Flaming Pablum

Chowing Down in Chinatown

Chinatown. Invoke its name, and your head is immediately filled with images of winding, narrow streets bustling with activity. To stroll through its storied byways is to encounter countless sights, sounds, scents, flavors and options that are as enticing as they are intimidating. A city within a city, Chinatown makes me feel like a total tourist rube, even as a lifelong, native New Yorker.

Sure, I know a few arguably obvious spots for an evening out in Chinatown. As mentioned elsewhere here, I’ve dined on the dim sum in the magisterial expanse of Jing Fong on Elizabeth Street, I’ve sampled the fare at Wo Hop on Mott Street, although I probably only knew the latter because of the ubiquity of its dragoon-festooned t-shirt, a former sartorial staple of downtown Manhattan hipsters. I remember myself and a group of fellow dads from my kids’ elementary school having dinner at some great place on Bayard Street (name long-since forgotten), although I believe our original mission — one we failed — was to find the eatery Andy Warhol was once photographed in. I do recall repairing to a speakeasy on fabled Doyers Street called Apotheke afterwards. But these pointers and the criteria that informed them are still pretty threadbare. In terms of authoritatively knowing what Chinatown has to offer — and not solely in terms of cuisine — I am fairly clueless. As a side note, the location of the Warhol-preferred spot was later revealed here.

My wife actually hipped me to another great dim sum place, that being Dim Sum A-Go-Go on East Broadway. It may not look fancy or authentic, but its fare is amazing …. and cheap to boot. We’ve taken the kids there a couple of times, and its always a hit for all parties concerned.

But Chinatown still remains largely opaque to me, like a code I’m constantly trying to crack. While I’m more able to find my way around it these days — and not just the well-traveled strips of Bayard, Pell & Mott — it still feels fairly impenetrable.

Seeking out places like Downtown Music Gallery, a few years back, better acquainted me to the topography, however marginally. Obviously not a place to eat or drink, DMG is a hidden-beneath-the-street bunker on far-flung Monroe Street that specializes in uproariously esoteric music. Said music was leant even further mystique by way of the long journey through the streets east of East Broadway in order to acquire it. 

Then there's Mission Chinese on the other end of East Broadway. Eating here — while amazing — always feels like cheating, being that it’s not originally a local NYC concern. But Mission Chinese -- nor Downtown Music Gallery, for that matter --- really seem to belong where they are. They are not of Chinatown. I’ve always wanted to discover a great, authentic, long-established restaurant in Chinatown, but didn’t even begin to credibly know how to find it.

Stumped by the ever-perplexing quandary of what to get me for Christmas (any bits of music I want I usually go out and get myself, and I don't really want/need much else), the wife discovered a great company called Foods of New York, a group that's been conducting culinary tours of various likely neighborhoods for two decades. Now, before you protest, let me stop you right there --- YES, the idea of a food-tour of Chinatown sounds like an UPROARIOUSLY touristy thing to do, and if it's one thing New Yorkers absolutely loathe -- be they native or naturalized -- it's doing anything that may be construed as touristy. I get it. But, as I mentioned a few graphs up, I will be the very first person to concede that in terms of navigating the intricacies of Chinatown, I might as well be from friggin' Ohio. I needed help. Foods of New York were offering it. What's not to like?

Well, without giving too much away, Peg and I took the tour quite recently and it was a total revelation. For a start, our tour guide Raheem, who has being doing this sort of thing since 2007, could not have been cooler, more enthusiastic or more informed. Not only was he entirely versed the finer points of the cuisine that we were sampling from several different locations on the map, but his knack for bits of compelling historical trivia was striking. I feel somewhat remiss, I am sad to say, for having passed on a bit of incorrect trivia onto him, wrongly asserting that the album cover of the Ramones' Halfway to Sanity was shot in a doorway adjacent to one of the restaurants we visited, that being Peking Duck House on Mott Street. Turns out the cover shot of Halfway was actually taken a few hundred steps to the southeast. Ah well.  

In any case, during the three or four hours of the tour, we tasted some amazing food, learned of at least three or four absolutely must-visit-again spots and got a few great pointers for new places to knock back a few drinks. What can I say, I really, really enjoyed it and highly recommend it. 

Find them here. Tell them Flaming Pablum sent you. 

