HOW TO DINE AT RAO’S WITHOUT A RESERVATION

In the twenty years that I’ve lived in New York, I’ve tried to visit any bar or restaurant with an interesting ambiance or story, but the prospect of entering Rao’s — East Harlem’s famous Italian restaurant and the producer of my jarred vodka sauce of choice since I was twelve — has intimidated me.

Open since 1896 at 455 E. 114th Street at Pleasant Avenue, the restaurant was founded by the Rao family. Today, Frank Pellegrino Jr. and chef Dino Gatto, along with Ron Straci run the place. Anna Pellegrino Rao and Vincent Rao (he made the lemon chicken famous), put the restaurant on the map. It was around the 1970s, according to the website, that the restaurant started table rights, “granted to patrons who have frequented the restaurant over generations” — and it’s what makes it one of the hardest tables in the city to get. Needless to say, getting a table here — especially when there are only ten of them — goes well beyond the current reservation wars.

The family-run restaurant has been a den for power brokers for decades. It’s where Mayor Eric Adams went with a billionaire to celebrate his winning the Democratic nomination. The late co-owner Frank Pellegrino used to sit regulars like actor Ron Perelman, mogul Tommy Mottola, Jay Z, Jimmy Fallon, and Whoopi Goldberg. Even the staff has been famous, like the late bartender Nicky Vests and Frankie No at the door. It’s been the scene for at least one mob murder — and more than one mob actor, as it was the place for informal casting for Goodfellas. Yet it also has been a hangout for law enforcement, people like Bo Dietl, Pellegrino’s closest friend and former NYPD detective who helped catch the Son of Sam, and had been a mayoral candidate himself. (He apparently has a regular table on Thursdays.)

I had long heard of people getting seated as walk-ins so I decided, one recent night to try. I invited my friend and a former bartender in Carroll Gardens. We decided on a Tuesday, figuring cancellations were more likely earlier in the week, and arrived at the restaurant just before it opens at 7 p.m.

My biggest concern was that we would appear over-eager, so I advised him not to come in too hot. As a former bartender and a former server myself, I’ve witnessed a range of tactics for trying to gain attention, and it was always those guests who played it cool who won favor.

When we entered Rao’s, most of the expensively dressed patrons were either gathered around the bar or milling about the tables. What was striking was the sense that everyone knew each other; it felt more like a wedding reception than a restaurant.

Aware of how we didn’t fit in with a crowd that was obviously wealthier and more connected than we were, my anxiety blossomed, but I told myself that we just needed to act like we belonged. Sure enough, when we passed three servers in black Rao’s t-shirts, one of them extended his hand and asked Richard his name, as if we had a table.

“We’re just going to grab some drinks,” my friend tried to say casually. “See if anything opens.”

“We’re all booked,” said the server.

We went along with things, saddling up at the bar to order a Negroni and an Old-Fashioned. When my friend handed the bartender a $100 bill, we made our first faux pas.

“Pay at the end,” the bartender informed us.

Richard then tried to give a name for the tab, and the bartender seemed confused: Not knowing that the bartender keeps track of guests by face was our second mistake. Leaving the bartender to his work, Richard and I drank and talked. As each party was seated at their table, the crowd thinned until, eventually, we were the only ones remaining.

I was genuinely pleased to have a chance to witness the wooden booths, the celebrity-photo-covered walls, and the famous meatballs passing by us on white plates. If this was as far as we got, so be it.

Just as we were considering leaving, a group of slick-looking older men sat down beside us. Here, I thought, was an opening: not by charming the staff, but the regulars.

As we got around to chatting, one of the men said he went to primary school in the exact same building where I currently work in higher education. I felt like we were on to something. Then, around 9 p.m., it was time for their table.

“Do you have a table?” one of them asked us.

“We just thought we’d walk in,” my friend said.

“You got balls,” he replied, laughing.

Behind us, the single two-top was being reset, but the servers had, by then, left us alone for so long we figured it had to be for another regular.

Several minutes later, a server in a Rao’s t-shirt approached us and offered us a table.

As we walked to the two-top, my friend and I exchanged a look: Was this really happening?

Indeed, it was.

We never learned why we got seated — whether a regular just hadn’t showed up for the two-top in Rao’s front window. Above us, hung photographs of the restaurant’s back-of-house staff in their crisp white jackets and striped pants; businessmen in grey suits; and one of Hilary Rodham Clinton, long before she was Secretary of State. Behind us, servers hustled in and out of the kitchen.

Just like I’d read about, a grey-haired man, in an unbranded shirt, crouched at our table and walked us through the menu aloud.

Soon, we were served baked clams, herb-covered roasted red peppers, garlicky broccoli rabe, filet of sole sprinkled with capers, and, of course, the penne vodka, with a suace that glistened in the restaurant’s lighting.

When the check arrived, we got another surprise: Our friends at the bar had treated us to all of our drinks and a Rao’s t-shirt.

Wanting to commemorate the night, my friend and I had our photo taken, which we quickly texted to our friends and family.

Did the food warrant the impossible-to-get reservation? Yes, but it was not the star of the show. That’s the thing about a great room in New York: It’s not always about the food as it is about the story. And in this one, we learned the key to entry at Rao’s, at least on this one particular night: The secret to getting in is trying your best: the old-fashioned way — and walking through the door.

2024-07-02T16:49:37Z dg43tfdfdgfd