Warren Mitofsky's Memorial Service
Words From Ada Ciniglio's

I must admit that when I read in the New York Times that Warren had been born in the Bronx, it startled me. For in my recollection, he always came from Monticello, where I was born and where I graduated from high school the year after he did. To me, Warren was always a native of the “mountains”—the Catskill mountains, that is. His father was the salad chef at the Concord Hotel, that pinnacle of gastronomy and excess, where both the food and the golf courses were over the top. He was rightly proud of his father’s “invention”—pickled lox in sour cream--and all his life Warren loved those wonders of the Jewish menu —whitefish salad, herring, sour pickles—and he continued to love them, even when salt became the enemy. He also had a sweet tooth and a marauding eye. For several years we shared an office and a kitchen at One East 53rd Street. He always could be counted on to stop by to sample the leavings of any of our parties, but imagine our surprise one day when we discovered a missing slice in an otherwise untouched birthday cake that we were planning for a celebration.

He was an early achiever--an eagle scout and my brother Danny’s cubscoutmaster. When he graduated in 1952, the Monti, our high school yearbook, also revealed that Warren was a member of the Future Business Leaders of America, a member of the track team, ran cross country, wrote for the school newspaper and was “Best Dressed” in his class. Frankly, I don’t remember him as a sharp dresser in high school, but he certainly had a weakness for a good sweater later in his life.

His high school nickname was “Nurmi,” though I rather doubt that he aspired to be an Olympic runner. However, in 1950, he was part of a team that won the DUSO (Dutchess, Ulster, Sullivan and Orange county) and state championships. In those days, the high school glamour sport was basketball and though I remember Warren on the bench, I can’t recall that as a cheerleader I ever chanted “Warren Mitofsky, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, nobody can.” But the coach, Bill Somerville, had a soft spot for Warren and he clearly wanted him to succeed. When the college prospect wasn’t very promising, it was Somerville who personally took him up to Union and saw to it that he was accepted. Warren was always grateful for that break. It gave him great pleasure throughout his life to give young people their first break.

That 1952 yearbook also yielded another gem. Every graduating senior was captured in a quote and Warren’s was: “Frankness is a natural quality.” Those of us who know him well are in agreement about his gift of frankness. In the 1951 yearbook, the year before he graduated, on that winning Cross Country page he wrote to me: “I hope you make less noise next year in Geometry when I take a test than this year.” I can tell you that he took that tone with me often. He was my surrogate brother—the one who always knows best, who gives you a hard time but you still go back for more because you know that at least partially, it’s done out of love.

I’ll miss our traditional New Years dinners in Sag Harbor with Mia and Paul, and Warren bossing me in my own kitchen.

I’ll miss his calling me Adie so affectionately and then offering some renewed criticism of my latest yard sale treasure.

I’ll miss my bets with Mia about which of our husbands would be asleep first in the theater—Warren or Paul.

I’ll miss having someone to call when I need an opinion about my latest job crisis.