Never Say Never Again: The Return of The New York Never List

Inexplicably loyal readers might remember a certain entry here from the teeth-gnashing days of 2015 (I was unemployed for most of that year, y’see, which might explain the preponderance of lengthy posts) wherein I windily cited with typically laborious aplomb both all the notable, “quintessentially” New York City things I’ve done/tried/seen/visited and a tidy list of ten such things that — despite being an oft-cited native of these Manhattan streets — I had never done, for whatever reason.

There wasn’t necessarily an overarching point to the whole endeavor. I think it spoke to both the perception of what constitutes the quintessence of something and also the lazy inclination to take certain things for granted. I mean, if you literally live just down the street from something, you might not feel the same sense of urgency to go check it out as someone who is only visiting. Convenient proximity is the enemy of exotica.

Anyway, I don’t know that it’s necessarily worth noting, as they say, but since I first posted that entry back in 2015, I have actually stepped inside One Fifth Avenue (albeit, only its dark, stately lobby), and I did finally make it to The Top of the Rock only a month after I’d claimed I’d never been, and proceeded to replicate a fabled Bob Gruen portrait of Joe Strummer with my son Oliver.

In any case, for no readily apparent reason, I thought I’d throw another few “nevers” into the mix and see what happens. Herewith a few more arguably “quintessential” New York City activities I’ve never bothered doing.

1. I’ve never ridden a CitiBike
No accident, this. I grew up riding my bike all over the city, and even then -- as I was blithely courting all sorts of stupid peril -- I knew my place in the great food chain of the Manhattan street. In the same way you don’t provoke Great White sharks while snorkeling in the Florida Keys, you did your best to remember that buses, delivery trucks, cars and taxis basically don’t give a rolling rat fuck about your wellbeing. After seeing a few too many frankly harrowing bike accidents, I forsook further bicycle-riding in New York City once my children were born. Then the bike lanes and the CitiBikes appeared, and suddenly the streets were filled with entitled bicycle dilettantes who selectively disregard certain traffic rules while ferociously adhering to the ones that best serve their own interests. I can tolerate that sort of brazen hypocrisy from seasoned cyclists and/or bike messengers (i.e. people whose lives and/or occupations are pronouncedly interwoven with that particular mode of transport), but not from the CitiBikers. If you’re pedaling one of those clunky warhorses around, you’re obviously not very serious about it. New York City is never going to become Amsterdam. That’s not a preference, that’s just a fact.

2. I have never been to the 9/11 Museum
While I have indeed passed through the site, and searched around the perimeter of the fountains for the name of my fallen friend from high school who died in the north tower that morning, I am routinely driven out by the hordes of selfie-stick-wielding tourists who feel comfortable posing and smiling in what is ostensibly designed as a place for reflective solemnity. I have never waited on line for – much less set foot in – the adjacent museum. While it may sound melodramatic and hyperbolic, the events of that day still seem too fresh to require a museum.

3. I have never been to the top of WTC 1
… which I will never refer to as the “Freedom Tower.” I harbor absolutely zero desire to ever visit the top of that.

4. I have never attended an event at the Barclays Center in Brooklyn
This one is somewhat surprising, as the venue in question has played host to numerous concerts that would have otherwise engaged my interests. My beloved Killing Joke are even slated to play there next month, although they’re opening for Tool. I’m not about to spend upwards of three figures to watch my favorite band of all time deliver an opening-band set (forty minutes at most?) to an arena full of disinterested Tool fans.

5. I have never visited the Hudson Yards’ Vessel
…and never will, if I have any say in the matter.

6. I have never taken an open-door helicopter tour over Manhattan
This trend was becoming kind of a big thing, for a little while, until one plunged into the East River, a year or so ago, killing three of its passengers in a horrible manner. I love a good photo-op of New York City, but I’ll pass on this option, thanks.

7. I have never been to the new Whitney Museum at the base of the High Line
I grew up roaming around the old Whitney on the Upper East Side (now the Met Breur). In the same way I never went to the new Hog Pig or the new Max Fish, I am sort of inclined leave the old Whitney in my head as I remember it. I mean, I’m not averse to checking out the new one, but it’s not my first priority.

8. I have never attended a show at the Apollo Theater in Harlem
Nine times out of ten, the bands I'm clamoring to see aren't likely to be playing at this storied venue, although Metallica did play there a little while back, if memory serves. I would love to go check it out, but -- as yet -- have not. 

The rest of these, meanwhile, are all food related...

