My friend Dennis wasn’t easy. There were times I asked myself why we were friends. He was a conundrum, a mind-boggling mixed bag of traits. Immature, emotional, uncouth, inappropriate, a boor, warm, affectionate, funny, generous and caring. He edited no thought; each and every one was verbalized. He was embarrassed by nothing. Nearly every time we got together, there was a point at which I felt intense moments of frustration and irritation. I miss him in my life.

Dennis Arbeeny at work.

We met when I was bartending at a local Village bar, the Kettle of Fish. He strode in, boomed in a loud, husky voice, “Yo, gimme a Heineken and a shot of Wild Turkey,” all before hitting a bar stool. I looked at him skeptically. His head, topped with a baseball cap, was the largest I’d ever encountered, and he had a massive paunch that was as tight as a drum. He weighed at least three times as much as I did, and was huge in every way, down to the thick sterling silver hoop in one ear that would’ve made a bull envious.

He took a long slug of beer, downing a good third of the bottle and announced, in lieu of nothing, that he’d just gotten off from work as a chef at Sloan Kettering Hospital. There he had free rein to concoct whatever he pleased, as the patients he cooked for—who were in their final stages of illness—had no restrictions. 

Weird as this little speech was, and against my will, I found myself intrigued. He talked, and I listened. He’d had plenty of gigs in the food industry. Over the years, besides running his own food concession in a bar in Brooklyn, he’d cooked enormous banquet meals in Las Vegas, and one of his favorite jobs had been for a five-star French chef, the late Jean Louis Pallidin. 

He paused long enough to lift up his shot of bourbon between two thick, sausage-like fingers, pinky in the air, and downed it in one gulp. “Yo, mama, lemme have another one of these bad boys.” As I poured the Wild Turkey, he let out a slow, contented belch.

“Charming,” I said. He threw back his head and his laugh was glorious, full of gusto and the love of life. What can I say? I was hooked. Food would be our common denominator. 

Dennis called me on a Sunday morning. “Yo, girl, I’m in the mood for some oysters,” he announced. 

“I’m in,” I replied without hesitation. 

“I’m not talking Blue Point or Wellfleet. I want variety. I want me some nice Kumamoto, Malpeque’s, Hog Islands, Belon. Let’s go to the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station,” he said.

“Pick me up at five,” I answered.

Befitting his less-than-subtle nature, Dennis leaned on my apartment buzzer for a good 10 seconds. “I’m coming!” I yelled into the intercom. We took the train to 42nd Street and walked south to Grand Central Station. Neither of us had been there since the station’s renovation, so we spent a few minutes taking in the grandeur before looking for the Oyster Bar. When I asked someone for directions to the restaurant he said, “They’re closed on Sundays, and besides, they’re on strike. You’d have to pass a guy dressed as a huge rat to get through the door if they were open.” 

“I’m dying for some oysters,” Dennis moaned. He grabbed my hand and led me out of Grand Central as I tried in vain to think of where in midtown Manhattan we could get a large selection of oysters.

“Let’s head back downtown,” I suggested. 

“Let’s have a drink,” Dennis countered, pulling me into a nearby bar.

Over our drinks, Dennis told me (and everyone within earshot) about a recent cooking event he’d participated in, called the Beast Feast. He and a slew of other chefs spent four days preparing the indigenous bounty brought in by hundreds of hunters from all over the country. Wild salmon, caribou, venison, squirrel and alligator were just a few of the things they tackled. “We even cooked the balls of some animals!” Dennis bellowed. At this, the guy sitting a couple of stools down from us burst out laughing. When we looked over at him he said, defensively, “I’m a cook, too.” 

This brought on a new burst of enthusiasm from Dennis and eventually, after he had grilled this young line cook from the prestigious Café D’Artistes about what kind of oysters he’d worked with, I pried Dennis away to head back downtown to a restaurant in Soho called Aguagrill, where he and I had once shared over a dozen different kinds of these raw mollusks.

