The Hill Rag. September 20014
It's
hot enough to grill a burger on the sidewalk this mid-week, mid-afternoon in
August.
By
moonrise the sidewalk cafe at Mr. Henry's will fill with burgers and fries and
nachos, beers and margaritas. Right now the patio is abandoned, but inside the
restaurant is as it always is, cool and dark, denying the hour. Any hour. Any
year.
A
spiffily-suited quartet appears to be negotiating Something Very Important at a
center table. A few regulars inhabit the bar, but the curmudgeonly cloud that
normally hovers, always ready with a sarcastic remark and a
hemorrhoidally-fueled smile, is missing. Alvin
Ross, the mug of Mr. Henry's for over four decades, has retired.
Alvin has been at the pub since 1971,
when local property baron, Larry Quillian, won the place in a poker game from
Henry Yaffe, the pint-sized, peripatetic entrepreneur who ensconced
songstress Roberta Flack in a room of her own on the second floor.
At
the time, Yaffe owned six bars around town, operating under different names,
but with the same stylistic formula of red-checked tablecloths and hodge-podge
of Victoriana hung over flaking plaster walls.
Larry
absconded with Alvin
as well, luring him out of Yaffe's Tenley location, appointing him
co-manager, then manager, then ten years later co-owner. For the first 17 years
he also ran another of Larry's restaurants on Pennsylvania Avenue, Machiavelli's. (The
latter has since gone through several owners and incarnations before becoming
the Barrel this spring).
"When
Alvin took over
the business he had no background, no training - he ran it and kept it out of
my hair, that's all I was interested in." says Larry.
He
did more than that. Through the Hill's jolts and slithers toward yuppification, Alvin,
with his masters in philosophy, created a welcoming place, no matter your
proclivities. The Hill's version of Cheers.
Cheryl's
tending bar today. Ralph Ditano's here and Ed McManus is pretending he's not,
leafing through the paper down by the window.
Ralph
has known Alvin
from the beginning. "He's a nice guy, always calm when things aren't calm
-- and fun to tease. I'm forever indebted to him for hiding a jar of grey
poupon for me."
Cheryl
whips it out of a cabinet below the bottles of booze, holding it aloft like
bitter herbs from the Seder plate.
"The
regular mustard was so shitty," says Ralph," I was bringing in small
jars, which embarrassed him. So he bought a big jar for me."
Ralph
also convinced him to bring back the guacamole for the empanadas. "It was
too expensive, he insisted. I'll never do it."
So
he was...tight? "He'd take the subway in to work," says manager Mike
Fry, who'd sidled up to my elbow. "And he'd always borrow my car to go to
Costco. One morning he asked for it and I said, 'It's empty, empty!" And
he came back and said, 'I made it! ' He was so proud of himself. He borrowed it
for months and didn't put in a dime of gas."
Ed
looks up. "Alvin
has a good heart. He was interested in local projects." Mr. Henry's has
hosted the planning of the Capitol Hill Literary Festival, which Ed and his
wife Karen Lyon founded three years ago, keeping the proceedings fueled with
coffee and cokes.
"He
has the sweetest wife," Cheryl sighs. "Chris moved in with him
because he had a washing machine and she had a mouse in her apartment."
Chris,
now a consultant for the state department, was working at Henry's as a waitress when they met. About that sweetness, Alvin agrees: "She's my counterpart. As
much of a pain in the ass as I am, that's how sweet she is."
Some
of us have grown old with Alvin.
Others have grown up.
When
realtor Tom Faison moved to the Hill in 1981, "a dumb kid exiled from North Carolina," he
went to every bar on the street before hitting Mr. Henry's. "Alvin and I
went upstairs and I lied and said I'd worked in restaurants all over the south.
I was a smooth talker. I got that job by pure BS. He hired me for Machiavelli's
-- but when I saw how much money they made at Henry's ..."
He
was there for the next 12 years. "You get a little summer job at Henrys
and...it's a black hole, a vortex. Waiters and bartenders are there for
years." Rudy Appl, who passed away last month, tended bar for fifty.
The
classic Alvin?
" 'I hate my life, why have I been here for 40 years?' But he also
impacted a lot of people," says Tom. "He was never afraid to give his
opinion on what you should do with your life, like getting the employees to try
EST." (If you don't remember EST, Google it).
You
might say Maddie Hartke Weber was born there. Her parents, Kristen Hartke and
Rick Weber, got engaged at the pub. "That sounds much sexier than it
was," says Kristen. "We were having dinner and looked at each other
and said, let's get married." That was 24 years ago.