9. I have never shopped at Zabar's on the Upper West Side
Yes, I know ... shock, horror, outrage. Sorry, I assume it must be some kind of fabulous, but being that I've never lived on the Upper West Side, it's just never struck me as a priority. I've been to Sahadi's in Brooklyn and Kalustyan's in Little India, if that makes you feel any better, but never Zabar's. 

10. I've never eaten at a Momofuku
I believe there are Momofukus in other cities as well, but no ... I've never partaken of their pork buns.

10. I've never sampled the soul food at Sylvia's in Harlem
In my defense, I'd cite that I did go to The Pink Tea Cup in the West Village for soul food on a few occasions, but have never, as yet, made it to Sylvia's. 

11. I've never bought anything at Russ & Daughters on the Lower East Side
If I'm being honest, I'm not really a whitefish/pickled herring/chopped liver/baked salmon kinda guy. I like that it's still there and that it's always crowded, but I just don't think I'm cut out to be a member of its culinary demographic. Given this information, it shouldn't be surprising that I've never shopped at Barney Greengrass on the Upper West Side either. That just means more sturgeon for you! 

12. I've never stood on line for a cronut at the Dominique Ansel Bakery
....and friggin' neither should you. 

 

Six New York City Diners in 1974

Goodbye to Manitoba's

While rumors of its impending demise have been circulating since as far back as 2007, I’m sad to relay, in case you hadn’t heard, that Manitoba’s at 99 Avenue B has closed for good. That's me, above, in the rear of same circa 2011. 

I’ve written about both the celebrated bar and the man behind it -– erstwhile Dictators frontman and NYC Punk Rock luminary Richard Blum, more commonly known as Handsome Dick Manitoba -– several times here. Having established himself as a polarizing figure, of sorts, since his early days with the nascent Dictators, it was sort of expected that Richard could be a gruff and/or argumentative presence not unlike, say, the late Bleecker Bob. In my very limited personal experience with the man, however, I have to say that Richard was always an approachable and affable guy -– so long as you didn’t veer too deeply into any political discussions.

In terms of the bar, while it’s always courted a bit of conflict (first from upstairs neighbors who’d moved in unaware that they’d be residing over a boisterous local hang-out), it has more recently had a much harder time of it in the wake of some of Richard’s legal troubles stemming from truly unfortunate allegations of spousal assault, a crime he was arrested for in 2018. From that point on, things became difficult for both the man and the establishment that bore his moniker.

Over the years, bars like Manitoba’s have become scarcer in the East Village. As the neighborhood’s overall sensibility has been somewhat forcibly shifted from a historic bohemian enclave to, well, a comparatively soulless hotbed of avaricious real estate opportunity and exclusive nightlife destination, the particular aesthetic bars like Manitoba’s catered to isn’t quite enough to compete in the 2019 iteration of the environs (despite the best, heroic efforts of Jesse Malin). Put simply, the punkers are being largely displaced by the brunchers.

I’d been hearing the recent rumors of Manitoba’s troubles for a few days, but my comrade EV Grieve finally confirmed it yesterday. Read the official details here.

While my nights out in the East Village took a fairly sharp downturn once I started having kids, I was always thankful that places like Manitoba’s were still going, especially as similarly inclined establishments had been vanishing left, right and center (personally, I think I miss the Lakeside Lounge the most). Now, hot on the heels of the recently shuttered Sidewalk Café, Manitoba’s joins the ranks of former places with history, identity and inimitable character to have a beer, hang out, meet with friends, hear great music and share stories.

I will miss it greatly.

Pour one out. This, meanwhile, was the Dictators...

The Revenge of the Flaming Pablum Grub Guide

About four years ago, I posted an audacious little entry here rather grandiosely called The Flaming Pablum Grub Guide. Despite that promising title, all it really amounted to was a tidy list of six restaurants I happened, at the time, to like. Hardly a “guide” of any credible semblance.

At the tail end of that post, I appended the line “more to come,” as if to suggest that my culinary recommendations were swiftly to become a regular fixture on this blog, rubbing shoulders with lamentations about closed record shops, meaningless asides about old post-punk singles, slavishly overwritten eulogies to recently deceased musicians of a certain stripe and/or complaints about our current president. Had I any idea, in 2015, who the latter was going to turn out to be, I may have been too nauseous to conceive of writing anything about food. But, I digress.

Indeed, despite the “more to come” warning, apart from a couple of fleeting mentions of the closings of various eateries, I didn’t post many entries that were strictly meal-related. By and large, writing about food just isn’t my métier, so to speak.

