“Give Him Table Six, He Says He Has Money.”

Steve McPartlin

A former bartender, Steve McPartlin made the fantasy move into reality, as he segued into TV and radio broadcasting. McPartlin was one of the original correspondents for Current Affair, a host for Inside Edition, and a radio sportscaster for ABC Sports.

IN THE EARLY 1970s, there was a joint on Second Ave up the street from Elaine’s named Cavanaugh’s. It was run by a great saloon guy named Lou Cavanaugh and his lovely wife Maureen.

I would frequent their establishment often even though I lived and worked tending bar on the north end of the island in Inwood.

One day I get a call from Lou, who told me he hurt his ankle and he needed someone to tend bar. All of his regular bartenders were otherwise indisposed—a fact I would attribute to the fact that there was going to be a severe snowstorm that night. Chomping at the bit to work “downtown,” I accepted.

It was a slow, slow night and, at about 1:30, Lou said we should leave, so we started to close up with not a soul in sight.

All of a sudden, the door flies open and this two-hundred-and-fifty-pound woman starts screaming and swearing, “Those motherfuckers! What a bunch of fucking thieves!” I looked at Lou, who had a reputation for being a tough guy, and said, “This is all yours, brother.” Lou calmed her down and sat her at the bar. It turned out a cab driver wanted twenty bucks for a five-dollar fare to take her home and she was having none of that.

Lou said, “Steve, this is Elaine Kaufman. She owns the joint down the street. Give her a drink.” Now, of course I knew who Elaine was because I can read and she was always in the papers in those days. I was studying acting and dating a singer, so I was well aware of the glitterati and literati who frequented her restaurant.

We three had a few drinks and Lou said we were going to drive her home. When we got to her place, I walked her through the snow up to the door and said, “Elaine. I am dating this girl who sings at Joe’s Pier 52 and it’s her birthday next week. Can I bring her to your restaurant for dinner?”

Elaine looked at me like I was a freak. “Do you have money?”

I said yes.

She replied, “Well, it’s open to the fucking public, ya know.”

The birthday came and we went to Elaine’s. My girlfriend was a bit on the skeptical side that on this, her birthday night, I was taking her to a place where we would be treated like interlopers and placed somewhere near the bathroom and kitchen.

We were greeted by Aldo, a huge guy who had the personality of a Cossack. When I told him I wanted a table for two, he was ready to lead us to Siberia when I spotted Elaine at the end of the bar doing the checks. I said hi and reintroduced myself. She turned to Aldo and said, “Give him table six, he says he has money.”

After an hour or so, Elaine sat with us and told us stories and made fun of me treating the place like it was a temple.

We became fast friends and, for the next forty years, I never sat in the back. She always gave me a table up front and she always took care of me.

Not long after that, I gave up the bar for a career in radio and TV sports/news and, whenever I would walk in by myself, she would beckon me to join a group she thought either would be good for me to know or people I could entertain. If you were a journo of any kind, the people she would introduce you to were invaluable, from the famed writers and actors to cops and robbers and assorted members of the clergy.

Anything you ever needed to know about what was going on in New York, you could find out at Elaine’s.

The only name dropping I will do: Once I walked in and she grabbed me at the door and said, “Sit with me, I want you to meet Polly Bergen. She likes young guys.”

I was fifty at the time so it was a great compliment and I complied.

My last conversation with her was toward the end. It was just the two of us at a table on a Sunday night in the summer. She was lamenting about how business had fallen off. I, trying to put things into perspective, said something to the effect of “Geez, baby, after all these years, does that really matter that much? You own half the block.”

My dear friend Elaine looked at me and said in her own very special way, “Hey, asshole, count your own fucking money.”

Another lesson learned from my dear friend.