Springtime Surprises in New York

First, I noticed the policemen outside the Barnes and Noble bookstore on Fifth Avenue.

Then I saw the line, an orderly queue of well-dressed New Yorkers that snaked around the corner and stretched for a block down 49th.

“Is Kitty Kelley signing autographs?” I asked the amiable cop who seemed in charge of crowd control.

“Kelley?” he asked, in a lilt that sang of Dublin. “No way. These fine people are lined up for Mickey Mantle. He’s just there inside with his new book. What a day this is. After Mickey leaves, there’s Willie Mays and Duke Snider.”

Somehow that made me smile, that celebration of springtime and baseball. It seemed to restore balance and fun to a city that had been buzzing noisily over Kelley’s book about Nancy Reagan.

New York is like that. Just when you expect one thing, you get another. Just when fear of mugging has robbed you of the sheer joy of gazing up at skyscrapers, there is an act of kindness at street level. Strangers point out the entrance to a building that seems solid glass. A taxi driver claims he knows a faster-though-roundabout route, and he’s right.

The last of the Horn and Hardart automats closed this spring while I was in Manhattan and, although I had not eaten at one since I was 14, I felt a loss. For me the idea of putting coins in a slot and opening a window to get a slice of apple pie was as much a part of New York as Radio City Music Hall, the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty. I had discovered them all that same summer.

On my recent visit, it seemed that New Yorkers were not tearing along the sidewalks at their usual hell-for-leather pace.

Maybe it was the sudden sunny weather that slowed their stride and caused the comparative calm. “It won’t last,” a clerk at Saks assured me.

At noon, I met a friend for eggplant frittata at a trattoria named Garibaldi. It was at 7 Washington Place, a quiet corner near Washington Square. I recognized two publishers and a writer at the next table. I could not overhear their conversation. But one of them ordered a three-colored salad--exotic red, white and green lettuces, the colors of the Italian flag.

After lunch, at my friend’s insistence (“You’re crazy to pay for a taxi when this is so convenient”), I rode the Lexington subway to an appointment uptown. It was 2 in the afternoon.

Sure, I was nervous. I had not been on a New York subway in 20 years. While waiting for the train, we passengers spaced ourselves a good 10 feet apart on the platform, as if some of us were capable of dire deeds but we weren’t sure which ones.

But the ride was uneventful, except for the man on crutches who came on singing--a strong baritone voice--and doffing his cap for tips. When we came to the 42nd Street station, he hoisted his crutches to a shoulder and ran to catch the next car and a new audience.

I emerged on 55th Street and walked to an appointment on Broadway, within sight of the “Miss Saigon” banners being raised for the sold-out opening night. The cut-rate ticket booth at Times Square was doing a brisk business for other shows.

The best dinner in Manhattan this time was at the elegant West Side bistro, Cafe des Artistes, at 1 E. 67th St. Culinary wizard George Lang is the artist behind this French country success. I ordered a lentil cassoulet with such zesty flavors as lamb, saucisson and venison sausage. For some reason, the other three in my party did also.

Maybe we were all aware that cassoulet traditionally leaves French menus when the weather turns hot. Maybe we were all aware that it takes a long time to prepare a great cassoulet and we were not likely to attempt it at home.

The best music I heard in New York was not the greatest. No time for the Metropolitan Opera this visit. No Broadway musical triumph. No Carnegie Hall.

The music was from the keyboard at the cool and classic Peacock Alley, which has been refurbished off the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria. This traditional gathering place serves breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea and cocktails.

Every evening, nostalgic tunes pour from the pale golden Steinway, festooned with hand-painted roses and stained with faint rings from decades of highball glasses.

What makes this music special is that the piano belonged to Cole Porter. On it he composed many of the most loved of American songs, including “‘You’re The Top,” with its line “You’re the Waldorf salad.”

It all makes sense when you hear that Cole Porter was a resident of the Waldorf Towers from 1939 to 1964. And that he ordered a pitcher of martinis from room service each morning at 10:30.

And that his large suite is now occupied by Frank Sinatra.

New Yorkers do love to gossip about their own.