Judith Friedman ate at Gino's in New York almost every night of the week for 20 years.

Gino’s, a 65-year-old restaurant on Lexington Avenue in New York City recently closed its doors. Its demise was not the result of the economy or loss of customers. It was based on two factors: 1) unrealistic labor demands and 2) an increase in rent.

On the last day that Gino’s was open, my wife, daughter and I had lunch at the restaurant. Michael, the chef of 42 years, came over and spoke to us. He has hopes of opening a new place, even replicating the unusual wallpaper (zebras on a red background). Our lunch reminded me of what a great restaurant is all about. It’s more than a convenient location; it’s more than good food; it’s more than a pleasant ambiance. It’s the managers, the waiters, the busboys, the entire staff and how they interact with the customers in order to make each client feel that this restaurant is their refuge, their home away from home.

After my father died, my mother was lonely and had few places to go, especially at dinnertime. Mother never liked to cook but enjoyed being amongst people. She had become acquainted with Gino’s while my father was still alive, and as a result of her desire to go out, as well as the connection the restaurant had with my father, Mother began having dinner at Gino’s on a regular basis.

Gino’s only accepted cash. Oftentimes, Mother would forget to go to the bank and, as a result, was unable to pay her bill. After several urgent phone calls, I stopped by and asked Mario, the co-owner, if we could open a house account for Mother. He said this was against house policy. I reminded him of how much Mother loved his restaurant and how age had affected her memory. Mario thought it over and agreed to open a house account, if I would pay the bill. A few months later, I was in the restaurant and Mario said, “We have a problem with your mother. She only leaves a 5 percent tip.” I told him to include a 15 percent tip regardless of the amount she signed.

Mother had several preferences, one of which was French vermouth (Noilly Prat). One night as I was having dinner with her, she tasted her vermouth, with the usual one piece of ice, and complained, “This is not French vermouth.” I looked at her, thinking that her palate could not distinguish the difference. I went up to the bar and asked to see the bottle and lo and behold, it was Italian vermouth. After that evening, Gino’s always kept a bottle of Noilly Prat in stock for my mother.

Mother ate at Gino’s at least six nights a week. She always ordered the same meal, starting with vermouth on the rocks, followed by minestrone soup, veal piccata with string beans, a tortoni for dessert, and, finally, a regular coffee in a demitasse cup.

Mother was constantly amazed at the service she received. She often commented that the waiters seemed to know what she was going to eat, even before she placed her order.

Mother usually had a car pick her up at Gino’s and drive her back to her apartment. One night Mother left the restaurant a bit early and spied a parked limousine with a driver. She immediately got in. The driver asked her who she was. She said, “You don’t know who I am? I am the lady you are taking home.” Not wanting to have an argument in public, the driver acquiesced. My mother gave him her address and away they went. A few minutes later, a gentlemen came out of the restaurant and asked Mario where his driver was. At the same time, my mother’s regular driver had arrived, and Mario quickly figured out what had happened. Mario told the gentleman about an old lady getting into his car and insisting his driver take her home. Mario calmed the gentleman down and bought him a drink. Eventually, the driver, still a bit flustered, returned. The incident was never mentioned to my mother.

Gino’s did not believe in reservations, so there was generally a crowd at the bar. Mother would come in, stand for a few minutes, and the moment a table opened up, she would go to it and sit down. One evening I heard a gentleman turn to his date and say, “I wonder who that pushy little old lady with the cane is! She always gets a table ahead of the rest of us.” I turned to him and said, “That little old lady is my mother and she spends over $15,000 a year at this restaurant.”

Mother went to Gino’s until the time that she was bedridden. Gino’s had taken care of her for over 20 years and provided her with a second home. This was accomplished by a caring, dedicated staff that had become her extended family.

My mother died at the age of 98. Her long, happy life can be attributed to Gino’s (not genes), veal piccata and French vermouth on the rocks. All served with love.

J. Roger Friedman is president of Lebhar-Friedman Inc., the parent company of Nation's Restaurant News.