Christmas Eve at Lanza's

It's becoming a tradition to have Christmas Eve dinner with our friends Sharon, Harry and their five-year-old twins at Sal Anthony's Lanza's, an Italian restaurant in the E. Village on First Avenue at 10th street. I've been eating here since the mid-1980s, first as a young, wide-eyed college graduate new-to-the city, then as a single mother of then-little-now-Big Daughter, and now as a mother of one big and one little daughter.

Sal Anthony's Lanza's has become a special place to me over the years, filling in as a home-away-from-home during those tumultuous years when home was my E. Village apartment. As a restaurant, it manages to be both homey and comfortable. Holiday meals there are special yet remain down-to-earth. As I was leaving last night, I overheard one diner explaining to his table mate that he needed to do something with his jaw (I assume plastic surgery). I mistakenly thought I'd lost little one's coat (it was at my E. village apt). When I went in to look for it, the family eating at the adjacent table was helpful and tried to help me find it.

Around Christmas last year, three of us from work impulsively decided to have lunch at Sal Anthony's Lanza's. My boss ended up joining us for lunch and it turned into a wonderful holiday moment. While we were eating, a fellow diner began singing an Aria. After he was finished, we resumed our conversation and continued eating until he burst into another Aria. It was opera at lunch.

Big daughter's high school graduation dinner was also held there this past June - an interesting mix of friends and family. And for the past two years, we've met Carl's mom there for the Thanksgiving meal, which is always very tasty. I love that cranberry sauce. The first year, after our meal ended, we sat and talked for awhile. Surprisingly, there no pressure to leave. We checked to see if they needed the table. When they said no, we ordered more dessert and coffee while it poured buckets outside. This year, the meeting did not go so well, but the food remained great. No matter how difficult the company, the food and ambiance at Sal Anthony's Lanza's always carries the evening. Many of the staff have been working there for several years and we are always warmly acknowledged.

Last night, we adults were quite lacking in yuletide cheer having braved far too many personal challenges this year. Little one, and the female half of the twins, compensated for our lackluster spirits as they played with small gifts that were handed out at the beginning of dinner. As I told Carl and big daughter afterwards, I think the point of holiday dinners is simply to be with each other - perhaps more so during difficult times. Having survived the year, what's truly meaningful is that we all managed to show up.

In a similar vein, over the years, I've watched the restaurant evolve from an old, almost-forgotten place into a vibrant, energetic neighborhood spot. In the mid-80s, it was a shadowy place - dimly lit and slightly menacing. It was hard to really see the murals (they are painted directly on the walls), and saturnine-looking waiters moved ponderously about the place. The experience could be likened to a culinary riff on the movie Blue Velvet. Luckily, in the early 90s, the place metamorphosed into a real neighborhood spot.

Whenever big daughter left elementary school early for a doctor/dental appointment, her treat afterwards was lunch at Sal Anthony's Lanza's. In those days, lunch was a real bargain, but it was also much more than that. She and I were regulars, and for our little family of two that went a long way. In those years, she and I spent many holidays there with friends and visiting family members: Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve lunch etc. Ronnie, the manager, reminisced with me during her high school graduation dinner about how she would play in the old 1930s style phone booth near the front door.

The phone booth is gone now, as is an adjacent table that displayed the desserts (fresh strawberries and whipped cream, ricotta cheese cake and tiramisu). They took the phone booth out to make room for more tables and created a bar in the middle of the room. And last night I noticed that there were some new menu choices. Along with the melon and prosciutto, which is one of my favorites, and the mozzarella and peppers, and the calamari and Arugula salad, there was for the first time, mussels in marinara sauce and cod and bacalao. I also saw a new pasta with wild boar and venison, a whiting dish and a new cod dish I'd never seen as well.

I didn't order an entree figuring I'd just eat a lot of the different appetizers and that was exactly what I did. It was perfect to have a taste of everything; I especially liked the mussels. The three little ones shared an order of spaghetti, Carl ordered the cod (didn't like it) and big daughter ordered chicken rollatini that she loved. Sharon and Harry shared the Veal Scallopini and finished it all.

After dinner, we went next door to De Robertis Bakery and bought cookies, biscotti and limone (lemony, donut-like cookies) for big daughter to bring over to her boyfriend's house on Christmas Day. De Robertis was minutes from closing; our bakery man said he was "vestless" because he thought he "was going home," but still graciously filled our order. Little one scored two Anisette-flavored biscotti - one plain and one-half dipped in chocolate. We discussed whether the chocolate-dipped side should be visible, or wrapped as she finished the plain biscotti.

I told our bakery man that back when I lived around the corner, (at 12th and 1st from 1982 to 1986), I would get the fig cookies when I didn't feel well. Those were also the days when my Greek landlord, Spiro, was always trying to hawk things to me, "I have Ringo's guitar - would you like to buy?". He would open his door and offer me homemade soup as I walked the five flights to my rickety railroad-style apartment with the shower in the kitchen on the top floor. But back to the bakery man, he shuddered and said he hated figs. He couldn't believe that was what made me feel better - so much for nostalgic memories.