This all said, in the last couple of months, some specifically favorite restaurants of mine have simply just up and ceased to exist. The first to go, of these, was my family’s preferred Chinese restaurant (also mentioned in my previous Grub Guide), that being the excellent Lychee House on East 55th between Lexington and Third Avenues. I have absolutely zero idea why it shut its doors, but it’s evidently gone for good. For this cruel affront, I question the existence of a benevolent deity.

More recently, after yet another frankly mediocre order from Jin on Third Avenue between 10th and 11th, the teenaged Pablumites and I decided to revert to our old trusty standby, Irving Place’s Hunan Cottage (or, as my kids used to call it, Hunan College). While never the stuff of greatness, the Cottage/College (or Huniversity, as I would sometimes call it) got several key dishes right, notably their fried pork dumplings. Imagine our collective potty-mouthed incredulousness, then, upon learning that -– like Lychee House way uptown -– Hunan Cottage had mysteriously closed up shop. And now, for that matter, shitty Jin has a "For Rent" sign in its window.  

What was this? The work of fucking Thanos? Why are all our favorite spots vanishing?

Way back in 2007, I prefaced my first lengthy post about since-closed record shops with a rumination about the shuttering of restaurants. Steeped in melancholy, it read as follows:

For some reason, I always find the closing of a restaurant to be particularly heartbreaking (more so than, say, the closing of a shoe store or cell phone emporium). Restaurants require -- to misappropriate a line from Winston Churchill -- blood, sweat and tears. They demand someone with heart, vision and a desire to not only meet a need but excel beyond that need (nobody strives to open a merely adequate restaurant). And there's something about the offering of food that makes it extra personal. Someone carefully planned the menu and imagined the fare and took pains to present it in a palatable way. When those endeavors collapse, I just find it kinda tragic. There's a restaurant down West 10th street, for example, that just closed. I walked by it earlier this week with my wife. Only a couple of short months ago, we'd dined there with friends, celebrating the christening of my son. The food wasn't exceptionally bad, but it wasn't much to sing about either. Still, we ate and laughed and had many drinks and had a splendid time within its walls. It's now just an empty room that someone's dream once briefly occupied.

As histrionic as that sounds, I continue to feel that way when a beloved eatery goes out of business.

With that all in mind, I decided to update my flimsily executed Grub Guide and imbue it with more specifics. Those with an only passively keen eye for detail might notice I’ve qualified these with the descriptor “Favorite” as opposed to “Best.” No votes were tallied. I am not claiming this to be in any way authoritative. These are only my personal preferences. Just because I’m partial to the way one restaurant prepares a certain dish doesn’t mean I think that particular iteration of said dish is its supreme realization. As the saying goes, results may vary. You may not agree with my choices. You’re free to make your own Grub Guide.

In the interest of being comprehensive, I’ve broken this up into categories. Invariably, I will leave something out. This is not meant as a slight to whichever cuisine I’ve omitted. It only means I’ve forgotten to include a selection representing that particular culinary discipline. I am human.

So, let’s get to it, shall we?

Favorite Mexican 

Mariachi’s
156 Chambers Street.

The original Mariachi’s was a block or so to the east on West Broadway (replete with a touching outdoor mural of its former neighbors, the Twin Towers). When its block was slated to be razed to accommodate a new condo, Mariachi’s moved to its more recent perch on Chambers Street between West B’way and Greenwich. It’s not that its fare is the best of its kind (I’m sure friends from the Southwest would balk at even the mere suggestion), but it’s consistently solid, hearty food. I frequently go for the quesadillas and am never not happy and/or sated by the results. Unfussy, quick, cheap and satisfying.

Honorable Mention: The fish tacos at Dorado on 28 East 12th Street are mighty fine, although not as outstanding as the fish tacos at El Vez (259 Vesey), which are fucking muy bien. My other local Mexican, El Cantinero (86 University Place), is also always respectable. They also have a nice outdoor deck in the warmer months, and a somewhat hilarious Mexican disco on the second floor, if you’re ever in that particular mood.

Favorite Chinese 

Mission Chinese Food
171 East Broadway

As weepily explained in the preamble to this post, both my very favorite Chinese restaurant and my local standby Chinese restaurant have all just shuttered, which pisses me right off. There are, of course, hundreds -- if not thousands -- of great Chinese eateries scattered across Manhattan alone, but I’ve now lost my go-to’s. As such, I’m citing the somewhat insufferably trendy Mission Chinese Restaurant on way-the-Hell-near-nothing East Broadway. If you can tolerate the hipster aesthetic/cache, the food is indeed damn good. Even comparatively unadventurous dishes like Beef with Broccoli blew a new part in my hair. That said, it’s way remote, and I don’t believe they deliver.

