I was very sad to learn of the permanent closing of SoHo drinking establishment Lucky Strike, this morning. A Grand Street fixture for 31 years, this lovely, unpretentious bar could not survive the financial hardships imposed by the Trump pandemic.
I first started going to Lucky Strike in the early ‘90s when I was working as a gallery-sitter on nearby Mercer Street. It was Lucky Strike wherein I first repaired with the lovely lady who’d become my wife, after she suggested we leave the Wooster Street party we were at to “get more beer” (I naively thought she meant going to a deli). And it was within Lucky Strike — fittingly named — that we first kissed.
I gravely fear this place will not be the last favorite haunt to meet this cruel fate.
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