We arrived at Aquagrill and found it packed with well-heeled customers. There was a 20-to-30-minute wait at the oyster bar and a longer wait for a table. Disappointed, but determined to find us some shellfish, I suggested we head back to the Village to a little place on Cornelia Street called Pearl. “They don’t have a large variety of oysters, but they’ll have one or two kinds, and they have steamers and the best lobster roll in town,” I said persuasively. We made a right off Bleecker Street onto Cornelia and approached Pearl. I could tell from 20 feet away that it was unlit. “Closed Sundays,” Dennis muttered bitterly.

Luckily, Cornelia Street is lined with terrific restaurants, and we peered at the menus in the windows of a few until we came to a tiny French place, Le Gigot, that I’d always wanted to try. “They have oysters,” Dennis yelled as he opened the door and pushed me inside. “Do you have a reservation?” a waitress asked us curtly. “No, no, we’re starving and we gotta eat,” Dennis said in his usual blunt and earnest manner. “Well, we have only these two tables available,” the waitress said uninvitingly.  She indicated two small metal tables sitting side by side. Each was the size of an open dinner napkin. Dennis was too big for the place, but undaunted, he pushed the tiny table forward to allow for his generous girth and asked for menus.  

We decided to share a bunch of appetizers and started with a half dozen oysters on the half shell. They were so good that Dennis immediately demanded, through a mouthful of crusty bread smeared generously with good French butter, another half dozen. His obvious passion and curiosity about which part of France each ingredient came from eventually melted the heart of the waitress, and she answered his onslaught of questions enthusiastically. 

Next we split a charcuterie plate of grilled sausages, country pork pâté, luscious duck rillettes and chicken liver pâté. The plate was garnished with tiny cornichons and pickled okra slices. It was accompanied with wonderful hot French mustard and more bread and butter. We then had tender garlicky escargot, followed by stewed calamari in a rich, spicy, tomato-based sauce. Each dish was perfectly prepared and we discussed its merits in depth. That ritual was what made our sharing of meals so special to me. I finished the last of my wine and looked contentedly at Dennis. “Well, we got our oysters and then some,” I murmured happily. Pushing himself up from the table he nodded, then added, “What’s for dinner? I could use a steak.” 

We settled instead for a nightcap at the bar of a Greek restaurant around the corner from Le Gigot, where Dennis insisted on ordering himself a skewer of grilled zucchini with dill and feta cheese and some scallops for good measure. I sipped my scotch and thought about what we’d gone through to get a few oysters. I shook my head in amazement. Dennis smiled contentedly and popped a wedge of zucchini into my mouth.

Grilled zucchini with feta and Greek vinaigrette

Baby zucchini with Greek flavors

Serves 4

Fruity, extra-virgin olive oil,  lemon juice and fresh herbs such as dill and mint call to mind the flavors of the Greek isles. I have combined them here, along with pungent feta cheese,  in a vinaigrette to be poured over the hot-from-the-grill baby zucchini.  This can also be made in a stovetop grill or in the oven under the broiler.  If you can't find very small zucchinis, medium-sized ones will do.  Use 4 instead of 6.

6 small zucchinis (or a combination of zucchini and yellow squash)

1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1/4 cup fresh lemon juice 

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh dill

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh mint

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano or 1 teaspoon chopped fresh oregano

3 ounces feta cheese, crumbled

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Trim off the ends of the zucchini and slice each squash in half lengthwise. Lay them on a plate cut side up and drizzle with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Season them with salt and pepper and set aside. 

In a small bowl, whisk together 1/4 cup of olive oil, lemon juice, mint, dill, oregano, salt and pepper to taste. Set aside. 

Prepare a grill. The fire is ready when you can hold your hand about five inches above the rack for just 3 or 4 seconds. Lay the zucchini on the grill, cut side up, and grill for 8 minutes. Turn the zucchini over and grill for about 8 more minutes, or until charred yet somewhat firm. 

Remove from grill to a cutting board and slice, on the diagonal, at 1-inch intervals. Lay the sliced zucchini out on a platter in one layer. Re-whisk the vinaigrette and correct seasoning, if necessary. Ladle the vinaigrette evenly over the warm zucchini. Scatter the crumbled feta over the top and serve immediately.