Article content pulled from NEWCITY RESTRO Website
View Full Article
In the late 1990s, there was only one place I wanted to go on Friday nights: Horwath’s, a supper club on Harlem in Elmwood Park. We went so often that my wife finally announced she would not be accompanying me more than twice per month, maximum; if I wanted to go more frequently, I’d have to go without her.
Horwath’s had a totally predictable menu, with standard relish trays (celery, pickles, radishes), a dark wood bar with big ceramic pots of spreadable cheddar (called “club cheese”), and a dining room, hung with chandeliers, lined with burgundy banquettes and staffed by waitresses who treated each guest like their favorite child. This throwback restaurant, with a huge neon martini glass on its outside signage, was a respite, a totally non-challenging environment, a comforting, completely unpretentious place to unwind, relax and feel at home with tables of my fellow Italian-American goombahs. Chuckie English, a lieutenant of Sam Giancana’s, was whacked in front of Horwath’s. Local lore has it that the Outfit had a safe full of money in the basement that one morning was dynamited out into the Horwath’s parking lot and that Giancana’s daughter, Antoinette, was at the restaurant on its last night of operation, staying until the lights went out.
Article content pulled from NEWCITY RESTRO Website
View Full Article