"Putting on the Ritz" (in Passaic)

The Ritz was Passaic’s landmark restaurant. For some, it was known as the local go-to spot for fine dining.  I coined it, “snazzy” - the place when you wanted a good steak smothered in mushrooms, or a giant bowl of steamy chicken noodle soup.

The walls were painted puce with pock-marked indentations deliberately chiseled to appear like au courant décor. White cloths fell to the floor, covering the rickety mahogany table legs. Waiters dressed in formal attire leaned against the back wall, ready to attend to diners’ needs at a moment’s notice. My parents’ favorite waiter was Gus, who made it immediately known that he disliked children.

When my parents and I dined at The Ritz. I dressed up, feeling that such a festive occasion deserved fashionable couture. It was where I gorged on dinner rolls slathered in salty butter, where my dad drank whiskey sours, and Mom, Brandy Alexanders, which got her tipsy after three sips.
 
Before I knew it was gauche, I asked for ketchup with my meatloaf while Gus, the flat-footed waiter in his flat black shoes and greasy black pompadour frowned down at me at such an egregious request, Dad saying; “give the kid what she wants.”

One evening in 1955, Gus dropped dead carrying a tray to where the buxom blonde sat with her gangster boyfriend. After that. I never again asked for ketchup with my meatloaf.

Such iconic restaurants remain with us always. So it was here where an ordinary weekday night became a celebratory event. To me, The Ritz seemed magical. Not to be confused with the Ritz Paris or The Ritz in London, it was to me, Passaic’s answer to sophisticated dining. During my formative years, before I came to know differently, dinner there felt grownup and well, “ritzy.”

I enjoyed these mid-week excursions when an evening out was a departure from my usual routine. As soon as my homework was completed, we went downtown for dinner. In that way, The Ritz represented liberation. It was a reprieve from my mom’s cooking to being part of a group activity, which felt exciting and important.

Even though grander places like Gene Boyle’s which was our usual Sunday night venue, The Ritz was in a class by itself. On any given night the clientele varied. Mostly families gathered there, but on occasion, stripe-suited men in white ties and pinkie rings sat at a table planning their next business venture. A silver handgun peeked out from inside a pocket. Once, I caught one of them cleaning his teeth with the edge of his switchblade, an image so horrifically-vivid, I have never been able to relinquish.

Catching me ogling, a man in a wide-brimmed hat glanced over at me and winked.  I smiled back believing I was one of them: a gun moll to their bad boy personae. In that way, The Ritz felt seductively dangerous and less family-oriented, which titillated me more than any child deserved to be.

“Stop staring,” my mother finally admonished, and I was back to being my pubescent and boring self once again, my fantasies floating off into oblivion. For me, The Ritz was the Grande Dame of Passaic. Downtown’s little jewel, close enough to the Montauk theater, where on rare occasions, attending an après dinner movie became an addendum to the evening’s activity.

The Ritz followed me through my childhood and adolescence. It was part of my early journey en route to adulthood. It was a constant fixture that never failed me, but provided some of the most memorable times I still recall with acute mental alacrity - the snapshots so compelling, I carry them with me still.

The strawberry shortcake rose high above the plate like a haughty dame unabashedly flaunting herself. The cheesecake rivaled even Lindy’s. Roast beef was my dad’s chosen option, while my mother enjoyed a delicate piece of salmon, sprinkled liberally with fresh lemon. I always ordered the meatloaf, preceded by a Shirley Temple, which made me feel so adult. After dinner, cigarettes were de rigueur, as smoke curled up and around the large room before anyone knew how bad smoking was.

The Ritz was part of more innocent times. It was Passaic at its finest. The watering hole we turned to with familiar regularity.

Even now, when I am tempted to squirt ketchup on a bland edible offering, I think of our waiter Gus with his judgmental scowl, and I keep the ketchup bottle at bay, except when it can be appropriately applied to French fries, or to the fancier Pommes Frites.

Those halcyon Ritz days are so far removed from the alternate universe we now inhabit. They were the sweet days of my youth when my worst dining faux pas was ketchup. When I was young and full of future longings. A time when a simple ice cream sundae was synonymous with gaiety. In those ways, the restaurant represented all that was right with the world, as I sat there with my mom, Eva Tobin Katz, and dad, Benjamin Katz, feeling safer than I ever have since.

I have traveled to many countries, sampling their indigenous foods. My palate has evolved to more discerning dishes from meatloaf. I can order a meal in French, and I know that pamplemousse is not a dessert. My tastebuds now dance to more sophisticated selections. I can put together a decent cassoulet. I have eaten rattlesnake. I appreciate a fine bottle of wine.

Yet, when I rewind the culinary tapes of my youth, my mind wanders back to The Ritz, where I felt oh-so-glamorous, as I sat there in my burgundy velvet dress with the white lace collar, thinking that life could never get better than this.
Judith Marks-White, JHSNJ member