Bickford’s was a chain of plain spoken, very inexpensive New York eateries that stayed open late and advertised: “Breakfast Anytime.” There were 48 in 1960; 42 in 1970; two in 1980. The last one closed in 1982. Should they be mourned? Yes. Somehow their bleak decor and the loneliness of the customers encouraged literature. The 42nd Street Bickford’s was the hangout of the Beat novelists, poets, musicians and critics. Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs and Alan Ginsberg all wrote there, aided by many cups of good Bickford’s coffee. In fact Bickford’s is mentioned in both Burrough’s Junky and in Ginsberg’s seminal poem, Howl. William Styron mentions Bickford’s in his work. So does Woody Allen. It was Andy Warhol’s favorite for takeout coffee. HG was fond of Bickford’s apple pancakes, rice pudding and cheesecake. In a wistful late night mood, HG wrote some very bad proletarian poetry at the Bickford’s on the northeast corner of 45th and Lexington. HG also spent a Thanksgiving there which was almost as depressing as the fictional Thanksgiving scene in Woody Allen’s Broadway Danny Rose.
New York doesn’t honor its writers and artists the way Paris does. Sartre and de Beauvoir are identified with Cafe Flor. Hemingway and scores of painters made the brasseries and cafes in Montparnasse their second home. And, this is acknowledged by those circular blue Paris signs. But, there’s no literary marker on W. 42nd Street. And like those missing markers, HG’s poetry has not survived (Thankfully!).
The Yiddish word is “haimish.” It means homey, down home, warm, friendly, relax-you’re- with- family. “Haimish” is the apt description of La Boule Rouge, the Tunisian-Jewish couscous restaurant where HG and BSK dined last night. “Dined” is wrong. “Gorged” is more like it. Even Miss Moderation BSK overate. The meal started with the table covered with salads and an unsweetened cake of cheese and hard boiled eggs. Then came a platter of perfect couscous; a caldron of robust broth with carrots, zucchini, turnips, sweet potatoes; a super-big portion of lamb shoulder with chickpeas; black beans in an an unusual, addictive Middle Eastern sauce; pinto beans in another tasty sauce. Bowls of pungent, but not too blazing harissa. The wine was Tavel. The meal ended with mint tea and honeyed, pistachio pastries. BSK staggered and moaned. “I ate the whole thing. I’m going to die.” BSK survived and had some croissants, English marmalade and Greek yogurt for breakfast. The stomach (as Woody Allen commented about the heart), is a very resilient organ. 
Friday (Day Seven) started with heavy rain which continued on and off. Not to worry. Hats and raincoats. Unfurled umbrellas. HG and BSK were off to the far reaches of the posh 16th to see the great Monet show at the Musee Marmottan. (A wonderful walk through elegant little parks and squares surrounded by the opulent apartment dwellings of the very rich). All of the museum’s 137 Monets were on display plus works of his pals and mentors—Renoir, Morisot, etc. A startling show. Yes, there were water lilies. But, there were wonderful portraits, caricatures and the full range of his paintings of the pond and garden at Giverny. Flowers. Weeping willows. The Japanese bridge.
Back to Montmartre to Cave des Abbesses for oysters and wine. On the carte tonight at Chez HG and BSK is Italian bufala mozzarellla. Piquillo peppers. Jambon Persille. Jambon blanc. Salad of poached eggs, lardons, lettuce and white anchovies. Palmiers. Creme brulee. Camembert. Pinot Noir. Oh, well. C’est la vie.
