Toffenetti Tragedy

In 1952, to celebrate my seventeenth birthday, my boyfriend, Dick McSweeney made reservations at Toffenetti’s in New York City. I felt so excited to have my first grown- up dinner at an upscale restaurant. Toffenetti advertised itself as having “good food in the heart of Broadway where glamour sparkles forever.”After dinner, we planned to attend a personal appearance by Martin and Lewis at the Paramount Theater.

I set my long hair in pin curls and took a leisurely bath in preparation for my big night on the town. I carefully put on my new blue dress and sexy strappy high heels bought with money earned at a summer job. My mother loaned me her seal fur coat and black leather gloves. I felt like a Park Avenue debutante and pretended we only rode the subway that evening because I gave the chauffeur the night off.

When we arrived at Toffenetti’s, the maitre d’ escorted us to our table and made a show of placing the napkin across my lap before handing me the menu. Dick sat opposite scanning the price column.

“What are you having?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know...maybe a hamburger,” he answered.

I knew my nineteen year old boyfriend had limited funds so I looked at the price column and saw that chicken cost the same as hamburger.

“I’ll have the spring chicken,” I said.

When our meals arrived, I felt dismayed to see half a chicken on my plate, bones, skin and all. I smiled a thank you and picked up the utensils. The waiter saw me struggle with the knife and fork, trying desperately to cut the chicken into manageable sections.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You can pick the chicken up in your fingers to eat it,”.

Oh no, I thought. I need to maintain a semblance of decorum. Picking food up in my hands looked so gauche.

I continued to saw away at the hip joint of the bird, when suddenly my dinner plate and its contents slid off the table and landed upside down in my lap. Feeling horrified and embarrassed, I sat mute with an open mouth. Dick mirrored my astonishment. From out of nowhere, a bevy of waiters surrounded me, removed the debris from my lap, and sponged my dress with a damp cloth. All the while they murmured platitudes of sympathy. 
“Not to worry Miss, We’ll fix it.”

Just as suddenly as they came, they went.

“Let’s leave,” I said.

          Dick motioned for the waiter but when he arrived at our table, he brought another plate of chicken, this time cut into pieces, bone and skin removed. I had no choice but to eat it.

I don’t remember much conversation after that. I just wanted to exit that restaurant forever and forget this tragic episode in my young life.