Death of a restaurateur: René Blaschke, 1997

Fear and anger are a restaurant's worst enemies. The three days of the year that can kill a restaurant are Mother's Day, New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day, and having either of those emotions in play is dangerous. Each year around this time my thoughts inevitably turn to René Blaschke, an early Philadelphia restaurant pioneer who was literally destroyed by a disastrous Valentine's Day— and, to be sure, by his own volatile personality.

You may remember Le Champignon, the French country boîte René opened on Lombard Street near Front in 1967. When Elaine May and John Cassavetes made the nighttime film Mikey and Nicky at Second and South in the early '70s, the crew hung out at René's until their 3 a.m. shoot. Many of his regulars became extras on the film, and it helped establish the restaurant's popularity.

It was said that René's family had emigrated from Poland to France before World War II. René spoke both languages, as well as his accented, argumentative and wittily fractured English, with which he regaled people many nights at his own bar, at Sassafras and at other popular bars around Society Hill. He sold Le Champignon in 1987, around the time of his wife Mary's death from cancer. (Today, with the addition of Le Tokio, it combines the French menu with Japanese food.) Carol and their gorgeous daughter were the loves of his life.

René hid his grief under a harsh yet often hilarious brashness. He was a great raconteur who could keep you up drinking until dawn at his Barnegat summer place with a deep reserve of jokes and stories, often portrayed physically when he jumped up to enact a yarn. Eventually he opened the Country House Inn in Wawa, Pa.

But René also had an explosive temper. According to the story as I heard it, just before Valentine's Day of 1997 his waiters walked out (or was it the cooks?). Dozens of couples out for a romantic dinner had their evening ruined. For weeks thereafter, many of them peppered him with vituperative letters and phone calls until, one morning in March, René opened the restaurant alone, sat down at a table and shot himself. He was only 56.

Fast-forward: Marc Vetri's Osteria, 2009

I can't help but think of René each year and what a hard day's night Valentine's is for a restaurant staff to live through. But no one seemed morbid or angry at Marc Vetri's Osteria on North Broad Street this past Valentine's Day. On the chance we might get in, my husband and I arrived a little before ten, just after attending a dance concert at Jeanne Ruddy's Performance Garage nearby. I had been hankering to eat there since Osteria opened the day after Valentine's Day two years ago, but had never made it.

We told the hostess we had no reservations but wondered if anything was opening up. Graciously, the people on the door consulted each other and asked if we'd mind waiting at the bar for a hi-top that would soon be free.

Our server told us the place had begun to fill at 5 and was jammed by 6; yet even after five grueling hours, the staff seemed unruffled. You never had to wait for your server to get another glass of wine or a water refill. Dozens of pairs of eyes looked out for our needs and unobtrusively took care of them— including not removing a diner's plate when the other was still eating.

I craved two things on the menu: artichokes Jewish style— one of my favorite dishes, and hard to get outside New York unless you make them yourself— and Osteria's acclaimed wood-fired pizza.

The moment I ordered the artichokes, the kitchen sold out its last order. So I ordered oil-boiled shrimp with escarole I had spied on the menu. The soft, slippery shrimp against the charred greens bounced off tangerines and toasted pine nuts for mouthfuls of play.

A pizza nearly up to Phoenix standards

As for pizza, we ordered the Ceci"“ chickpeas, pecorino, broccoli and gaeta olives. The topping was a good choice for a cold night and the crust was thin, except at the edges. It's surely one of the best pizzas in Philadelphia (even if it doesn't quite measure up to the famous Chris Bianco in Phoenix, where my husband and I have a second home).

As a former pastry chef, the highest point of the meal for me came with the almond and passion fruit tart with coconut gelato. Even before tasting, I could see the flakiness of the crust and the first bite danced me back to a pineapple meringue pie my mother used to make in my childhood. This tart played many of the same notes, but higher and more sophisticated.

Our server saw my rapture and smilingly came by. "You have your own pastry chef on site, don't you?" I asked.

"We actually have two," she said.

"And that means a separate pastry station?" (Something very rare in restaurants today.)

"Yes, they start around 5 a.m. and finish up around 3 p.m. so we can use that room for private seatings."

A silent toast to René's daughter

After 11, customers who had come in even later than we had were still dining. And though the place had emptied considerably, staff still roved the rooms like cheerful human Roombas looking for something that needed picking up in every corner.

If only that fateful Valentine's Day had gone this well for René. Would he still be alive? Or would something else have pushed him over the edge?

I've heard that his daughter is grown up, married and seems to be doing quite well. At Osteria that night I lifted a glass of wine in a silent toast to her health and happiness, hoping that someone dearly loved her and that she too was having a happy Valentine's Day. That would be a good ending to this bad story.

The other good ending is the knowledge that we live in a city where restaurateurs like Vetri manage to deliver their very best, holiday or not. And to those sweethearts who had their evening ruined 12 years ago, I say: It was only one night of your life. At least you still have your life.



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