A 'Family' Business by Dennis N. Griffin

Author:Dennis N. Griffin [Griffin, Joe Silvestri; Dennis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781948239936
Publisher: WildBlue Press
Published: 2019-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

14 : The Chef, The Butcher, & The Donald

The Chef

Joe Babbington and I have been friends for over thirty years. We first met when Joe was trying to open a restaurant, but his credit was borderline, and he was having trouble getting a loan. I had a friend who ran a venture capital company and was giving out legitimate money at a very cheap price. My guy had to stretch to the limit, but he was able to give Joe the loan. Joe and I have been friends and business partners ever since.

We opened a couple of small places together. Our arrangement was that Joe—who was an excellent chef, there was nothing relating to food he couldn’t do—would be master of the kitchen. I’d run the bar and function as manager.

I think it was around the early to mid-1990s that we ran into an opportunity buy a real nice place in Chelsea on Ninth Avenue between 22nd and 23rd streets. We got a hell of a deal on it because the owner was an Italian guy who had the habit of betting on the horses. Like many gamblers, he ran into financial troubles and needed some money quick. Joe negotiated a price that gave the owner the money he needed, but was also a real bargain for us. We named it Babbington’s. With Joe working his magic in the kitchen and me behind the bar, how could we miss?

We transitioned from Italian to American cuisine, the food was great, and the business really took off. Besides the quality of the food, there were several soap opera stars living in the area. When they stopped in, we treated them the way we should, and they started coming in regularly, further boosting business.

The only downside of the area was a lot of people there were dying from AIDS. The disease was reaching its peak and there were a lot of gay people living there. Some of those who died were our customers—nice young men. We held memorials for them when they passed. It was a very sad thing.

The bar was twelve feet long and seated seven; the tables could handle another seventy-five. We were always jammed and often had to have a waiting line. Some people complained about the wait and went elsewhere. We didn’t like it either, but that’s the way it was.

One night I was in the middle of the bar mixing a drink when this little elderly lady came up and asked me, “Excuse me, are you the manager?”

“Yes, I am. How can I help you?”

“I’m seated over there,” she said, nodding toward the booth next to the door to the kitchen. “My waiter is in the kitchen and I need to call him to add something to my order, but I’m not sure of his name. When he seated me he said his name was Bob. But the guy in the kitchen keeps calling him Cocksucker Face.”

That was Joe. He didn’t mean anything by it, that was just the way he talked.

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