On a warm weeknight in the halcyon summer of 2017, I decided to fire up the Mustang and drive into Manhattan for dinner at my favorite restaurant in the city, Cafe Gitane.

The city always fielded finer restaurants, more well-appointed venues with haute cuisine and far deeper wine lists, gourmands’ meccas like Montrachet, Gramercy Tavern, and Le Bernardin. But judged on the whole experience—food and drink, as well as music, ambiance, vibe, and a miraculously low tab at meal’s end—pound-for-pound the cozy French-Moroccan bistro at 242 Mott Street out-punched the heavyweights every time.

That night, my stars were in alignment. No traffic on the turnpike, no lineup at the tolls. Me and my ’67 Mustang in recently polished Wimbledon White (thank you very much) issued forth from the Holland Tunnel onto Canal Street. Soon we’d reached our destination and the spot directly in front of Cafe Gitane was open. I parked to the approving nods of diners at the outdoor tables.

I sat at the bar. No need of menus. To start, a glass of Côtes du Rhone rouge and a ramekin of mouth-watering Moroccan oil-cured olives and mandarin slices seasoned with mint leaves and hot pepper flakes. Then on to the main event: Couscous Supreme, a fez-shaped tower of savory couscous topped with creamy hummus framed by parentheses of spice-laden merguez sausage.

Happily waiting for one of my favorite plates of food (apparently, David Bowie agreed with me on the couscous), I sipped my peppery French red, noshed on my appetizer, and tuned into my surroundings. What was playing above the mild din of the bistro’s bustle? “Wooden Ships” by Crosby, Stills & Nash. Of course. At the small two-top table by the window I noticed a man of about 50 or so who bore a likeness to Jean Reno with café au lait complexion, long-since bald, dark jeans, black t-shirt, and the bearing of one in command. As I quickly deduced from how the staff deferentially approached him, he was the owner.

My stars had truly aligned. I’d wanted to meet—and thank—the elusive Luc Lévy for nearly two decades. I asked my waitress if I could be introduced. Luc looked over, nodded and smiled, then gestured me to join him at his table and asked if I’d have some Champagne. I’m in a film now, right? A very cool film. How could I say no?

More than the owner and proprietor, Luc was the mind behind Cafe Gitane and its sensibilities. In keeping with our cinematic motif, he was born in Casablanca, which explained the cuisine as well as the decor—small boxy shelf units with a fez here and there and that beautiful pastel-tinted map of Morocco framed in a glass -and-wood box and prominently hung on the restaurant’s biggest wall.

Behind the bar one beheld a sacred icon: a black & white photo of Jimi Hendrix snapped by Gered Mankowitz in 1967, the glass frame draped—no, reverently adorned—with a star-shaped
medal. And just above Jimi a small shelf with the bottles of wine to be found on the carte du vin (a refreshingly affordable and bistro-authentic wine list.)

Sitting down to talk with Luc was like meeting one of my favorite actors or Rock stars—an opportunity to thank him for all the enjoyment he’d given me and my friends. Urbane and genial, he received my effusive gratitude in stride. Luc explained how he’d been raised for a time in Paris, so, being French as well as Moroccan, there were two things from the start he had to get
right, his operation’s dual cornerstones: the bread and the coffee.

Oui, très français. That was back in 1994. And Gitane always had amazing baguettes and some of the best espresso—the base of so many other coffee variants—in the city.

Our chat quickly turned to other shared interests, such as music. Like me, Luc loved Rock from the mid to late 1960s, especially Cream, The Yardbirds, and, of course, his beloved Hendrix. But he also enjoyed real-deal Country; many a time I heard Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, or The Byrds on Sweetheart of the Rodeo serenading Gitane’s eclectic mix of students, artists, models, Rock stars, thespians, tourists, and the occasional Mustang-driving
poet.

Before I could mention it, Luc noted that we were both wearing virtually the same watch, very vintage Rolex Submariners and on black NATO straps to boot. He was intrigued. So we traded stories on our prized chronometers and he enjoyed hearing about my ’67 which I’d had since ’87.

Before I hit the road in my other ’67, I had an espresso with Luc and talked about wine regions in France I’d visited so far. By that point, we were like two old friends shooting the breeze and our conversation was quite easy and natural.

This past December, Cafe Gitane unexpectedly closed its door. The news hit me hard. Apropos those little palm tree symbols on Luc’s map of Morocco, Gitane was an oasis, a completely dependable delight when so many other venues became exorbitant, exclusive, or simply vanished. Like other bygone restaurants that attained true mythos, Cafe Gitane was—for 30 years—a time and a place. Along with another effusive
“thank you,” Luc, I know you’ll approve my choice of an epitaph for your restaurant:

And so castles
Made of sand
Slips into the sea
Eventually
—Jimi Hendrix, “Castles Made of Sand”

(N.B. For those who’d like to reminisce, get yourself the formidable hardcover retrospective Café Gitane: 30 Years by Isabel Lola Brown (a former Gitane waitress) and published by McNally Editions.