Me & Patrick Ewing

“The maître d’ showed us to our table, on the right-hand side of a single room that held about a dozen tables, all filled but ours. The clientele was smart-looking and professional. Carrie and I looked a bit bohemian, but no one seemed to care, and their attention was surely on the table in the back, where sat Patrick Ewing, star center of the New York Knickerbockers, and several other very large, very fit, very elegant African-American gentlemen enjoying dinner and fine wine.”—Michael Tallon 

Fairly Unbalanced

By Michael Tallon

ANTIGUA Guatemala—(Hubris)—July/August 2026—Over 30 years ago, I was living in Brooklyn with my girlfriend Carrie on Columbia Place. She worked up in Yonkers, and one Friday night, we decided to meet in Manhattan for dinner before taking the train home together.

For some reason, she wanted to meet on the Upper East Side, though, for my money, the only reasons to bother with the UES are if you’re dying (shout-out to Mount Sinai, best damn hospital in the world), or if you’re on a walkabout from the Met to the Frick to the Cooper Hewitt. (Fuck the Guggenheim, I hate that silly, sloping floor.)

Anyway, Carrie chose the neighborhood, and we met on Madison around 90th Street, then started wandering around looking for somewhere nice. We passed a bunch of bistros and eateries that looked fine, but nothing grabbed our attention until we spied a tiny Italian joint with minimalist decor and a soft eggshell eye. It looked elegant and reserved, and when I spoke to the maître d’, they said they could fit us in, as a table for two had missed their reservation window.

We took that as kismet.

When we entered the restaurant, it was perfect. There was life and laughter, but it was not loud or chaotic. The house staff was clearly professional, which spoke well of our hopes for the kitchen.

The maître d’ showed us to our table, on the right-hand side of a single room that held about a dozen tables, all filled but ours. The clientele was smart-looking and professional. Carrie and I looked a bit bohemian, but no one seemed to care, and their attention was surely on the table in the back, where sat Patrick Ewing, star center of the New York Knickerbockers, and several other very large, very fit, very elegant African-American gentlemen enjoying dinner and fine wine.

At the time, Patrick Ewing was simply the most famous man in the City, and arguably one of the most recognizable human beings in the world—all 7 feet and 250 magnificent pounds of him.

At the time, I did NOT revere Mr. Ewing. I was only a few years out of Syracuse University, and I’d loathed everything Georgetown (his college team and our biggest rival) on a cellular level. But seeing someone that enormous, that famous, and that popular casually out for a meal was exciting, so Carrie and I looked at one another with enormous, bulging eyes and mouthed, “Oh My God! That’s Patrick Ewing!”

Then we sat down at our table and let Mr. Ewing and his friends eat in peace, as there is no sin more gauche for a Gothamite than to pester the famous.

Carrie and I ordered our meals and a bottle of wine. We had our salads and starters, and before the mains came, I decided to use the gents. I excused myself from the table and headed for the bathroom. Meanwhile, Mr. Ewing needed to use the jakes as well and started for the lane at the same time. I had him beat, but a waiter set a totally illegal screen (uncalled), and he beat me to the rack.

As noted, this was a small and elegant restaurant, and its men’s room was a one-seater, so I patiently waited outside the door for Patrick to finish. After a few moments, the door opened, and out he came.

I must admit, I was awestruck. I’m 6 feet tall, so only about 8 percent of the population stands above me. Mind you, I’d met plenty of taller men and women in my life, but I had never needed to actually crane my neck to say hello, and now I was face to sternum with the largest human being I’d ever seen.

He was simply enormous.

I had to back up to let him pass, and as I did, I stared up toward the top of what seemed very much like an animate skyscraper and said the only thing that came to mind: “Wassup?”

To which Mr. Ewing replied, kindly, “Not much,” then walked back to meet his friends, and I stepped into the john.

I took a leak, washed my hands, and headed back to the table, still astounded by the sheer size of this magnificent human being. I suppose I had the same look on my face that people have when they’ve witnessed something wholly unexpected, even seemingly impossible, and yet undeniably real. My brow was slightly furrowed, my mouth agape, and I was shaking my head softly side to side in an attempt to rationalize what I’d just seen—the enormity of this man. It wasn’t just that he was a full foot taller than me; he was at least twice as broad, with shoulders that filled the doorframe and a head that needed to duck underneath.

Even now, decades later, when I remember the moment, I can feel what it was like to be near someone that famous, that talented, that powerful, and that impossibly large. It was almost literally incredible.

My mind still boggles.

When I pulled out my chair and sat down, I didn’t really know what to say, so I said what I believe ANYONE would say in that circumstance. I blankly stared across the table and into my lover’s eyes and said, “Jesus Christ, Carrie. He’s HUGE!”

To which she responded, a little too quickly, “You LOOKED???”

I sputtered for a few seconds, trying to explain that I meant his BODY, not his . . . but then we both just started to laugh, and I said, “I didn’t actually get the chance, but . . . well . . . one must imagine.”

And she, bless her heart, daintily dabbed at some salad dressing on her lips and said, “Yes, darling. One must.”

And that’s my story about Patrick Ewing.

I have no real reason to share it now after 30 years, other than the fact that the Knicks are once again in the news, the absolute toast of the town, and just a few minutes ago I saw a video clip of Patrick cheering and celebrating his ass off when his old team took the NBA Championship from the San Antonio Spurs, and I thought my little anecdote might add to the joy.

“Yes, darling. One must.”

Love, championships, and fine dining to you all.