Seeking Taxi Driver Opera Singer

Dear Astute Readers,
Once again, I'm calling on you to help me locate a cab driver. He's a cabbie opera singer, and a friend of mine was in his cab last November, told me about him, and gave me his number -- I think it had a Jersey area code?

Anyway, I clearly lost his number.

So if you know a cabbie opera singer, let me know ASAP (nyctaxistories@gmail.com).

And if you are a cabbie opera singer, send me a line! Trust me -- it'll be worth it. Especially if you met my friend Sarah while driving last November, and she complimented you on the music you were playing in the cab (opera), and you said that it was you singing it.

If you need me to further jog your memory, Sarah's a hot redhead. And she called me while in the cab with you.

Taxi Gourmet

Most people living outside of New York don't associate taxis with food, unless it's smelly food stains on the backseat. And for these people I say Listen Up! Because you're going to learn something here.

I'll start with this: Taxi Gourmet. And then I'll go here: Pakistan Tea House.

Taxi drivers know all the best restaurants, the secret sweet spots in neighborhoods you're too snobby to go to. Hands down, the Nepalese driver knows where to find food that his mom used to make.

Also, when they're driving, they have to buy their lunch somewhere. And guess what? It's not from McDonalds. For those of you outside of NYC, this might blow your mind, so proceed carefully, but Manhattan McDonalds don't have drive-throughs. That's right. You actually have to walk in, because who in their right mind drives in Manhattan?

Taxi drivers, that's who. And they eat. And many from Pakistan and India eat at the Pakistan Tea House, a superb, and superbly cheap, taxi joint in Tribeca. Another warning -- the ambiance here is a bit like a cafeteria. Not for a first date. But great for a second date, if the person is cool.

Now, for Taxi Gourmet. If you want to know where cabbies like to nosh in the big apple -- or Buenos Aires, Argentina -- hit this site. Your taste buds and travel wisdom will thank you. And read my review of the Pakistan Tea house, their curries, their ambiance, their cheap-as-dirt prices.

Hot Sausage

I was hitting some after-holiday sales in Soho when a cabbie stopped in the middle of Broadway and stuck his fully graying head out the window.

"How much for a hot sausage," he yelled in a gravel and whiskey voice, while gesticulating with a cigarette. He seemed to be trying to address a street vendor at a nearby hot dog stand, who had his back to him and was waiting on other customers.

"How much for a hot suasage," he shouted angrily in his New York accent, "how much for a hot sausage. How much for a hot sausage." He kept repeating the sentence, as if getting angrier and pushier would make the service better. (And alas, sometimes it does work that way in NYC).

Finally the vendor turned around, "Why are you yelling at me," he asked.

The driver sped away.

Above a picture of a totally different hot dog guy on a totally different day.

Bastard Cabbies

This is an exact e-mail sent to me by the wonderous Johannah Lane, the Irish lass pictured here with her hubby, all gussied up for Halloween as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies:

"Hello my sweet,
Why is it that none of the cab drivers I encounter are anything like the lovely peeps I met at your book launch? I was just crossing the street and a cab kept coming, even though I had the walk; I went around to the drivers window and told him that it was dangerous and that I had the right of way. He said, "You're already dead."

Charming!"

My answer: Because some people suck.

Taxi Scammers Charged!

In news bursting with holiday cheer, the authorities charged 18 people with running driver scams on unsuspecting tourists trying to reach other parts of NYC from JFK or LaGuardia Airports.

In short, the scammers ripped the tourists off. In short, the scammers can now go to jail for up to 90 days. My favorite sentence from the New York Post article is also short -- "...hustlers should be forewarned: This is the end of the road,” said Port Authority Chairman Anthony Coscia."" Get it? End of the road?

In related news, a taxi driver featured in My Book used to run airport scams; he also had a friend who figured out how to speed up the meter, overcharging each fare; he constantly smoked pot and drove faster than 100 mph. Did I also mention he's a tall, muscled guy who favors a leather trench coat? Oh yeah.

