Brookita sent this in yesterday and we’re glad she did Hopefully, it’s the first of many submissions:
Lately, I’ve been thinking about one Halloween tradition I really miss: eating dinner after the parade, in full costume, at Snooky’s Restaurant. Snooky’s held years of memories for me—over and above the fun of checking out the Halloween costumes as we waited for a table, then awkwardly eating their great seafood pasta in my floor-length silver sequined cape.
Snooky’s was where my partner, Dave, and I had our first real conversation. It was the night that Dave played guitar at a birthday party for Allison, one of the “regulars.” Allison, who worked crazy hours as a reporter for public radio, liked to stop off at Snooky’s after work to unwind with a glass of red wine and chat with Tony the Bartender. Jim, a desk editor from The Daily News, also hung out at Snooky’s. Admittedly, the place was missing the quintessential element that makes a bar a true New York media hangout: frequent Pete Hamill sightings. But Pete’s brother Dennis drank there.
I remember a lot of cool people from Snooky’s: Tony, a retired fireman with a droopy mustache, liked to sit in the window and drink. Bob, a mathematician, liked to sit at the bar and read his newspaper. A lovely middle-aged couple liked to drink together at one end of the bar; they were retired husband-and-wife obstetricians from Methodist Hospital. Teachers from P.S. 321 liked to socialize there.
Quite a few grey-haired ladies lunched at Snooky’s on a regular basis. Some of them were even accompanied by their aides from the Madonna Residence. I never knew their stories; I just observed that the people at the bar jumped out of their seats and respectfully held the door for these ladies as they entered or left.
Of course, the most famous of the ladies who lunched at Snooky’s was named Barbara Lewnes. People knew that she was the retired nurse from Methodist who, in 1960, stayed up through the night to take care of the 11-year-old boy who was the sole survivor of the plane that crashed on Seventh Avenue. She was so certain the boy would make it, but most of us know the sad end of that story.
Another of the regulars at Snooky’s was the late, great, Mac, a Scottish émigré stage actor and a delightful raconteur who also happened to be a Cordon Bleu–trained chef. A lot of the regulars remember that Mac taught us a few of the Rebel toasts. “Here’s to the King!” Bruce would declare as he raised his glass over a tumbler of water in a toast. Then he’d whisper, “Over the water,” as he waved his glass of Scotch. “That,” Mac explained to all of us seated at the bar, “is the Scots’ way of reminding each other that Bonny Prince Charley will return.”
And in addition to the regulars, there were a few surprises—like the night that two travelers on their way back to Ireland borrowed Dave’s guitar and shared some of their songs with everyone who was lucky enough to be at Snooky’s.
But the bar was only part of the scene. Every evening, dozens of Park Slope families walked in, nodded hello to Tony at the bar, and guided their children past the crowd and into the enormous restaurant behind it. Upstairs at Snooky’s, wonderful parties went on. It was not unusual to see a bevy of girls in white dresses running up the stairs excitedly, followed by a smiling mother carrying a huge confirmation cake. Snooky’s upstairs party room was the site of many graduation parties and community board meetings. Snooky’s, it should be noted, was a power lunch spot for much of the local business community.
I was upstairs once for an office party—during which I spent most of my time on the dance floor, whirling around and around with my delighted 18-month-old son in my arms as the DJ played “Layla” and other hits. A year later, downstairs at Snooky’s, my son ate his very first hot fudge Sunday—served by Marina, the loveliest waitress I’ve ever met.
As I mentioned, Snooky’s was where Dave and I first really talked to each other, at one of Allison’s birthday parties. It became our place. José would usher us to a table, where Dave and I would drink while my son played Pac-Man. As soon as dinner was served, Bambi the waiter would walk over to the Pac-Man machine and guide my son back to our table. Bambi, who comes from Indonesia, is probably best remembered for introducing Park Slope restaurants to Sri Raj Indonesian Hot Sauce.
After Snooky’s closed, my friends and I gazed sadly at the plywood boards that surrounded it for so many months. So when the boards finally came down, revealing The New Place in Snooky’s Space, Dave and I made a point of stopping in. The food was great. After dinner, the owner came over to our table, introduced himself, and began chatting with us. He said, “Snooky’s was not bad.” Then he sneered and said, “But the clientele….” He made a little back-and-forth wave with one hand and continued to sneer.
“Yes, “I mused, “The clientele. That was us!”
“And our friends!” Dave added.
As we walked out, I told Dave: “I never want to come back here. I can’t believe we paid someone for dinner—and then he came over and insulted us.”
A few months later, I ran into Tony the Bartender. When I told him about our experience at The New Place, Tony said, “You’re only about the thirtieth person to tell me a story like that. In fact, the owner has been telling people that ‘everyone who came into Snooky’s was a lowlife, a drug addict, or an alcoholic.’”
“Or a journalist!” I blurted out. Or a fireman! Or a doctor or nurse from Methodist! Or a sweet grey-haired lady enjoying lunch out!”
A few weeks later, I ran into one of the regulars from Snooky’s. He told me, “You know what the owner of The New Place was telling customers when he first opened up? He told them, “The first thing I have to do is get rid of the old clientele.”
“Well,” I said, “he certainly did.”
