Ironically, I had just purchased the book, Blink, which is all about how we process our first impressions and gut reactions. Well, my gut reaction was to leave, but I opted to stay and see where this ride would take me.

The bartender (oh yes, there’s a snazzy bar setup)asked me if I wanted to sit at a table but I decided to get a better view of the goings on at the bar.

“Wow, what a transformation this place has had. When did they do all this?” I asked the bartender as he handed me the menu.

“Last February. I guess they decided to clean up the place.”

“Too bad. I liked the way it was. It was an institution.”

He looked me up and down as if “institution” was the operative word. His demeanor reminded me of the recorded mid-western sounding voice we hear on the subway cars–completely out of place for the environment. I thought, this wannabe soap opera actor shouldn’t work at my precious Kiev Diner, but then I realized as I looked around at all the adult-like patrons, maybe I was the one who didn’t belong here.

Back in the day — I love that expression because it implies that I should be referencing something significant–the Kiev was where I and thousands of others went after drinking and drugging at Max’s Kansas City and The Mudd Club. There was nothing better than scrambled eggs, home fried potatoes sprinkled with paprika to absorb all the substances consumed throughout the night. And the best part of all were the slices of buttered challah bread served on a paper plate by a surly Russian waitress who didn’t intend her look to be punk. She really thought her French’s mustard colored hair with orange roots looked natural.

Years ago, the tables were close together but privacy wasn’t a factor because at 3am, you really weren’t talking much. And if you did eat there during the day, most patrons sat reading their papers. The Kiev is where I introduced my Texas boyfriend to lox and I never, ever would have brought my mother there for brunch.

I ordered the French Toast only after Mr. One Life to Live assured me that it was still made with Challah bread. He even charmed me into ordering it with slices of apple.

As I munched away, a woman who looked to be in her fifties sat two seats down from me. She also looked a bit shell-shocked by the place. After he handed her a menu, the bartender asked if she wanted a cocktail.

“No,” she said politely. “I just want to look over the menu for another moment or two.”

Even though we were the only two people at the bar, he became impatient.

“Do you want water?” he asked.

“Um…sure.” She responded in an attempt to shoo him away while she made up her mind. Feeling pressured, she recovered. “No, I don’t want water.”

“Do you want a cup of air?”

I wanted her to throw the menu at him but since she is a nicer person than me, she just responded, “Do you still have matzoh ball soup?”

“Yes, today we do because it’s one of the specials.”

At this point, I finished my $8.00 french toast and coffee and paid the check.

I held my book, blinked, hard and realized we’re not in the East Village anymore.

One of the participants was my boyfriend T.J. A draft resister who had lived in Europe during his “exile,” he said that race was like visiting twenty countries in a few hours. “It was great, Victoria. We’re rollerskating and people are cheering us on in Spanish, then Italian, then in languages I couldn’t even figure out.” He had recently moved to New York to become a partner in the first restaurant to feature Tex-Mex food, The Cottonwood Café on Bleecker and Bank Streets. His friend, Stan, a crony from Dallas, lured him with the promise of making a killing with this new place. He forgot to tell T.J. about the crappy apartment over the Opera Deli that he would have to share with five other guys and that he hadn’t yet signed a lease with the infamous Village landlord, Bill Gottlieb.

Stan’s powers of persuasion didn’t stop with T.J. He also convinced his friend Jerry to come board the Cottonwood train by promising the fledgling singer that he could perform there and be in charge of hiring all talent. Again, Stan forgot the minor detail of irate tenants not appreciating live music late at night while they tried to sleep. The last partner to sign on was Terry, the Canadian cowboy. Terry fancied himself to be Clint Eastwood and his weather-beaten look was carefully put together by his fashion designer wife, Sonia. She was the one with the bucks so Terry became known as the “money man” of the group. Everyone had their job; Stan was in the kitchen, T.J. was managing the wait staff, Jerry, the entertainment, and Terry, the bookkeeping.

The Cottonwood’s opening came within days of Reagan’s election. While women were donning suits with sneakers and Jerry Rubin was turning from yippie to yuppie, the guys at the Cottonwood were telling patrons, “Take off that tie, we have a dress code to uphold.” Appetizers were listed on the menu as “First Things First.” They didn’t have a liquor license, but with the Opera Deli around the corner you could easily get some Rolling Rock to accompany the Chicken Fried Steak and cornbread so dense you could brick a house with it.

