Sam's Club

G and I are on a reverse Cobble Hill tour. Everyone comes to Cobble Hill, known as the Gobble Hill, to check out the latest restaurants. Asian Fusian with Mexican on the side, but American underneath. And that's next to the French bistro and the Spanish tapas place on Smith Street. Instead of buzzing in and out of these little shops, we opt in for the homegrown talent. The real deal. Those guys that had seen Smith and Court Street before the Louis Vuittons and the Mini BMWs flooded the 'naybohood.' In fact, they were born somewhere between Smith and Court.

After taking a peek at the checkered table cloths, old curtains on the windows and the red, diner style booths in the basement floor restaurant, we decide to go in. With one of the boyz jumping in front of me on the stoop, only to hold the door for us, we step in to 1950s America.

We are asked to wait No, we just wait because noone gives a hoot that we are there. There are plenty of customers sitting down, but they look like they know what to do when they come to this joint. I finally motion to the bar tender, who also seems to be the waiter and the maitre' d. He says one minute and he goes on to wipe some glasses, then some tables. My eyes are on the booth at the back, by the window. Nice and cozy. Perfect for a romantic, casual dinner. I ask if he can give us that booth. He says no and points to some flimsy metal pile in the middle of a row of picnic tables. I ask again, trying to reason with him. It's 9:30pm. He doesn't have many customers trickling in and I see many couples sitting at the booths. Before he answers us, the boyz get up to give us their space. They 'know' Sammy, through I-forget-who-now and tell the bartender they can go to the back room.

That doesn't work either. Sammy comes out to settle the matter. Back room is closed. The booth will go to a party of four. And yes, they can hang my bag with bamboo sticks somewhere so missy can sit comfortable at the small table. G is about the faint from hunger. I wish them plenty of customers for the booth and take the assigned seat.

We order pizza with meatballs. Suddenly, we make it to the friendlies list, reserved for those who opt out of salad. G adds a couple glasses of wine to the order and wins the bartender's heart. I ask for brown sugar for my espresso. G and the bartender laugh - for two minutes. G turns and asks him if he has 'soy milk.' They laugh some more. I eat G's slice. He doesn't notice.

Then I spot him. Him! Hiiimmm! Solitaire dude, sitting with a book in his hand at the booth. He ain't no party of four. 'How come?' I think, trying to figure out just how naive and preppy I look not to deserve a booth at Sammy's.

"We need to earn points," I say to G.
"What points?"
"To get to the booth," I explain. "We need to become regulars!"
G looks back at the booth and then at me. He raises his glass, 'Here's looking at you kid!' he says.