On a cold night in early January BC - Before Corona - I passed a new bistro on Foster Avenue between East 18th & 19th Streets. “WESTWOOD” the backlit-acrylic letters blazed. Interesting name. Was this an homage to West Midwood, Midwood Park and South Midwood, the Victorian Flatbush neighborhoods, dark and somnambulant, looming across Foster Avenue in every direction? But the wooden décor looked southwestern. Was Westwood an evocation of Clint Eastwood westerns? Either explanation would be fine with me. I decided to drop in for a drink and find out.
Sitting at the bar, I ordered a Dewar’s.
“No Dewar’s,” said the bartender, Leo.
I took a McAllen’s instead.
The minutes passed. Leo’s wife, Lorena, who tended the six tables beyond the bar, said “the hanger steak is mighty fine tonight, Señor.”
Some far flung tennis match displayed on the monitors while I pondered whether to eat.
Suddenly a guy in the shadows at the far end of the bar ordered Leo to top off my drink.
“That’s by way of an apology, Mister.”
“What for?”
“For not having Dewar’s in stock yet,” he said, adding, “That was my dad’s drink. I should’ve had it. Dad had a shot every night when he got home.”
“I appreciate it. So how did you come up with the name for this place?”
“Lucky Santos was my first choice,” he replied. “But it didn’t meet with enthusiastic responses.”
“I can see why. How about if I guess where you got Westwood from.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“OK, but another shot of McAllen’s if I’m right.”
Blank looks.
“OK. A free beer chaser.”
“Done.”
“All right then,” I announced. “Westwood is an homage to South Midwood, West Midwood, Midwood Park, Westminster and Glenwood Road.”
A free drink is something to savor. And I did. Further conversation identified the owner as a long-time restaurateur I will call Billy Bistro for now, a former resident hereabouts who would prefer to remain anonymous.
The grub that followed was truly delicious. And oh yeah, Mr. Bistro said the name and the décor were also influenced by Clint.
“A mighty fine hombre, that Clint Eastwood.”
“A really good director,” I reckoned before heading out into the night, now fortified against the cold.
The Rusty Nail, one block west on the corner of East 17th Street and Foster, opened just a month before Westwood. And Wattli, on Newkirk near Marlborough, just two blocks east of the sun-setting Ox Tavern, seemed to be doing well. One hopes they all survive. Time will tell.
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