POSTING #91

"The Place Next Door" and One of Life's Embarrassing Moments

Dave and Mary Bullock, friends from Ottawa, recently brought us the news that Dave Smith's Rideau Street restaurants, Nate's Deli, and its offspring, The Place Next Door, are no more.

The restaurants have been demolished and the land they occupied is going to be used for yet another Lower Town condominium.

The sad news brought back many memories.

Soon after Dave Smith opened Nate's Deli, in 1959, Immigration headquarters was moved to the Bourque Building, just across the street. Nate's became the semi-official purveyor of deli food to Immigration.

We could slip across the street for a lunch of juicy, red brisket piled high on a piece of fresh rye bread from the Rideau Bakery---just up the street---slathered with French's mustard, and topped with another slice of rye. The brisket usually had a layer of  succulent fat---this was before those kill-joy scientists discovered cholesterol. That sandwich, with a large, crisp dill pickle and a few fries, made the perfect lunch.

All of the 1960 food groups were covered.

Nate's was a great success and in 1969 Dave took over a neighboring  store and opened The Place Next Door, which served steaks ---oh, I think they offered a few other choices, perhaps some salmon and ribs, but everyone came for the steaks.

International stars who performed at the National Arts Centre or at Lansdowne Park discovered Nate's and the Place Next Door. They took back to Hollywood tales of the great deli food and steaks at this city in Canada with the funny name, Ottawa.

I remember hearing a story that a Tinsel Town star who had dined at The Place Next Door asked Dave to cater a steak dinner for him in Los Angeles. Dave arrived at the star's home with a few hundred pounds of great steak to find that no one had thought to order barbeque grills.

Responding with what natives in my home town would have called 'haywire and binder twine' initiative, Dave sent his helpers off to a home improvement store for a few sheets of plywood and a lot of propane torches.

Dave seasoned the steaks, laid them on the plywood and then he and his helpers 'grilled' them by playing the torch flames back and forth across them. When one side was cooked, they flipped the streaks and did the other side.

When one of the guests wandered over to see what was going on, Dave blandly told him that this was how Canadians cooked their steaks.

The steaks were delicious and Dave's fame spread.

 He opened  Nate's' Deli restaurants in Santa Monica California (1984) and in West Palm Beach, Florida (1990), and The North Pole Restaurant in Hollywood, Florida (2003).

While he was prospering, Dave was also 'giving back'. The list of charitable organizations that he has supported is far too long to include in this posting---click here for a complete list of organizations in Canada and abroad that have benefited from Dave's financial support and his enormous energy, as well as a photo of Dave.  

Now 77, Dave is one of the best-known people in Ottawa but is not well-known in the rest of Canada. He doesn't even seem to have a Wikipedia listing.

I've gone on at some length about Dave Smith because I think he needs to be better known outside of Ottawa (and Los Angeles, and Palm Beach!)

But to be honest,  I may also have been trying to delay the telling of an embarrassing tale that happened in the parking lot outside The Place Next Door.

In the 1990s, Pat and I were invited to attend a dinner for current and retired Immigration staff held--- where else---at The Place Next Door. Hearing that Viggi Ring, a senior member of the Immigration family was feeling a bit frail, we agreed to give her a lift to the restaurant.

Now, the Immigration family is full of people with fascinating stories but Viggi's were really remarkable.

Born in Denmark, she lived through the German occupation of her country, and after the war attended and graduated from the prestigious Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, MA. After getting her degree, she visited some friends in Montreal and ended up working, illegally, with the CBC's International Service.

Caught by Canadian Immigration, she was deported.

Later on, Viggi applied to immigrate to Canada, and despite the deportation, which would normally have been an absolute bar to acceptance, was granted immigrant status, and she returned to Montreal.

And then she was hired by Canadian Immigration to assist with newly arrived migrants.

No one I ever talked to could recall anyone who, having been deported, was then hired by Immigration!

After working in Montreal for a few years, she joined the foreign service and served in a number of Immigration offices abroad, and was officer-in-charge of several.

Hardworking, outgoing and enthusiastic, she was popular with her colleagues.

She never married.  (It wasn't until relatively recently that female foreign service officers were able to combine marriage with a foreign service career.)

After a fine dinner and lots of laughs with our Immigration friends, Pat, Viggi and I went out to the parking lot. Because Viggi had trouble getting in and out of cars, Pat and I agreed that she should sit up front and Pat would sit in the back.

I helped Viggi into the passenger seat, and opened the back door for Pat so she could sit in the seat behind Viggi.

I went around the car, got in and started the car. Hearing Pat's door close, I assumed she was safely inside.

We set off up Rideau Street, as Viggi told a story about her service abroad.

I laughed at the story and said something to Pat, something like, 'Wasn't that a good story?'

No reply.

That was curious. She usually has something to say.

I turned my head---and no Pat, so far as I could see.

I pulled over, and turned around fully.

No Pat.

"Oh my god, I've left Pat behind!", I said to Viggi.

"That's not the worst thing you could have done", Viggi replied.

"Oh, yes it is!"

There was little traffic on Rideau Street, so I made a speedy U-tour and headed back to The Place Next Door.

Here, I think I should turn the pen over to Pat, to describe what happened from her point of view.

Pat's Account:

As I was going to get into the back seat, I realized there wasn't much leg room behind Viggi because we had pushed the seat back to make it easier for her to get in.

 So I shut the door and started to walk around the back of the car to get in behind John.

Just then John took off at high speed and I watched as the tail lights of our Honda disappeared up Rideau Street with John and Viggi going off into the future.

One of the other wives from our dinner asked me what I was doing standing in the parking lot.

I told her that John had just driven off with Viggi.

"Oh", she said, "You'll never see him again. That Viggi really likes the married men."

"He better come back pretty quickly, if he knows what's good for him."

After a very long time, I finally saw the Honda speeding down the road.

When I got back in the car, John was a bit shaken (he should have been a lot shaken!), but Viggi was just chuckling about the whole thing.

I was not too impressed by all this!

Now, I'll turn the pen back to John.

We drove Viggi home. I helped her out of the car, and held the door while Pat got into the passenger seat. I made sure that she was safely buckled in before I got into the driver's seat.

I've said before, in another posting, that there should be a sunset clause on the telling of embarrassing stories about things we have done---it should be illegal after say 5, or 10 years,  to resurrect our gaffes.

I don't think that's going to happen.

More than 10 years have passed, and I am still being reminded of the evening I drove off with Viggi Ring.

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A postscript.

A few years later, a large group of Viggi's Immigration colleagues held a memorial service for her at the Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship building in the west end of Ottawa. People told their favourite stories about her, warm, funny stories about a remarkable person. She  would have enjoyed the send off.

By the way, there was absolutely no truth to the remark about Viggi liking married men---that was just a joke to tease Pat, or as the British would say, 'to put the wind up her'.

Our friends, the Bullocks, acted as executors for Viggi's estate, and gave Pat and me a Danish landscape that Viggi's father had painted.

It now hangs in our house, here in Virgil.

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See you on October 24th for Posting #92 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting,  or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.

Tags: Dave Smith, Nate's, The Place Next Door, Viggi Ring.