Some years ago, I had a boyfriend named Gene. Once we were dating, I realized he was an odd bird: tense, awkward, and ill at ease in public.
Before we officially met, I saw him virtually every day. He’d pass by the Kettle of Fish, the bar in which I bartended; turn his head as he passed the leaded windows; look straight at me and raise one hand in what seemed more of a salute than a wave. Perhaps he smiled slightly, I can’t recall. He was damn good-looking; I know that. He once said, referring to his facial bone structure, “You could hang a picture from these cheekbones.”
One evening, out of the blue, he popped into the bar and slid onto a stool. Ordered a gin and tonic. Small, awkward smile. “Piece of lime?” I asked. “Yes, thank you,” he responded. Then, out of nowhere, “My Pop always said white liquor drinks were for sissies.” He took a swig of the drink and grimaced. “I make a pretty stiff libation,” I said, smiling.
Later, when I got off from work and he was still there after I’d counted the day’s receipts, I took a seat next to him and we began to talk. I asked him why in all the years he’d passed by and waved, he’d never ventured in. Why tonight? His response was vague and made little sense, but he asked to walk me home that night. At my door, he made no attempt to get invited up, nor did he try to kiss me. Very formally, he bade me good night and moved down the block slowly, and I thought, self-consciously.
After that first time, he came to the Kettle nightly. It was always a busy time for me from a little after five in the evening until I got off at eight, but he waited patiently. When it was slow, which was rare, we’d get to know each other in dribs and drabs across the bar, but mostly it was at the end of my shift when he’d walk me home that we’d talk, or rather I’d ask about him, and he’d cautiously open up. Sometimes I felt like I was interviewing my new boyfriend.
He was a hospital locksmith, on-call all the time, day and night. And he was divorced and angrily paying alimony to his ex-wife. He had two sons whom he loved dearly. His dad was not only an alcoholic, but one of those bums you see staggering about or lying in a crumpled pile on the Bowery. Gene’s baggage was palpable and heavy, but I didn’t know that right away.
He did regularly bitch about his obligations to the “ex,” and money in general was a big issue. I felt he was cheap. I would, on occasion, buy him a book I thought he’d like. He was stunned, and moved as well. He would never think of treating me to anything. Money (and anger surrounding it) was a constant in his life.
But he could be solicitous and gentle. He sent me postcards with sweet words, although I noticed the front of the cards always carried disturbing images, often of people isolated, removed and alone.
He had lived for many years in the East Village. Now he had a tiny apartment two blocks from mine, near Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village.
He often pined for his old neighborhood. One morning he suggested we stroll across town to have breakfast at his favorite restaurant. Under his direction, we actually did stroll, like a long-married couple. He wasn’t a hand-holder. He tucked his arm under mine and held onto my forearm as though I was an old lady, unsteady on my feet. I found it bizarre and not particularly comfortable to be held that way but felt there was such a frailty to him that I didn’t comment.
At 127 Second Ave., between St. Mark’s Place and Seventh Street, Gene paused at the entrance to B & H Dairy and smiled his tight smile. “I hope you like it,” he said, leading me into the tiny, ancient hole-in-the-wall diner, one of the last vestiges of the theater district once known as the Jewish Broadway.
I took to it immediately. There was a long counter with a dozen wobbly swiveling, lumpy stools. Along the left-side length of the slim room were four little tables and a couple more that could seat foursomes. The aisle between the counter and the tables wasn’t quite two feet wide. Everyone eating there looked like a seasoned regular. And quite a mishmosh of mankind they were. No one seemed to mind the cramped quarters one bit. There was no wait staff, so the counterman hollered out the food orders for those sitting at the tables, who then stood and leaned across the crowded counter to retrieve their vittles.
In the very back of the restaurant there was a miniscule tiled white kitchen the size of a bathroom. In its cramped, open quarters stood a young Hispanic man wearing a backward baseball cap on his clean-shaven head. He rubbed elbows with a stocky, amply bosomed older woman, obviously of Eastern European descent, wearing stretchy black netting over her short blonde hair. There were well-used, blackened cauldrons on each burner of the stove, and the couple worked swiftly and easily together.
Hanging from every available space were laminated signs advertising the kosher dairy, meatless fare. “Overstuffed sandwiches” included chopped herring, tuna salad, vegetable cutlet, vegetarian chopped liver and egg salad. The day’s soup selections were lentil, mushroom barley, vegetable, Yankee bean, tomato, split pea, cabbage, gazpacho, cream of cauliflower and hot or cold borscht. Blintz choices were cheese, cherry, blueberry; apple, strawberry or spinach, and pierogis were available stuffed with sauerkraut, cheese or potato. It was a cornucopia of Eastern European food dating back a long way. The place was a real throwback and I was enchanted.
Gene, with a pained, uptight expression, slid onto a seat at the counter. “I love it already, without even tasting the food,” I assured him. This seemed to loosen him up somewhat. The counterman, head swathed in a red and white paisley bandana, grinned broadly and handed us menus. Eggs “any style” served with home fries, the restaurant’s homemade challah bread, orange juice, and coffee or tea was an amazingly low $3.25, and omelets, served with the same accompaniments, ranged from $4.10 to a whopping $6.95 for one stuffed with lox and onions.
The counterman-cum-short-order cook executed my meal perfectly. Lox and eggs loosely scrambled; well-done, crispy potatoes flecked with bits of caramelized onions and sweet bell peppers; two thick, fluffy slices of buttered challah bread; a tiny plastic juice glass of orange juice; and a hot cup of coffee. Gene had cherry blintzes and three cups of coffee. He would have eaten in complete ill-at-ease silence, so I was forced to grill him on his childhood just to keep some form of conversation going. While he held forth about his miserable, grim upbringing, I wondered what on earth I was doing with him.
When we’d finished our meal, I thanked the chef for his fine food, and Gene nodded at him politely. My strange beau reached for my hand and we wended our way down the tight aisle and out the front door. “Don’t you think we should’ve paid?” I asked as the door swung shut behind us. Gene’s nervousness had gotten the better of him, and we’d walked right past the cashier without paying nary a cent. Suddenly, I felt tremendously sorry for him. I touched his cheek tenderly. “Wait here, this is my treat,” I said. “No, no, never!” he stammered, flustered, pushing past me. I waited on the sidewalk as he rushed to where we’d sat, snatched the bill still sitting there, and paid the woman stationed at the register.
I broke up with him soon afterward. I think he was grateful. And I was grateful, too. I’d discovered a swell place to have breakfast. I stopped in there often, then after a break I returned a couple of years later. There was a different counterman, equally efficient and pleasant, and a new prep guy, but Sylvia, the portly blond, was still chopping cabbage and stirring the soup pots in the kitchen. I had soft poached eggs nestled in a bed of crisped home fries, orange juice, buttered challah and a cup of good, strong coffee. It still ran under five bucks. Before leaving (and paying my tab and tipping nicely), on a whim, I sprang for a take-out order of tomato soup to have for lunch later that day.
While I ate, I flipped through an old leather-bound photo album. I looked at pictures of Gene, with his unbelievably high cheekbones, and a few of the two of us together that friends had taken at the bar. His smile, as always, was small and tight.
I thought about our brief relationship and the abruptness of our break-up, which consisted mainly of my informing him that he’d never asked me a single thing about my life. I turned a few more pages, looking closely at Gene’s face, which now seemed so alien to me, and I thought to myself, I really do love a good bowl of soup.