Their
daughter has been a bar fly since she was in diapers. "Maddie grew up
there," says Kristen. "Birthdays, celebrations, half-price burger
night. Everyone knows to bring her nachos. The night before she left for
college Alvin
hugged her and said, 'take care of yourself'. When she came home for the summer
she wanted to go see Alvin
and let him know how things were going. He hugged her and said, 'your parents
are crazy to let you study theater.' It was very sweet."
Monica
Cavanaugh (full disclosure, as they say, my daughter) has also celebrated every
childhood transition at Mr. Henry's: from graduation from Wee Care (now The
Hill Pre School) through St Mary's College. And then...
"I
got home from college wanting to be a writer," she says. "I went
over to Andrew at the Rag, then immediately after to Alvin. I said, 'I don't know what I'm doing -
will you hire me?' He told me to come
in the next day at 10."
"Alvin was like another family member, ever
aware of my bare ring finger, pestering me about giving my parents
grandchildren."
"His training style was the 'tough love' type. Troublesome
customer? 'It happens. You're doing fine. Now go carry these eight plates up your arm.' Now I can carry four plates and a basket of fries,
which is still a very cool party trick. I get lots of oohs and ahhs."
Thanks
Alvin, and no
she and Pete still haven't set a date. Noodge.
It's hot enough to grill a burger on the sidewalk this mid-week, mid-afternoon in August.
By moonrise the sidewalk cafe at Mr. Henry's will fill
with burgers and fries and nachos, beers and margaritas. Right now the
patio is abandoned, but inside the restaurant is as it always is, cool
and dark, denying the hour. Any hour. Any year.
A spiffily-suited quartet appears to be negotiating
Something Very Important at a center table. A few regulars inhabit the
bar, but the curmudgeonly cloud that normally hovers, always ready with a
sarcastic remark and a hemorrhoidally-fueled smile, is missing. Alvin Ross, the mug of Mr. Henry's for over four decades, has retired.
- See more at: http://www.capitalcommunitynews.com/content/roasting-alvin-ross#sthash.7bbFMxYu.dpufRoasting Alvin Ross
Mon, 09/01/2014 - 9:42am
Retiring Restaurateur Takes a Little Flack
Alvin Ross of Mr. Henry’s. Photo: Andrew Lightman
It's hot enough to grill a burger on the sidewalk this mid-week, mid-afternoon in August.
By moonrise the sidewalk cafe at Mr. Henry's will fill
with burgers and fries and nachos, beers and margaritas. Right now the
patio is abandoned, but inside the restaurant is as it always is, cool
and dark, denying the hour. Any hour. Any year.
A spiffily-suited quartet appears to be negotiating
Something Very Important at a center table. A few regulars inhabit the
bar, but the curmudgeonly cloud that normally hovers, always ready with a
sarcastic remark and a hemorrhoidally-fueled smile, is missing. Alvin Ross, the mug of Mr. Henry's for over four decades, has retired.
Alvin has been at the pub since 1971, when local property
baron Larry Quillian won the place in a poker game from Henry Yaffe, the
pint-sized, peripatetic entrepreneur who ensconced songstress Roberta Flack in a room of her own on the second floor.
At the time, Yaffe owned six bars around town, operating
under different names, but with the same stylistic formula of
red-checked tablecloths and a hodge-podge of Victoriana hung over
flaking plaster walls.
Larry absconded with Alvin as well, luring him out of Yaffe's Tenley location, appointing
him co-manager, then manager, then ten years later co-owner. For the
first 17 years he also ran another of Larry's restaurants on
Pennsylvania Avenue, Machiavelli's. (The latter has since gone through
several owners and incarnations before becoming the Barrel this spring).
"When Alvin took over the business he had no background,
no training -- he ran it and kept it out of my hair, that's all I was
interested in." says Larry.
He did more than that. Through the Hill's jolts and slithers toward yuppification, Alvin, with his masters in philosophy, created a welcoming place, no matter your proclivities. The Hill's version of Cheers.
Cheryl's tending bar today. Ralph Ditano's here and Ed
McManus is pretending he's not, leafing through the paper down by the
window.
Ralph has known Alvin from the beginning. "He's a nice
guy, always calm when things aren't calm -- and fun to tease. I'm
forever indebted to him for hiding a jar of grey poupon for me."
Cheryl whips it out of a cabinet below the bottles of booze, holding it aloft like bitter herbs from the Seder plate.
"The regular mustard was so bad," says Ralph," I was
bringing in small jars, which embarrassed him. So he bought a big jar
for me."
Ralph also convinced him to bring back the guacamole for the empanadas. "It was too expensive, he insisted. I'll never do it."
So he was...tight? "He'd take the subway in to work," says
manager Mike Fry, who'd sidled up to my elbow. "And he'd always borrow
my car to go to Costco. One morning he asked for it and I said, 'It's
empty, empty!" And he came back and said, 'I made it! ' He was so proud
of himself. He borrowed it for months and didn't put in a dime of gas."
