When Antonio Allegro swept her off her feet, she thought her marital bliss would never end. But her vital husband’s life was cut short, and she was devastated once more.
Instead of giving up and selling the business, she worked night and day to get the Village Blend through New York’s toughest years—and her son through the grief of losing an adored father.
It was a blow, too, when my marriage to that son fell apart. Without a mother of my own, Matt’s had become one for me. As a pregnant art school dropout, I badly needed one, and she gave me her unwavering support—through not only those first nine months, but also all the rocky years of raising Joy.
She also taught me everything she knew about the coffee business. And she remained a cherished part of my life, even after the divorce papers set her son free.
I still cared deeply for my former mother-in-law. I admired her grit and respected her wisdom. Madame had seen and done so much in her life, and she was darn fine company, too. Another reason I quickened my steps down the pier . . .
When I finally reached the authentic fire-engine red caboose—a less-than-subtle reminder of the converted railroad barge beneath my feet—the hostess greeted me, and I made my way through a gauntlet of crowded tables. Despite the chilly breezes off the water, patio heaters kept the exposed dining area surprisingly comfortable.
I found Madame regally relaxing at a table, admiring the magnificent view. Up and down our side of the riverbank, Manhattan’s towers lit up the sky, while across the water, Hoboken’s smaller structures shimmered in the Hudson’s black glass.
Blanche seemed to shimmer, as well. Her violet eyes looked bright, and her silver-white pageboy appeared to reflect the glow from the string of lights above us. Though the heat lamps kept us cozy, she left her chic Italian leather jacket on, parted enough to reveal the elegance of her latte milk sweater and Dancers in Violet scarf.
Like me, she had applied fresh lipstick, but not blush—she didn’t need to. Her gently wrinkled face, which was usually pale, tonight displayed a pronounced rosiness.
I gave her a hug and barely sat down before she lifted her half-empty highball glass and declared—
“You must try one of these!”
“What is it?”
“Rum, ginger beer, and a dash of lime.”
Aha, I thought, the mystery of those flushed cheeks is suddenly solved. “You’re drinking a Dark and Stormy—”
“Not exactly. Here they mix things up their own way and call it Troubled Waters.”
Considering my evening, either name seemed appropriate.
While Pier 66 featured casual self-service from a center bar and grill, Madame had arranged for waiter service. (She always did have a knack for negotiating special treatment in this town, and I certainly wasn’t going to refuse a little pampering.)
“So?” I said after giving our waiter the order. “Are you going to tell me about it?”
“My date?”
“Yes. What happened to your Silver Fox?”
“Wrong animal. Albert was more of a Slimy Snake.”