I spent more than a few lonely holidays at the iconic theatre row establishment, Chez Josephine—or what I used to call my downstairs living room. I lived a few floors above in a modest studio with a bathroom that would make a medium-sized man uncomfortable. Like most buildings in Manhattan, it’s an historic structure that has seen its share of gentrification over the decades. Situated on 42nd Street in Hell’s Kitchen, a block and a half from Port Authority, you can guess at the sights and sounds that went on between those walls in its previous lives. If those walls could talk they would yell, curse, and moan.
The restaurant was opened by Josephine Baker’s adopted French son in 1986—an homage to the sultry entertainer who became the first black woman to star in a major film.
In this photo below I’m sipping on a gin drink they call Josephine’s Gimlet. I’d had many of those after a long week of producing the news, or just hosting friends and family in the Big City.
It was good to return to my old haunt. For a few hours, I was 33 and fearless again. And in this place, nostalgia didn’t disappoint. But the rest of the city outside those red walls seemed to have lost a bit of its sparkle—like an old luxury gown that’s shed some sequins hoping strangers won’t notice if the lights are dim enough…
I only lived in that walk-up for three years. But it was long enough to gain some chutzpah that would stomp me through the next decade. Turns out I can still hail the yellow cab at odd hours, navigate a smelly subway, and pretend to not notice the naked homeless man with the best of them.
My new life in Texas doesn’t require as much grit to survive. And thanks to my bodyguard-husband, I don’t need my head on a constant swivel. Perhaps it’s made me soft, but perhaps I needed that to become the 43 me I am today. I just hope that in the next decade I find a way to keep all my sparkle, even if I lose a few sequins along the way.