Ed looks up. "Alvin has a good heart. He was interested in
local projects." Mr. Henry's has hosted the planning of the Capitol
Hill Literary Festival, which Ed and his wife Karen Lyon founded three
years ago, keeping the proceedings fueled with coffee and cokes.
"He has the sweetest wife," Cheryl sighs. "Chris moved in
with him because he had a washing machine and she had a mouse in her
apartment."
Chris, now a consultant for the state department, was working at Henry's as a waitress when they met. About that sweetness, Alvin agrees: "She's my counterpart. As much of a pain in the ass as I am, that's how sweet she is."
Some of us have grown old with Alvin. Others have grown up.
When realtor Tom Faison moved to the Hill in 1981, "a dumb
kid exiled from North Carolina," he went to every bar on the street
before hitting Mr. Henry's. "Alvin and I went upstairs and I lied and
said I'd worked in restaurants all over the south. I was a smooth
talker. I got that job by pure BS. He hired me for Machiavelli's -- but
when I saw how much money they made at Henry's ..."
He was there for the next 12 years. "You get a little
summer job at Henrys and...it's a black hole, a vortex. Waiters and
bartenders are there for years." Rudy Appl, who passed away last month,
tended bar for fifty years.
The classic Alvin? " 'I hate my life, why have I been here
for 40 years?' But he also impacted a lot of people," says Tom. "He was
never afraid to give his opinion on what you should do with your life,
like getting the employees to try EST." (If you don't remember EST,
Google it).
You might say Maddie Hartke Weber was born there. Her
parents, Kristen Hartke and Rick Weber, got engaged at the pub. "That
sounds much sexier than it was," says Kristen. "We were having dinner
and looked at each other and said, let's get married." That was 24 years
ago.
Their daughter has been a bar fly since she was in
diapers. "Maddie grew up there," says Kristen. "Birthdays, celebrations,
half-price burger night. Everyone knows to bring her nachos. The night
before she left for college Alvin hugged her and said, 'take care of
yourself'. When she came home for the summer she wanted to go see Alvin
and let him know how things were going. He hugged her and said, 'your
parents are crazy to let you study theater.' It was very sweet."
Monica Cavanaugh (full disclosure, as they say, my
daughter) has also celebrated every childhood transition at Mr. Henry's:
from graduation from Wee Care (now The Hill Preschool) through St.
Mary's College. And then...
"I got home from college wanting to be a writer," she says. "I went over to Andrew at the Rag, then immediately after to Alvin. I said, 'I don't know what I'm doing - will you hire me?' He told me to come in the next day at 10."
"Alvin was like another family member, ever aware of my bare ring finger, pestering me about giving my parents grandchildren."
"His training style was the 'tough love' type. Troublesome customer? 'It happens. You're doing fine. Now go carry these eight plates up your arm.' Now I can carry four plates and a basket of fries, which is still a very cool party trick. I get lots of oohs and ahhs."
Thanks Alvin, and no she and Pete still haven't set a date. Noodge.
Alvin
Ross, who is now living it up in Bethany Beach, where he has a "real
senator and congressman," says with what sounds like an actual smile in
his voice: "I want to thank all of my customers for their patronage and
my staff for their loyalty and hard work.
Roasting Alvin Ross
Mon, 09/01/2014 - 9:42am
Retiring Restaurateur Takes a Little Flack
Alvin Ross of Mr. Henry’s. Photo: Andrew Lightman
It's hot enough to grill a burger on the sidewalk this mid-week, mid-afternoon in August.
By moonrise the sidewalk cafe at Mr. Henry's will fill
with burgers and fries and nachos, beers and margaritas. Right now the
patio is abandoned, but inside the restaurant is as it always is, cool
and dark, denying the hour. Any hour. Any year.
A spiffily-suited quartet appears to be negotiating
Something Very Important at a center table. A few regulars inhabit the
bar, but the curmudgeonly cloud that normally hovers, always ready with a
sarcastic remark and a hemorrhoidally-fueled smile, is missing. Alvin Ross, the mug of Mr. Henry's for over four decades, has retired.
Alvin has been at the pub since 1971, when local property
baron Larry Quillian won the place in a poker game from Henry Yaffe, the
pint-sized, peripatetic entrepreneur who ensconced songstress Roberta Flack in a room of her own on the second floor.
At the time, Yaffe owned six bars around town, operating
under different names, but with the same stylistic formula of
red-checked tablecloths and a hodge-podge of Victoriana hung over
flaking plaster walls.