After beating each other up while performing in “True West,” the Quaid brothers would dive into okra and mashed potatoes. The Ramones enjoyed Juervos Rancheros. Neighborhood people hung out for hours; there was no such thing as table turnover.

Unfortunately, the restaurant world is like marriage; partners put up a brave face for the public even when there are behind-the-scene conflicts. T.J. and Stan dissolved their partnership and then T.J. and I moved to Dallas, driving there in his MG Midget. Without the backdrop of the restaurant and the Village, our relationship soon proved to be all sizzle and no chicken fried steak and I returned to New York. Jerry’s banker girlfriend beckoned him to Houston and Terry’s wife Sonia decided to stop writing checks.

Stan went on to start up Tortilla Flats and The Acme Bar and Grill. He eventually left New York and is either sipping Pina Coladas in the Caribbean or is somewhere on the lam.

For the next seventeen years, the Cottonwood lived on with various owners and mangers. It stopped being a hot spot and eventually closed. Today, in its place is a restaurant featuring “continental cuisine.” Even Bill Gottlieb is dead.

Recently, I had a beer and burger at The Corner Bistro. I was a bit tipsy and asked my barstool neighbor, “Did you know that there was a roller-skating marathon in 1980?”

He said, “What am I supposed to do with that fascinating information?”

True New Yorker that I am, I told him.

I was overjoyed. Anything was better than math. But as we marched around the corner to church, I overheard the Sisters whispering through their sobs.

“I can’t believe this,” they said. “The president’s gone.” They were talking about President Kennedy.

I don’t remember the service or Father Baretta’s sermon. I only recall that when we were dismissed, my mother was there to take me home. I thought, “Wow, she must be really sad. She didn’t even put on lipstick.”

For the next several days, I was happy not being in school, but annoyed that my favorite TV shows were pre-empted by news covereage of the assassination (a brand new-word). Emily, my older sister, was upset. She had just started working in an office, loved Jackie Kennedy and was the proud owner of several pillbox hats. The gravity of it all didn’t register with me and when Lee Harvey Oswald was shot, I was even more confused. I felt a certain uneasiness, but with my parents and relatives there with me, gathered around the television, I knew I was safe.

When Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated, my Uncle Tony picked my cousin Angela and me up from school because he was afraid of possible riots. I had seen Martin Luther King give speeches on television and felt bad when I saw his wife and children at his funeral service. I was just beginning to deal with that when Robert Kennedy was shot. Listening to his brother Teddy’s speech made me cry. I was thirteen, in the throes of my own adolescent confusion, and the possibility of losing my own father suddenly began to haunt me.

Fast foward to December of 1980. I was living at 708 Washington St., in the Village. One night, I was awakened from a flu-induced sleep by the ringing phone. It was my roommate Cathy. Her voice trembled. She started crying.

“Cathy?” I said.

“John Lennon’s dead,” she said. She told me she was calling from a pay phone near the Dakota. The streets were lined with people who had gone there to mourn.

“I’ll be home soon,” she said.

I hung up, walked into the living room and a few minutes later, Dolores, my other roommate, came in from her waitressing job. We hugged and cried. At the time, I’d just started working at Playboy magazine and our John Lennon interview had just hit newsstands. He talked about returning to the studio to record the Double Fantasy album and how much he loved living in New York. The city he loved was now the city that had taken him away. My feverish body craved sleep, but I stayed awake all night, watching the news with my friend.

Sixteen years later, while on the phone with someone in our Chicago office, I saw people running next door to the small conference room television. What they were looking at was the aftermath of the Oklahoma City bombing. We all felt certain that this could only have been done by foreign terrorists and within minutes the shock jocks were on the air telling Arab jokes. Then we learned that the atrocity was carried out by a Gulf War veteran with a buzz cut. I’ve wondered since then what murdering children has to do with freedom.

On the morning of September 11th, I was in the office when one of the food editors emerged from the kitchen yelling that she heard on the radio that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. We raced to a television, some of us ranting about the recklessness of the airlines. But minutes later, when we the second tower was hit, we knew it was something far more terrible. We screamed and whimpered. We huddled in groups trying to verbalize what we just saw. We called our families to see how they were doing and to assure them that we were okay. Our building is across the street from Grand Central Station and management soon announced we were evacuating.

The streets were filled with people as I walked the two miles home with some co-workers, yet filled with a strange silence. I got home, turned the televsion and tuned in to another tragedy.