Preface: I wrote this a few years ago based on memory. I am sure there is a romantic nostalgic element to this stroll down memory lane and there is a great possibility I knitted together "neighboring" memories of the West and East Village area in NYC; but this is how I remember it.
… a magical cafe
Off an eternally wet cobblestone street in the bohemian West Village, about a half block down from Washington Square Park, maybe between W. 4th St. and Bleeker St., off MacDougal St., I think, sat a quaint little establishment called the Feenjon. Or at least I think that is how it was spelled. Now it might not be called that now as this was back when I was in my teens beginning at about age 14 or 15 I would sneak out of my comfortable and safe Long Island suburban home to slip into the city. Believe me that was long ago, late 1960’s early 70’s. My friends and I, who btw never got caught, well I don’t think, would drink the coldest fizziest cokes, eat huge crispy hot fries, sometimes play chess, while listening to a truly mix of fine music. Ok, so they did Folk too, well mostly really, and yes, Poetry readings, this was fine because that was when the other senses of the bistro would shine to keep me, and the others, from boredom. These were the Feenjon’s true treasures.
Since we often arrived after midnight, the little Shoppe’s on either side were closed, their windows darkened, and since the Feenjon had no windows on the ground floor at this level it made it seem more shrouded and mysterious. That is the way I remember it anyway. There was always a friendly face, the covert bouncer or the bouncer and a greeter, dressed in Village Chic, mostly underdressed, attractive, NYU students or Grads waiting for their big break, with the flavor of the neighborhood. I never remember being asked for a cover, but there was an unwritten rule that you buy at least one menu item per visit, a rule that a pleasant server would remind you of, in case you have forgotten.
The main entrance appeared to be a cool tenebrous open maw that wound into an alcove with a gloomy amber glow that had an almost unsettling welcome to it. Just a second before descending down into the dark tunnel the senses were gifted with the faint cloying whisper of music that enticed one into an inevitable paradise. Regardless of any apprehension you might have had one also sensed the strong gravitational pull of relaxation that drew you into a place where it is all good so any trepidation dissolved immediately. Perhaps the unease came from the fact that you knew once you descend into the Feenjon’s belly you must helplessly submit leaving all stress outside; only relaxation and pleasure need ensue.
After ascending from the long, cool, thankfully wide, tunnel lit only by Christmas lights the actual Feenjon came into sight; an airy huge room full of old mismatched wooden and metal tables, chairs and benches gleaming from years of “body polishing”. To the left, I think, along a wall is one of the longest bars I have ever seen, or that is how I remember it, it snaked along the wall in a convex fashion and from the entrance you cannot see where it ends. You got the feeling were are standing on the edge of a torch lit medieval hall with low wood accented ceilings and beyond it lay labyrinthine passageways. Your sense is partially right as doors and levels, one laid in amphitheater style, artistically break up the rooms and areas beyond it so some patrons can enjoy the music and even see the artist over the table in front of them, others can enjoy the company of others in yet another room and still others can enjoy peace, quiet and introspection in another designated sphere. Eerie gossamer wisps of fragrant incense smoke decorated every part of the café dancing like lithe ethereal silver and ivory dancers that kept to themselves and left before becoming bothersome. Sometimes they were chased by obscene fogs of cigarette smoke, but yet, they never complained. Nor did the smoke bother too many customers because they had a great ventilation system, one that sometimes caused a momentary chill in the air in the cold New York winters when it cleaned the air. Somehow that reminiscence is comforting.
This just adds another shining layer to the memories of the Feenjon’s Treasures.
Its alluring ambiance lay not in its 50’s beatnik meets the 60’s Hippie décor but in the patrons who were magnetized to its spiritual affect; its sounds, sights, flavors, modes of stimulation and scents etched in their minds. The music or lighting, darkness really, beckon the patron to explore each nook and cranny the Feenjon has, or had, to offer.
I went there until my mid 20’s, visiting when I was in town for a while, it seemed as if it was always open, never closed but when the sun went down until the sun rose, it was a magical cafe. It was the kind of place where one went after dancing or after a visit with NYU students and the colorful population while hanging out in Washington Square Park. You could always find some simple hearty fare like out of this world onion soup, great yeast bread or a huge frothy cappuccino, and sit and relax the night away while starving musicians, and a more than occasional famous one, entertain for tips, or not. You never knew who would be sitting next to you, mulling over his/her own plate of the extravagantly priced repast and chatting fervently over the most current conflict, discovery or other current event. Bob Dylan, Dustin Hoffman to drop a couple of names. Or any topic from Organic Gardening to Philosophy to Metaphysical Ideations, no matter what eventually you were drawn into the depths of their thought; simple recipes became complex mathematical formulas. It was times like that when you suddenly looked around to see that not only did the conversation shift, but also many of those participating. Not only did it draw local and/or famous Musicians and Artists, but Playwrights, Philosophers, Commentators, Authors, Professors from surrounding Universities; those who were the shining beacons of 20th Century Trends and revolutionary Thought. No one bothered getting autographs, that behavior was checked at the door, once inside everyone was equal; it was a training ground for cool. The Patrons; they were the true treasures. It was a Utopia in miniature where humanity was at its best. Although located in the heart of Manhattan I never remember feeling threatened; even when I went out the back way on Minetta Lane I think it was called, to get some fresh air or to watch the pre-dawn traffic waiting for the sun to rise. These partial glass double wooden doors are actually not an exit but an entrance from the lane behind it and also the had only windows I remember as well: to get to it you had to go up some brick steps to a lovely brick patio that overlooked an intersection of narrow cobblestone lanes where several little avant-garde shops, florists, bakeries and art studios fill the neat upscale buildings. Well-made strong black French wrought iron glass top tables and chairs dotted the red brick patio, itself surrounded by the same ornate ironwork. In dry weather, huge weathered umbrellas and well worn overstuffed cushions appear, but even without them it was fairly comfortable. Nothing could detract from the sounds of the early morning. Or the star-filled skies at 3 am when the arms of your lover was required to keep you warm enough to enjoy the frost tinged air while the hot steam from a mug of their cappuccino leaves a slick of beaded droplets.
Or from the kiss, warm full impassioned lips tentatively pressed together before slowly reaching passionate depths.
Anyway on warm nights people might gravitate to the outside to enjoy the proliferation of flower beds, not only on the ground level terrace off the Patio but on the balconies and terraces of the private apartments, town homes and lofts of the area’s residents. Depending upon the hour different aromas of the Village drifted about. Besides the entrancing florals there was an international menu of cuisines till late in the night and pastries being crafted in the hours before dawn. It was also in the hours just before dawn when I was often serenaded by glorious songbirds when even my breathing was barely discernable but other times one was serenaded by a plethora of instruments and other various modes of music, laughter, talking; the sound human.
And so, like so many times before I will once more say goodbye to the Feenjon, a place that will be with me forever.
26June2004 © Aquila
Non-fiction
Please enjoy the following links for a brief journey back in time:
A Sonnet for My Father