For the second time in three weeks, New York has lost one of its totemic restaurateurs––first, Laura Maioglio of Barbetta, and last week.  Joseph V. Scognamillo, owner of the legendary Theater District restaurant Patsy’s on West 56^th Street, which his father, Pasquale “Patsy” founded in 1944.
    For three quarters of a century his son Joseph, born in 1932, worked at the restaurant, following his father as chef and maintaining Patsy’s rigorously Neapolitan roots. As the torch passed, he became master of every detail and job, from host, manager, electrician, plumber and kibitzer. Along the way Patsy’s became a magnet for celebrities from all the arts, including, early on, Rosemary Clooney, Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra, for whom Patsy’s was his favorite restaurant.
    Two more generations of celebs followed–– Placido Domingo,  Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, Don Rickles, Jon Bon Jovi, Liza Minnelli, Frankie Valli, Michael Bublé (right), Tony Danza, Tom Hanks, Madonna, George Clooney, David Letterman and  Oprah Winfrey as well as author of The Godfather, Mario Puzo and John F. Kennedy Jr. Their photos, among hundreds, line the walls. Equally, generations of regulars have flocked to the restaurant before or after a show, or to celebrate an anniversary or Baptism or graduation.
    Patsy’s was––and still is––a true family restaurants, with Joseph’s son Sal, since 1988,  the chef and keeper of the flame. Every day at three they shared a family meal at the restaurant.
    Through all those years, you would walk through the door, under the neon name lights, and be greeted by Joseph and his wife of 64 years, Rosie, taking your coat. Joseph would always be impeccably dressed in  a navy or gray suit and a colored shirt with a contrasting collar. He always looked as if he’d just had his haircut that afternoon.
    He would welcome you and shake your hand with both his hands, tell you how happy he was to see you again, or, if for the first time, how grateful he was that you chose Patsy’s. He would tell the captain where to seat you––there were no bad tables in the dining rooms–– maybe tell you he had great lamb chops that evening, check on what you ordered, make sure your cocktail was being properly prepared, and delighted in telling guests stories of his famous clientele, like the time Sinatra went into the kitchen and started making his own pasta. People asked where Sinatra sat and what his favorite dishes were––very crisp arugula salad and thin pounded veal milanese.
    You never saw Joseph without a smile, which was re-enforced among his staff as well, in contrast to those snobbish, dour maître d’s at other swanky midtown Italian restaurants now long forgotten.
    Even after he retired, it was hard keeping Joseph from dropping by to make sure everything was as it always had been––the temperature of the room, the consistency of sauces, the draping of the tablecloths. When he could no longer come by, he’d watch at home via a video camera showing all that was going on in his absence.

    Like those of his ilk––Italian restaurateurs who were immigrants or the sons and daughters of immigrants––hard work was both a given and a pleasure and to deliver and maintain the high level of cuisine and hospitality with what Italians called sprezzatura, the art of concealed art. As sad as Joseph’s passing is, his legacy is in the safest and most loving family hands.

Joseph with his son Sal, wife Rosie and niece Phylicia