Favorite Sushi 

Japonica
90 University Place

This is actually the same place I cited last time around, but hey ... it's a fave. In all honesty, my sushi palette isn't so adventurous or sophisticated enough to know exceptional sushi from simply good sushi, but I'm also prone to sticking fairly close to familiar fare (no blowfish sashimi for me, thanks). Japonica's been our neighborhood go-to for eons. I'd love it if they were a little bit cheaper, but I'm happy to support the place. Moreover, sushi that is too cheap is best avoided. 

Honorable mention: I do like the bento box lunch specials at Tokyo Bay (183 Duane Street --  below) in TriBeCa. 

Favorite Korean 

Dons Bogam
17 East 32nd St

What I credibly know about Korean cuisine couldn't cover one side of a piece of loose leaf. That said, I know good Korean BBQ when I have it, and this is the place to get it. It's crowded (like everything on East 32nd Street), but when you do manage to sit down, they do all the work for you. I've been to too many Korean BBQ joints that let you -- the idiotic patron -- cook the meat yourself, and while that's fun and all, it can frequently come with digestive ramifications. That's not the case at Dons Bogam. It's all good stuff, but I wish the portion sizes were bigger. 

Honorable mention: Nam Pang on East 12th off University is not bad at all for Korean sandwiches/finger food. 

Favorite Cuban 

Sophie's Cuban Cuisine
76 Fulton Street

Much like Korean food, what I know about Cuban cuisine isn't much. I was brought to Sophie's by two colleagues, and while it assuredly doesn't look like much, the food is delicious. I've only had the sandwiches, but if they're anything to go by, the rest of their fare is well worth checking out. 

Favorite Indian 

Haveli Banjara
100 Second Avenue

This is a tenuous one. Time was when I had several favorite Indian restaurants. This was back when East 6th Street was frequently rumored to house one huge, block-long Indian kitchen that fed the numerous eateries that lined its sidewalks. Back then, my criteria for patronizing an Indian establishment were iffy. If they boasted an uproariously garish amount of fire-code-thwarting Christmas lights? That was a plus. If they'd pinned a photograph of Iron Maiden to their front window (as if to suggest that the lads in question had dined there)? I was in. If a sitar player sat in their window with a Casio keyboard with a rubber band wrapped around a single key (y'know...to provide the right drone)? That meant it was good enough for me. 

Later on, the wife and I became besotted with a Nouvelle Indian restaurant on University Place called Cafe Spice. We were regulars there to the extent that we tried to set up their manager, the dashing and slightly mysterious Sandeep, with a friend of ours. Sadly, that endeavor never got off the ground, although we did get a lot of free naan and tallboys of Taj Mahal for our efforts. 

Sadly, Cafe Spice closed, but was replaced with Jackson Diner, a Manhattan offshoot of the revered Indian restaurant of the same name over in Jackson Heights, Queens. While not quite as stylish as Cafe Spice, Jackson Diner's food was unimpeachable. Regrettably, they, too, closed up shop a few years back, and the space they once occupied is now a Vegan venture called Nix.

As such, we started patronizing Haveli, which has a long history on Second Avenue, just south of East 6th. More recently, though, we believe Haveli has fallen on some hard times. At one point, it gave notice that it was going to close, only to merge operations with another restaurant. In the wake of that, however, they've had some trouble, I gather. On two recent occasions, orders we placed with them via Seamless went astray. This all said, I ordered from them in the last few weeks (by phone, this time) and their Kati rolls and Butter Chicken remain excellent. 

We were enthused by the newish Babu Ji on East 13th between University Place and Fifth, for a while. The food was good, and the atmosphere was colorful. I especially enjoyed their "help yourself" beer chiller (and verily helped myself). That said, the maitre'd was uproariously rude to my wife one evening not too long back that I simply couldn't believe it. Suffice to say, we took our business elsewhere and have no plans to return. 

We recently spotted a new place on East 18th Street that looks promising, called Gupshup. It looks like it should be pretty good, but Eater gave it sort of a black eye. 

