Mr. Lubecki’s release and pushed for tougher hate-crime legislation. Congressman Nathan Stein of Brooklyn organized a candlelight vigil to honor the memory of Temple Ephraim and send a message to Mr. Lubecki that he “was not welcome in the great city of New York.” But apparently, Mr. Lubecki still has a few friends left in this town.
Last night, patrons of the venerated Winchester restaurant were treated to one of the most tasteless and baffling spectacles in the history of New York City dining. At approximately 7:55, an overweight man in a clip-on tie strolled up to the maître d’. Few people recognized the man as Mr. Lubecki. He has gained a significant amount of weight since his face last graced the tabloids and his trademark “Hitler mustache” has long since been replaced by a full beard. But when the guest proudly announced his name, heads began to turn. Most patrons averted their eyes, bracing themselves for an unpleasant scene.
“I was sure they would throw him out,” said one longtime Winchester patron. “The man is a self-described Nazi.”
But Mr. Lubecki was not denied a table. Instead, the maître d’ and his assistant personally escorted him to their legendary “fireside booth,” an exclusive slot typically reserved for movie stars or royalty. Over the next two and a half hours, the maître d’ personally served the Nazi an elaborate feast, consisting of fourteen courses with wine pairings. At one point, Mr. Lubecki began to smoke a cigar, in clear violation of the restaurant’s smoking policy. When guests complained that the pungent cigar was interfering with their dining, the maître d’ ignored them and placed a silver ashtray by the Nazi’s champagne flute.
At the end of the meal, the chef came out to shake Mr. Lubecki’s hand and ask him if there was anything else he could offer him. When Mr. Lubecki requested a cab, the chef phoned for one personally and helped the wobbly Nazi out the door. No bill was ever presented.
The scene was so flabbergasting that at first this reporter assumed she had made some kind of mistake. The Winchester, which did not admit women until 1979 and has still never hired an African American waiter, has always been perceived as a somewhat intolerant institution. But no one has gone so far as to call its management Nazi sympathizers.
A quick interview under the awning of the Winchester confirmed that the man was in fact the same Dan Lubecki who was released from prison on Wednesday. When politely pressed for proof, he happily displayed several forms of identification, including his prison release papers, which he proudly carries in his jacketpocket. He had been invited to dinner by the maître d’ himself, he said, just hours after vacating his cell.
“That Winchester place isn’t bad,” he said. “They sure know how to make a guy feel at home.”
When I finally looked up from the paper, Elliot was sipping champagne from a tall glass.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I said. “I have math homework.”
Elliot drained the last of his champagne and immediately refilled his glass.
“Did you…do this?” I asked, gesturing vaguely at the newspaper.
Elliot closed his eyes and held the warm newspaper to his face, like it was a beloved puppy or kitten.
“Elliot, it really wasn’t that big a deal! I mean, you didn’t have to—”
He raised his index finger to silence me.
“Elliot?” I asked. “How did you do this?”
He pressed a button and the sunroof retracted, enveloping us in warm light.
“Have you ever heard of Alston Bertels?” he asked.
“No, who’s he?”
Elliot sighed.
“I’ll take it from the top,” he said. “No interruptions.”
• • •
I had never heard of Alston Bertels, but apparently most New Yorkers had. He was the reigning food critic for
The New York Times
and had been for more than thirty years. In eight hundred words Bertels could transform an obscure noodle house with empty
Last night, patrons of the venerated Winchester restaurant were treated to one of the most tasteless and baffling spectacles in the history of New York City dining. At approximately 7:55, an overweight man in a clip-on tie strolled up to the maître d’. Few people recognized the man as Mr. Lubecki. He has gained a significant amount of weight since his face last graced the tabloids and his trademark “Hitler mustache” has long since been replaced by a full beard. But when the guest proudly announced his name, heads began to turn. Most patrons averted their eyes, bracing themselves for an unpleasant scene.
“I was sure they would throw him out,” said one longtime Winchester patron. “The man is a self-described Nazi.”
But Mr. Lubecki was not denied a table. Instead, the maître d’ and his assistant personally escorted him to their legendary “fireside booth,” an exclusive slot typically reserved for movie stars or royalty. Over the next two and a half hours, the maître d’ personally served the Nazi an elaborate feast, consisting of fourteen courses with wine pairings. At one point, Mr. Lubecki began to smoke a cigar, in clear violation of the restaurant’s smoking policy. When guests complained that the pungent cigar was interfering with their dining, the maître d’ ignored them and placed a silver ashtray by the Nazi’s champagne flute.
At the end of the meal, the chef came out to shake Mr. Lubecki’s hand and ask him if there was anything else he could offer him. When Mr. Lubecki requested a cab, the chef phoned for one personally and helped the wobbly Nazi out the door. No bill was ever presented.
The scene was so flabbergasting that at first this reporter assumed she had made some kind of mistake. The Winchester, which did not admit women until 1979 and has still never hired an African American waiter, has always been perceived as a somewhat intolerant institution. But no one has gone so far as to call its management Nazi sympathizers.
A quick interview under the awning of the Winchester confirmed that the man was in fact the same Dan Lubecki who was released from prison on Wednesday. When politely pressed for proof, he happily displayed several forms of identification, including his prison release papers, which he proudly carries in his jacketpocket. He had been invited to dinner by the maître d’ himself, he said, just hours after vacating his cell.
“That Winchester place isn’t bad,” he said. “They sure know how to make a guy feel at home.”
When I finally looked up from the paper, Elliot was sipping champagne from a tall glass.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I said. “I have math homework.”
Elliot drained the last of his champagne and immediately refilled his glass.
“Did you…do this?” I asked, gesturing vaguely at the newspaper.
Elliot closed his eyes and held the warm newspaper to his face, like it was a beloved puppy or kitten.
“Elliot, it really wasn’t that big a deal! I mean, you didn’t have to—”
He raised his index finger to silence me.
“Elliot?” I asked. “How did you do this?”
He pressed a button and the sunroof retracted, enveloping us in warm light.
“Have you ever heard of Alston Bertels?” he asked.
“No, who’s he?”
Elliot sighed.
“I’ll take it from the top,” he said. “No interruptions.”
• • •
I had never heard of Alston Bertels, but apparently most New Yorkers had. He was the reigning food critic for
The New York Times
and had been for more than thirty years. In eight hundred words Bertels could transform an obscure noodle house with empty
Similar Books