Tomato basil soup

Serves 4-6
San Marzano tomatoes from Italy are grown in volcanic earth, which produces the most flavorful fruit. If there is a basil leaf in the can of tomatoes, remove it before proceeding with the recipe.
If you can’t find San Marzano tomatoes, try substituting fire-roasted tomatoes. In this recipe, I used a combination.
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 teaspoon mixed dried Italian herbs or oregano
1 28-fluid-ounce can whole San Marzano tomatoes (with their juice)
1 14.5-ounce can fire-roasted chopped or whole tomatoes (with their juice)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 14.5-ounce can chicken or vegetable broth
1/2 cup heavy cream, plus a tablespoon or so more (for optional garnish)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
12-15 basil leaves, sliced very thinly with a sharp scissor
1 cup lightly packed finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
Add the olive oil to a soup pot. Add onion and cook over medium heat. Sauté for 5-7 minutes until soft and lightly browned. Add the garlic and the Italian herbs. Stir for a minute, then add the tomatoes and broth.

Increase the heat to high and bring the soup to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Cover with the lid but leave it slightly ajar.

After 10 minutes, turn off the heat. Using an immersion blender blend the soup until very smooth. If you don’t have an immersion blender, you can puree the soup a little at a time in a traditional blender.

When the soup is smooth stir in the cream and blend with a spoon. Season with salt and pepper.

Ladle the soup into individual bowls and garnish each with a drizzle of heavy cream (if using) and a small shower of basil leaves and a tablespoon or so of grated cheese. Serve hot.