Favorite Brunch

Elephant & Castle 
68 Greenwich Street

For the past several years, "brunch" has become a dirty word in New York City. No longer a simple culinary descriptor involving Eggs Benedict and maybe a festive Bloody Mary, the term is now synonymous with hordes of monied drunks seeking to extend their Saturday-night imbibing into a next-day Wake & Bake. Across town, various restaurants accommodate this weekly variant of beardless Santa-Connery by offering "bottomless brunches" (meaning, I imagine, that the booze keeps flowing, not that anyone's going sans pants, although that does seem to happen, too). The once-revered tranquility of Sunday morning, in certain neighborhoods, has been replaced by rampant, broad-daylight douchebaggery. It's a plague. 

So, yeah, when I say brunch, I'm referring to its more conventional definition. For my money, my best brunches have all been had at Elephant & Castle, an age-old Greenwich Village mainstay that's about the size of a storage shed. Despite their spacial limitations -- charitably described as "cozy" -- Elephant & Castle make a helluva brunch. My personal favorite dish, like you care, is their purée spinach with poached eggs, melted English cheddar and potato pancakes. Simply put, it's fucking exquisite. I could eat that dish every goddamn day and never tire of it.

Their other fare is also fantastic, so seek it out, do.

Honorable Mention: Veselka on the East 9th Street and Second Avenue has long been a beloved East Village institution. Where once I'd repair to its comfy confines in the dead of night after an evening of copious beering -- it being a 24-hour establishment -- to wolf down pierogis. These days, I'm usually there with my kids ... and the pierogis are still the big attraction, for us, although their many brunch variations are all totally delicious. It does get crowded and touristy, these days. Still, it fucking rocks.

Favorite Ramen

Ramen Takumi
1 University Place

Time was when the only ramen I knew were those cheap-o bags of Nissan top ramen you'd buy in lieu of spending huge amounts of money you didn't have on food. Somewhat ironically, the ramen dishes on offer at lovely Ramen Takumi right in our neighborhood are damn tasty, but one might be hard pressed to characterize the eatery as particularly cheap. That said, their big bowls of noodle-based concoctions are always delightful, as are their gyoza appetizers. You have to rub shoulders with a lot of cloyingly youthful NYU types, but hey ... it IS University Place. 

--

Okay, that ought to be enough for now. I know what you're thinking, though: "Wait! What about favorite burger? What's your favorite steakhouse? What about Italian food? What's your preferred Middle Eastern place?"

Rest assured, these and other variations will be addressed in the next installment of the Flaming Pablum Grub Guide. 

Until then, tip your waiters and bon appetit! 

What Was on West Eighth

Over the course of this silly blog’s almost …. Jesus … 14-year existence, I’ve posted multiple entries about doings over on West 8th Street, specifically the strip between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Time was when this little patch of Greenwich Village covered a vast array of my needs and interests. From amazing record stores like It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll and the original Venus Records to mediocre ones like Revolution Records and Record Factory, there was no shortage of places to procure music. You also had Butterfly’s, should you ever be in search of just-the-right Iron Maiden or Black Flag t-shirt. Across the way was Postermat, which featured a dizzying array of crap --- poster, buttons, badges, décor – aimed squarely at teenage music jerks. There was also the suitably surreal art gallery, Psychedelic Solution and Flip, for all of your New Wavey fashion needs, the 8th Street Playhouse – which was the first place I ever saw “Repo Man” -- and the seemingly ageless Gray’s Papaya, once touted as Lou Reed’s favorite restaurant in New York City, at the end of the block. You also had the amazing video store TLA, and a massive B. Dalton Books (later Barnes & Noble) on the corner, across from Gray’s Papaya. There were also numerous places to buy shoes of every possible description.

In later years, when fortunes started to change for this once-busy byway, there were still places like Disc-O-Rama and Sleep of Reason Comics, but somewhat gradually, West 8th Street had less and less to offer me.

All of the concerns listed above, of course, are long, long gone here in 2019.

More recently, my kids became very fond of The Burger Joint (which left us about two years back), while I enjoy both the odd visit to endeavors like the 8th Street Wine Cellar, Arts & Crafts Beer Parlor and nouvelle-Italian eatery, Aunt Jake’s. My wife quite enjoys cocktails at the Marlton Hotel, every now and then, but I wouldn’t call that a particular favorite of mine.

