“For all of the amazing women I’ve worked with in theater and for Tennessee Williams, maybe our greatest playwright.”
When you hang around New Orleans long enough, eventually you run into someone with a Tennessee Williams story. He lived there for a long time as a young man. His plays and repartee would have one believe that he lived in the quarter and was part of that milieu. The truth is he lived out by Elysian Fields in a working-class enclave that was infinitely less glamorous and lacked the transgressive chic of the Gay Quarter culture. My friend, Henri Schindler, told me stories of Williams flirting with the waiters at Galitoire’s , while drinking the afternoons away.
He also relayed another tale of Williams, after he was famous–meaning after ‘A Streetcar named Desire’– waylaid by a group of blue-haired ladies from a book club wanting to know all about New York and Williams not quite knowing how to handle this group of curious interlopers. For all of the drunken Williams tales, he was actually quite shy, or those who knew him have told me. He is, perhaps, our greatest playwright. At the very least, he is probably our most internationally known.
Thomas Lanier Williams was born in Columbus, Mississippi, the son of an alcoholic and abusive shoe salesman and a fading southern belle-type mother. He was closest to his sister, Rose who, sadly, suffered from schizophrenia as she grew into her teen years . It is thought that Williams ability to write women characters with great insight and empathy has its origin in his close relationships with his sister and mother. It is rare to find anyone who writes better women’s roles than Williams.
It is hard to over estimate the impact of —A Streetcar named Desire. It made a star of Marlon Brando and also holds up today as a great play. No matter where you are in the world, the sun never sets on this work of art. Some company, somewhere, is staging it. And why not? It serves up the great thematic human desires in spades; sexual tension, madness, loneliness, abandonment and animal longing.
For zctors, this play has it all. How many Blanche DuBois wander our streets to this day; the perennial ingenues still harboring illusions about their youth, beauty and desirability? I would guess many. I mean, really. . .where do you think all of that Bo-Tox is going? And how many Stanley Kowalski’s, with their working-class furies and sexual piggishness knotted like tangled kite-string? Hell, try any Lincoln Park sports bar . . .
The one who interests me the most in this most American of plays is Stella. Stella Kowalski knows her mentally-challenged, Pop-Tart of a sister and her brutal, sexually rapacious husband are headed toward one another like two locomotives, and it has always seemed to me that she practically curtsies to get out of the way as this happens; knowing that both will exact their temporary satisfaction, as well as their own damning punishments from this act.
After Stanley rapes Blanche, he is finished as a man. Even he knows it. Blanche is taken away to an institution and grateful for “the kindness of strangers” and Williams hints that they get not only what they deserve, but perhaps, darkly, what they actually want.
My friend, the film maker, John McNaughton, just directed a stage version of Streetcar in Pasadena and loved it. He also told me a story of Tennessee Williams in observing previews for this play, cackling with laughter when Stella delivers the “kindness of strangers” line, a story passed down from a lot of people who knew Williams.
There are also stories of Williams, surreptitiously attending productions of Streetcar, all over the country and raising hell if they fucked with his play. He had many other successes, but Streetcar seemed to be the one he was most protective of. The Rose Tattoo and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof were also hits. Later in life, his plays were not as well received, though recently in Chicago, Camino Real, a darkly surreal Williams play of a dead-end Spanish town, got a fitful production full of imagination and great performances at the Goodman Theater. I was bummed to have missed it, but by all accounts, it was a sexually frank, no-holds-barred imagining of a wildly misunderstood play, directed by the great Spanish director, Calixto Bielto. The reviews were mixed, but everyone I spoke to loved it and admired the fact that it was an adult piece of theater–Tennessee Williams, very close to the milieu of his own life in New Orleans, with its people for the ‘other’ side–boxers whores, poets, strippers and stoned dreamers, those Williams counted as his own, the marginalized and the mad, all coming out to dance.
A guy is walking on bowling balls, trying to string noun and verb together. He is wearing one of those green, plastic, I’m-an-asshole hats with a big shamrock on it.
It is Saint Patrick’s day. Anthony Potenzo stands outside of Three Aces on Taylor Street–no way this ja-drool is getting in.
