[Michael Cantor]

Memories of 1956

Alberts French Restaurant on the corner of University Place and East 11th St was founded in the 1860’s, and turned into a steakhouse in 1946 with the slogan “All the steak you can eat for $2.35,” though the name remained unchanged and the servers still wore berets. By 1955 the steak had climbed to $2.95. Nothing else changed.

At Alberts French Restaurant the slogan was splashed –
all the steak you can eat for just two-ninety-five –
on the menus and posters, the building, the staff.

The key to a business was how to survive,
so what was a French place now sold only steak:
all the steak you can swallow and walk out alive

but the waiter's berets remained firmly in place,
and their accents, well polished, resisted New York.
It still was a French place – except for the steak.

As a penniless student I often would walk
past the restaurant and dream of the glories of France –
though my accent and background were purely New York

and, in truth, what I dreamed of was simply a chance
to prance into Alberts and pig out on boeuf:
all the steak you can scarf was my favorite dance.

So I talked a few friends into sharing a booth,
and we each found five bucks for the steaks, tip and beer –
three schmucks from the Bronx with no class and less couth.

“Bonsoir” said the waiter (was that a slight leer?),
“You’re bright college boys - I could tell it tout suite.”
We agreed with his judgement, and let out a cheer.

With students, and tour groups, and other elite,
we felt right at home there, and splurged on more beer,
awaiting our steaks and an orgy of meat.

The steak, when it came, wasn’t great, just ...sincere –
it was tasty, but tiny – not more than a wish.
“An hors d'oeuvre”, we chanted, demanding much more.

The second was huge – almost covered the dish –
but was basically bone, interlarded with fat;
and the third was half frozen, and smelled like bad fish.

We stared at our waiter; he boldly stared back.
“So, schmendricks, smart college boys, you like the meal?”
The accent had vanished, as quick as a cat.

“Tell you what, little boychicks, I’ll make you a deal -
I'll bring you one more decent chunk of meat each –
but a good one – and you’ll eat it, say mercy – and leave."

Well we talked it all over, and of course we agreed -
after screaming and cursing and all of that jive –
and we did stiff the waiter (the Bronx has its creed).

It was one of those lessons in life young men need:
be good to your elders; don't drink when you drive;
and always be careful of people who preach
all the steak you can eat for just two-ninety-five.