Story: When Your Cabbie Needs No-Doz

Story by anonymous: I had just flown into JFK after a hellish week working in Brazil – 20 hour workdays, including weekends. Not only was I exhausted, but it was April 15 and I hadn’t done my taxes. Then, when my plane landed, I received an e-mail from work telling me to go straight to the office. So I was tired and not too happy.

I get in the airport’s taxi queue, and the dispatcher assigns me to the third cab in line. I walk over. At this point, the cabbie would typically pop the trunk, and nicer ones would even help you with your bags.

Not this guy. This guy was asleep. And I guess I can understand that – it was probably 6 a.m. So I tap on the trunk to wake him. He jolts awake and hits the gas, lurching away from me. So I lugged my bags back to Sleepy’s cab. At this point, he was conscious enough to open the trunk, and I loaded my bags.

We start driving away from the airport when the cabbie looks back at me and says, “I need to stop and get some caffeine or pills, I can't stay awake."

Um, what? I’m pretty sure staying awake is part of their job.

So he takes the next exit and stops at some gas station. "I won't charge you for this stop," he mutters as he pauses the meter.

Yeah. I haven’t studied the Taxicab Rider Bill of Rights, but I would imagine "not being charged for random stops that delay your trip" should be on it.

He comes back to the cab, then starts driving in the wrong direction, we hit traffic, and I’m late. Nice.

I’m also angry. I only tipped the guy a couple of bucks – I normally tip more – hoping to irritate him. But looking back, I was a sucker. Today, I would probably contest the entire fare.

When I got home, I saw one of my bottles of cachaça, Brazilian rum, was broken. I’d like to blame that on the cabbie, too, but I think it happened on the flight.

Ladies, a glow-in-the-dark taxi clutch

Trying to elevate yourself to "elegant" or "classy?" Feeling undignified when you jump out into the street, madly waving your arms as you attempt to catch yet another cab?

So hail a cab like the dignified ladies of the 50s by raising your arm, clutch in hand.

But make make sure the clutch lights up with the word "TAXI," because, really, who wants to be formal and dignified when you can be fun, flirty, and sport flashing lights?

Designer Regine Basha earns kudos from me for conceptualizing and designing this number, which goes for $225. Expect to see them around town for Fashion Week.

(You should also expect to see herds of women wearing bizarre clothing hoarding all the cabs, as they can't walk in their 5-inch heels without 1) teetering awkwardly, 2) taking a nose-dive, or 3) breaking their ankles. Ah, fashion.)

Click here to read the related New York Post article; photo by Caitlin Thorne.

Story: Taxi driving sucked so badly he only lasted a week

Story: Howard Leibowitz, former cabbie: I was having lunch with a friend of a friend, Howard, when he told me he drove a cab for one week in the 70s.

Really, just one week?

He had hit hard times after sinking all his money into a big music project that went bust. Even worse, when he learned he was broke, he went home to find that his live-in girlfriend had left him and cleaned out their apartment – furniture, TV, everything.

He spent the next couple of days sitting on the middle of his floor feeling sorry for himself, until a friend stopped by and told him to snap out of it. This friend was a cabbie making hundreds of dollars a week. He even told Howard how to make these hundreds of dollars -- illegally – by driving off the meter. Back then, cabbies split their take with the garages. But if they turned off the meter, they would collect all the money from the passengers, with the garages being none the wiser.

The next day, Howard got his hack license. “You could have mold for brains and still pass that test,” he said. He drove a cab from 4 p.m. to 2 a.m. every day for one week. But he felt guilty going off the meter. Also, he kept getting lost and felt guilty about it, so he undercharged almost everyone. At the end of the week, sore and tired, he got his envelope of wages. Inside there was only $5.

His friend called him a nimrod. Howard quit driving taxis. (This photo is of Howard in '72.)