Manhattan's Upper East Side Very Own Isle of Capri

It's a short walk from Bloomingdales to the Isle of Capri, family owned since 1955. But walking through its doors, well, I can just feel the ocean breeze from the Capri coast. Okay, so it's the remnants of exhaust from the M101 bus, still it transforms itself in this place for me so that even an aging Jewish guy, as soon as he enters, has to say "Ciao, bella", as I see the hostess. And let me tell you the bill doesn't leave me saying, "Oy ve", which doesn't hurt either.

Owned by the famiglia LaManna for over fifty years, the Isle of Capri reminds me of so many of the Italian places I grew up with in Massapequa (called Matzo-Pizza back then because of the large Jewish and Italian population) back in the 1960s, gone now like my black hair. Every time I step into the Isle of Capri, I'm transported. The waiters, wait Denny's has waiters, these are true major d'omos in tuxedos, the vaulted ceiling with the red, blue and green lights, the large center table, always with a huge fresh bouquet, surrounded by large wheels for parmagiana, perccorino romano never fails to get me primed for my off the menu desert, said cheese, with cut apples, fresh strawberries, pare halves. Now that's living. Want some privacy on a date? Ask to be seated in the little window boxes that look out on 61st Street with only tables for two. It's as if you and your significant other are totally by yourself. Ah, and how could I forget, downstairs is the grotto for true privacy, though it wasn't private enough for my ex-wife's detective to find me and my, well...I still say she was my friend regardless of where my hand was.

And food? Did you ever hear the old Jewish joke, In a Jewish family, you don't say, "I love you." You say, "Eat...eat!" Well, the portions are sizeable here and delectable too. You have to try the Isle of Capri's L'Insalata Caprese, red and yellow roasted peppers lounging lovingly over the most vevelty buffalo milk mozzarella with tomatoes, drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Just thinking about it I'm getting such nachas. The Dover sole filleted at your table by your major d'umo, homemade gnocchi so light is should be made of flubber, with a red sauce that is so sweetly tangy, and if you don't like my fruit and cheese platter dessert, the tiramisu will pick you up.

If you miss the era of the Italian restaurant (those one step up from the Billy Joel song) the way it used to be forty plus years ago and you're at 61st Street at Third Avenue in Manhattan, walk into the past and taste the best Italian food at a competitive price at the Isle of Capri. And I ought to know because I've got the relaxed fit jeans to prove it. One request, though, if you see me in the grotto, please wait until after I'm done to ask for my autograph.