Larry absconded with Alvin as well, luring him out of Yaffe's Tenley location, appointing
him co-manager, then manager, then ten years later co-owner. For the
first 17 years he also ran another of Larry's restaurants on
Pennsylvania Avenue, Machiavelli's. (The latter has since gone through
several owners and incarnations before becoming the Barrel this spring).
"When Alvin took over the business he had no background,
no training -- he ran it and kept it out of my hair, that's all I was
interested in." says Larry.
He did more than that. Through the Hill's jolts and slithers toward yuppification, Alvin, with his masters in philosophy, created a welcoming place, no matter your proclivities. The Hill's version of Cheers.
Cheryl's tending bar today. Ralph Ditano's here and Ed
McManus is pretending he's not, leafing through the paper down by the
window.
Ralph has known Alvin from the beginning. "He's a nice
guy, always calm when things aren't calm -- and fun to tease. I'm
forever indebted to him for hiding a jar of grey poupon for me."
Cheryl whips it out of a cabinet below the bottles of booze, holding it aloft like bitter herbs from the Seder plate.
"The regular mustard was so bad," says Ralph," I was
bringing in small jars, which embarrassed him. So he bought a big jar
for me."
Ralph also convinced him to bring back the guacamole for the empanadas. "It was too expensive, he insisted. I'll never do it."
So he was...tight? "He'd take the subway in to work," says
manager Mike Fry, who'd sidled up to my elbow. "And he'd always borrow
my car to go to Costco. One morning he asked for it and I said, 'It's
empty, empty!" And he came back and said, 'I made it! ' He was so proud
of himself. He borrowed it for months and didn't put in a dime of gas."
Ed looks up. "Alvin has a good heart. He was interested in
local projects." Mr. Henry's has hosted the planning of the Capitol
Hill Literary Festival, which Ed and his wife Karen Lyon founded three
years ago, keeping the proceedings fueled with coffee and cokes.
"He has the sweetest wife," Cheryl sighs. "Chris moved in
with him because he had a washing machine and she had a mouse in her
apartment."
Chris, now a consultant for the state department, was working at Henry's as a waitress when they met. About that sweetness, Alvin agrees: "She's my counterpart. As much of a pain in the ass as I am, that's how sweet she is."
Some of us have grown old with Alvin. Others have grown up.
When realtor Tom Faison moved to the Hill in 1981, "a dumb
kid exiled from North Carolina," he went to every bar on the street
before hitting Mr. Henry's. "Alvin and I went upstairs and I lied and
said I'd worked in restaurants all over the south. I was a smooth
talker. I got that job by pure BS. He hired me for Machiavelli's -- but
when I saw how much money they made at Henry's ..."
He was there for the next 12 years. "You get a little
summer job at Henrys and...it's a black hole, a vortex. Waiters and
bartenders are there for years." Rudy Appl, who passed away last month,
tended bar for fifty years.
The classic Alvin? " 'I hate my life, why have I been here
for 40 years?' But he also impacted a lot of people," says Tom. "He was
never afraid to give his opinion on what you should do with your life,
like getting the employees to try EST." (If you don't remember EST,
Google it).
You might say Maddie Hartke Weber was born there. Her
parents, Kristen Hartke and Rick Weber, got engaged at the pub. "That
sounds much sexier than it was," says Kristen. "We were having dinner
and looked at each other and said, let's get married." That was 24 years
ago.
Their daughter has been a bar fly since she was in
diapers. "Maddie grew up there," says Kristen. "Birthdays, celebrations,
half-price burger night. Everyone knows to bring her nachos. The night
before she left for college Alvin hugged her and said, 'take care of
yourself'. When she came home for the summer she wanted to go see Alvin
and let him know how things were going. He hugged her and said, 'your
parents are crazy to let you study theater.' It was very sweet."
Monica Cavanaugh (full disclosure, as they say, my
daughter) has also celebrated every childhood transition at Mr. Henry's:
from graduation from Wee Care (now The Hill Preschool) through St.
Mary's College. And then...
"I got home from college wanting to be a writer," she says. "I went over to Andrew at the Rag, then immediately after to Alvin. I said, 'I don't know what I'm doing - will you hire me?' He told me to come in the next day at 10."
"Alvin was like another family member, ever aware of my bare ring finger, pestering me about giving my parents grandchildren."
"His training style was the 'tough love' type. Troublesome customer? 'It happens. You're doing fine. Now go carry these eight plates up your arm.' Now I can carry four plates and a basket of fries, which is still a very cool party trick. I get lots of oohs and ahhs."
Thanks Alvin, and no she and Pete still haven't set a date. Noodge.
Alvin
Ross, who is now living it up in Bethany Beach, where he has a "real
senator and congressman," says with what sounds like an actual smile in
his voice: "I want to thank all of my customers for their patronage and
my staff for their loyalty and hard work.
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