Dinner With Remy
El Faro
823 Greenwich St. (Horatio St.), 212-929-8210
El Faro's a Spanish restaurant that's been in the same spot for 78 years. James Baldwin went there in the 60s, and now Lou Reed shows up sometimes. Juan, a retired El Faro manager, ushered Remy and me to our seats, reluctant to see anything not go smoothly. One of my favorite comedians, Remy often performs his impromptu bit, "Ask a black person," before a mostly white crowd. ("Where's my bike?" was one of my favorite questions from the audience.)
He was already at the bar, sucking down a margarita, when I arrived.
"Nice and clean, pretty decent," he pronounced.
At 5:30, only one other table was occupied, and yes, they did want to talk.
"I've been coming here for 30 years," said Gil Link, of Long Island. "It's always the same! I come back for the mariscada with egg sauce."
Gil went on to explain the purpose of their visit, as I strained to get back to the menu. El Faro customers, who were waiting half an hour for a table by the time we left at 8, are sort of the opposite of East Villagers, who have grown taciturn and hot. They all seem to chat at the drop of a hat.
"Make sure you get rice and potatoes, because the potatoes are like potato chips!" Gil encouraged.
We started with shrimp in white sauce ($8.75) and a seafood salad called salpicon ($13): ceviche to me and you. It consisted of shrimp, scallops, parsley and Spanish oil, at the very least.
"It's delicious, my favorite thing," Juan commented, unable to take his retirement seriously.
"It's very meaty for ceviche," said Remy. "Most people go more salad, with very little seafood, so this is pretty good."
The shrimp in white sauce consisted of sherry, wine, butter, milk and onions; I'd never had anything quite like it. The paella a la Valenciana ($20.25) is one of their signature dishes, and came in a homey pot. We agreed that's what we would order if we just got one thing.
"On a one-on-one date, I'd go with the paella. There's a lot of stuff you'd want to eat in there, it's not too filling, and at the same time they give you a lot of it. You couldn't finish it even if you tried. Pretty decent," Remy concluded, thoughtfully.
Chicken Villarroy ($19.95), a popular dish with the regulars, is a lightly breaded chicken breast stuffed with bechamel cream. It's gushy, but good gushy, and if we had a full order it would have been a ton of food.
Remy's been gigging at the Laugh Lounge, at 151 Essex, which is pretty much a booked room, as opposed to the bringers. Bringers are clubs like the New York Comedy Club, that make you bring seven people, who then must buy two drinks as well as paying $10 at the door.
"Bringers are fine, if you're new to the scene. You have a warm part of the audience. But after a while, they're just trying to suck you in. The best way is if there's someone you've never met in the audience and you touched them. You don't get that at bringer shows. Or, say you've just barked in seven or eight people. You get on stage, do your bit, and some spots they have two shows-you have to run right out after your first set and try and get more people in right away. It's unfair to you; you don't have time to recoup."
Back at the bar, we found more crazily outgoing people. "He's a comedian," I told a guy called Ezra, deflecting attention from myself.
"What part of Canada?" Ezra asked eagerly.
"Montreal," Remy replied, politely.
A couple at the bar told us how much trouble they had parking, having come in from Bayside, Queens. I told them I was from the East Village, and my friend was from Brooklyn.
"What part of Brooklyn?" the woman asked.
"East Flatbush."
"I was from Flatbush originally. It's changed."
This could be interpreted as a guileless racist remark, depending on her meaning. Does she mean there are more Starbucks there, or that it has gone downhill in her eyes? Like when somebody says, "People are moving to Harlem now," and of course, they mean white people are moving to Harlem, driving many longtime residents to the Bronx.
I'd never seen Remy, who just nodded agreeably, so calm, cool, and collected. By midnight he's riled up and in his cups.
"I just live day to day," he explained, giving me the early-evening version of his personal philosophy. "I'm not docile, but just keep the bullets away from me, let me buy my newspaper and eat my beef patty, and I'm fine."
Yeah, right.