Big Apple Broadway Food Fest

I’m certainly not a professional food critic, but I can eat and write, sometimes simultaneously; therefore, I am as qualified as the next guy to give a personal assessment of the food and restaurants I have experienced. And nowhere, except maybe Paris, have I dined better than in New York. Like Paris, there are thousands of restaurants, from world famous ones to cozy neighborhood eateries, but up or low scale, most all of them have one common characteristic—terrific food.

I’ve only eaten in a couple of the famous ones in New York and the food was great, but without a doubt, my favorite New York restaurant is Carmine’s, a spacious Italian eating place on 44th Street near 7th Avenue, right in the middle of the theater district. “Phantom” is playing directly across the street and that ancient après theater watering hole, Sardi’s, is a few doors down. We go to Carmine’s every time we go to New York. It’s always something my wife and I look forward to as much as anything else—and there is lots of “anything else’s” in New York. Why do we return to this particular establishment every year like half famished grizzlies to their favorite stream? Why are Carmine memories causing me to keep replacing my saliva spotted writing paper? Baked clams, simply the best thing I have ever tasted. Succulent morsels smothered in olive oil, garlic, Italian seasoning, parmesan cheese, bread crumbs and I don’t know what else—they won’t tell, and why should they? We always get a dozen each for an appetizer. One time, though, I’d like to just eat clams all night, just stuff myself with them ‘til I weighed as much as Chris Farley, but not fat—solid clams, so many that I couldn’t even drink another Peroni (though that’s hard to imagine), so many that like in the cartoons, you could look into my eyes and see the clam level. Well, I don’t think my wife would put up with that, but you get my drift: the clams are fantastic.

And even though the clams are to Carmine’s what “Seinfeld” is to NBC, there are a cast of other “stars” such as the entrees, which are served in “family style” helpings (enough for four people with normal appetites to eat). Everything is good. The last time we had lasagna, the pasta had an almost silk smooth texture that I had never before experienced. You could actually make a meal of the huge Italian bread basket assortment that is never allowed to become empty. Included in the assortment are the most delicious, fresh baked dark and white breads and rolls, pizza bread with Italian sauce and romano cheese, breads with nuts, and my favorite, a short fat sesame seed encrusted breadstick which leaves you with a wonderful toasted sesame aftertaste.

If you’re looking for a quiet and romantic repast with your paramour, go somewhere else. Carmine’s is lusty, bustling, noisy and energetic. People are eating, drinking and enjoying life. There are large families, assorted tourists, business men and theatrical types. The restaurant, in fact, has sort of encapsulated the spirit of Manhattan itself, as if they picked up the shell of the building and lowered it down on 44th Street, ensnaring hundreds of willing victims.

The wooden floors, despite the flinging of marinara and bread crumbs, are spotless and there are white clothed tables stretching from the front windows to the rear. A long bar is on the right and there is another room upstairs. The walls are covered with pictures of earlier generations of New York Italians, some anonymous to me, some more recognizable personages like Fiorello La Guardia, and Mario Lanza. Occasionally behind clinking glasses and silverware, you can detect faint melodies of familiar operas.

We’ve not yet seen any celebrities in Carmine’s, but Madonna frequent it when in New York, and I’ve noticed that David Letterman is awarding free dinners to Carmine’s to audience members who play his goofy games. I’m starting to sound like one of those tabloid writers, specifically Michael Musto of the “Village Voice,” so I’m excusing myself from further show biz chat.

We did, of course, eat at other Italian restaurants in New York and they were all great, but not one of them had clams comparable to Carmine’s. And I haven’t found any Italian food here in Charleston that even comes close. In fact, if by some sort of papal intervention, a Carmine’s would end up here (maybe it could be called “Carmine’s Slightly South of 44th Street”) the locals would be delirious with “clam fever” and I would not only achieve my Chris Farley look-alike goal, but probably end up like the late John Candy as well.

An unlikely scenario, so in the blandly flavored interim, I can only whisper in the ears of the local Italian restaurant community like that self important businessman sharing his sacred mantra with Dustin Hoffman in “The Graduate,” “Baked Clams.”

(Originally published July 1997)