The Model Mother

“Oh! Look at the cute baby,” coos Rose Marie Prager as a woman, infant strapped to her back, walks by. “See the little sunglasses she’s wearing!” Rose Marie’s comment isn’t an idle one. The 81-year-old mother of nine and grandmother of 11 likes, no, let’s make that LOVES, children. And she’s at her happiest when she has a full house. “I always like being with little kids,” she says. “They’re so much more interesting than…

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The Man About Town

Like a silver bullet, the Harley Fat Boy, a big, bad bomber of a bike, streaks up to the Pomme Cafe. Demetrius Partridge, its easy-going rider, cuts the motor, unzips his leather jacket and confidently strides inside like a movie star. Demetrius — let’s call him Demey as his friends do — picks a table in the back. This place is new, and Demey, a gourmand, is eager to try it out. As he sits down, the guy at the next table says, “Hey, Demey, long time no see.” After they…

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The Waiter in the Wings

Crooning “Sta Dosa Ola,” Antonis Armeftis, true to the title of the Greek pop tune, gives his customers everything — a menu and an invitation to his next show. His service with a smile and a serenade turns more than a few heads at Michael’s Restaurant. “You have a beautiful voice!” a woman of a certain age gushes as he hits the chorus of “I Gave You Everything.” “Is the entertainment free?” Antonis gives her a Broadway-wide grin and a wink.…

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The Continuous Counterman

As long as anyone can remember, there’s been a deli at the southwest corner of Ditmars Boulevard and Crescent Street. Owners and names have come and gone, but in the last decade, there’s been one constant at the convenience store that sells everything from condoms and kitty litter to snacks and smokes. It’s Amaro Azeredo, the flamboyant fellow with the amorous accent and the long, raven-black Medusa locks who commands the counter of the Ditmars Deli like a Fortune 500 CEO. Amaro…

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The Hot Chicks in the Cool Band

OK, you guys, where’s all the music? You’re in a rock band, but there’s no radio, no record player, no iPod, no computer pounding out mood music. There’s an acoustic guitar in the corner that looks as though it hasn’t licked a lyric since Dylan, and there’s a vintage Talking Heads record album cover tacked up on the wall like an old master. So what’s this sounds of silence thing all about anyway? Right now, it’s about conversation. Jamie Stellini and…

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