“Keep walkin’ Lunchmeat. We got no green beer here. Keep movin’.”
Anthony turns to me and with a sad smile says, “One of your people,” meaning, “Irish.” I have no defense. The guy’s hair is redder than Bozo’s man-bush. I shake my head and look down in shame.
It is nights like this Anthony Potenzo has to be extra vigilant. “New Years, St. Patty’s Day, Opening Day at either ballpark, it brings out your hobbyists. Amateurs. Pukes. And on those days, T ? I despair of the species.”
I’ve known Anthony forever, back when he wore a suit and was one of the front-of-the-house guys at Jilly’s on Rush Street. It wasn’t really my kind of place, but I’d met Anthony repeatedly at Steve Earle’s shows and he was a rabid fan, so we became fast friends. He ran Jilly’s with another great host, Stan Wozniak, who would routinely hand my friend, Dave Hoekstra, two shots of tequila (I no longer drink, so anyone with me has to do my drinking for me) with the words, “Sure you can do two of ’em Dave. Don’t go gettin’ all girly on me.”
Between Anthony and Stan, Jilly’s became a regular hang for me, just to hear the repartee between these two. Jesus, they were funny. . .still are.
Big Lyle Aker is slightly smaller than a two-story brick building. He is Anthony’s partner in Three Aces. Perpetually smiling, he is the kind of Boston Irish guy who’d have been quite at home in the film “Boondock Saints.” He wants to start a Facebook page called, “‘”Things Anthony Potenzo Says,” and honestly, it would not at all be a bad idea.
Lyle smiles and says in his Boston Irish, “Anthony’s speech has a certain …..flay-va’.”
Here is a small-plate sampling:
“Fried Bologna sammiches? I’ll eat the ass out of some Fried Bologna sammiches.”
“Rapini? I’ll eat the ass out of some Rapini. Hey,it ain’t like it’s spinach.”
“I’ve worked with, in the restaurant business, every kind of human. Ma-rone, you have NO idea. I’ve worked with guys who admit to having sexual congress with a CHICKEN. Sex with poultry. And they wondered why I DIDN’T. Like, ‘What’s wrong wit’choo?’.”
On prostate exams:
“The thumb in the plum? Nah…UH-UH. NO! Not for me. I consider this an EXIT. No on-ramp here, Butchie.”
On even the hint of racist banter:
“I hear any a’ that shit in here I’ll slap the fuckin’ white right offa’ you. I’ll hit you so hard your dead relatives will feel it, wake up, and go ‘what-the-fuck?’.”
Any conversation with Anthony is a linguistic treat. He speaks in a language that rolls up its sleeves and goes to work– a musical stew of Chicagoese, hip-cat poetic, and gangster patois–or what Anthony refers to as “G-Ball.” Nobody else speaks like him.
Three Aces is what you get if you served 4-star food in Keith Richard’s basement.
It is mercifully free of hipsters, douchebags, frat boys and asshats. It is mostly working people who like rock and roll; lots of guys in the trades and business guys. . .lots of folks with tattoos, including all of the wait-staff and a smattering of creatives, though not enough to fuck it up. It is a fun place where you don’t have to dress up to go and get a really great meal.
The chef, Matthew Troost, is one of those quiet geniuses who lets his food speak for him. The pizzas are amazing. Who’da thunk a quail egg would work on a pizza. All of the food is amazing.
But the real show is Anthony. He is a rarity, a genuine storyteller and bon vivant, the Toots Shor of Taylor Street. Like his pal Donnie Madia, of Publican and Blackbird renown, people come as much to see them as they do for the food. Just don’t walk into Three Aces hammered and dressed like a tool (I’m thinking of you asswipes with your Cubs hats on backwards,or your pants down around your ass) because he’ll tell you, “Keep walkin’, Lunchmeat.”
A decade ago, I made a body of etchings, Max and Gaby’s Alphabet, for my children. I made it because I wanted them to know that their childhood was they greatest period of my life. They decided what each etching should be. That’s right. The critical intelligence of each piece was decided by a four-year old and a six-year old. I’ve always wanted to make an alphabet of songbirds, a great love from my own childhood. Well, I’ve started them, and today I will post the first four. I’m pretty happy about them.