In any case, blah blah blah… Who cares what I like, right? Fine. Regardless, as happened on University Place, and as is happening on the other side of town at St. Marks Place, West Eight Street is about to be blighted with its own enormous new luxury tower, slated to be plonked right down on the southeast corner of Eighth & MacDougal, finally putting to rest speculation of why that particular row of storefronts has been vacant for so long.

Whatever your memories of West Eighth Street are, get ready for this formerly signature byway of olde Greenwich Village to (further) decimated. Incidentally, the lovingly rendered painting of the intersection of MacDougal and West Eighth above comes courtesy of the great Ephemeral New York blog, and was painted by Alfred S. Mira in 1942. Below, meanwhile, as covered here a few times before, is Lowell Bodger's walk down West Eighth Street from the early 1970s.

Back to the P&G

I spotted the below photo on the excellent Tumblr, NYC Nostalgia (refreshingly unencumbered with any blogger’s guilt about being unabashedly nostalgic, or “pasturbatory” as Kembra Pfahler of the Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black might say), and it put the hook in me.

This is, of course, as shot of the ol’ P&G Bar & Grill, which formerly stood on the northeast corner of West 73rd and Amsterdam Avenue. I’ve mentioned it a few times, notably here, here and here, but it was an excellent spot.

This photo was taken in 1980. I haven't been in that neck of the woods in an age but today, I gather, it’s a Blue Bottle Coffee franchise.

After Hours AOC

Despite appearances to the contrary, this post is not really about AOC (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez), but — since I just invoked her — I might as well concede that I think she’s pretty great. Sure, she’s young and probably still has a lot to learn about the office she now holds, but anyone who is capable of speaking truth to power with her level of conviction — to say nothing about causing so much angst and indigestion among key figures on the Right — is a-okay with me. You, of course, may beg to differ. That’s all.

In any case, a friend of mine recently posted the above photo on Facebook of AOC, posing with her signature, unblinking intensity on a weathered New York City stoop, her impeccably sharp, green ensemble creating a striking dichotomy with her otherwise rough-hewn surroundings. At first glance, I found it strangely familiar, but then I realized … there are doubtlessly thousands of stoops just like the one she’s depicted sitting on.

Then I thought back to an evening several weeks back. I was going to meet some out-of-towner friends who now live on the other side of the globe. They were briefly back in the city for a wedding, so we decided to meet up an at age-old favorite haunt, the Ear Inn on the westerly edges of Spring Street.

I’ve mentioned the Ear a few times here. It passively vies for the title “Oldest Bar in New York City” in meaningless competition with joints like Pete’s Tavern and McSorley’s, although — to my mind — it’s way better than either of those over-hyped establishments. Whether it’s genuinely the oldest bar in New York means nothing to me. It’s just a great place to meet friends and have a few beers. Long may it stay that way.

In any case, because I’m deeply neurotic and punctual to a fault, I arrived in the neighborhood ahead of schedule, which left me plenty of time to roam around the surrounding environs before assuming my place at the bar.

Time was when part of the Ear’s charm was that it was in such a remote, desolate backwater of a neighborhood. Apart from a deli or two, a couple of fellow bars (notably McGovern’s and the Emerald Inn) and, later, rock club Don Hill’s, there was practically nothing. The streets were empty and quiet. It’s for this reason that Martin Scorsese chose this patch of SoHo for many of the locations in “After Hours,” because it exuded such an eerily quiet, empty ambiance.

Suffice to say, this is no longer the case in 2019. These days, the westerly edges of Spring Street are a densely populated Emerald City of exclusive condos and monied luxury. Somehow, the Ear Inn has managed to hold on, but the days of it being a remote outpost are decidedly over.

This all said, there are still whispery elements of the neighborhood’s old vibe, if you look hard enough for them. As I circumnavigated the area on foot, I snapped a few pictures, trying to capture that rarified essence of place.

Circling the block on Renwick Street, just a street to the east of the Ear Inn, I came upon a certain stoop at the tail end of the building that formerly housed the Emerald Inn, the bar Scorsese re-cast as the Terminal Bar for “After Hours” (which I wrote about back here). I was struck by how grim and forbidding the stoop in question looked, so, I took a picture.

Sure enough, it’s the same stoop AOC was photographed on. Now, what was she doing there?

Hell if I know.

Goodbye to the Carriage House

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Alas, today is the final day to secure yourself a pint of Guinness at the Carriage House — or Old Carriage Inn, depending on which sign you prefer -- in Park Slope, which closes today after 35 years.

You may well indeed be wondering why an insufferable, dyed-in-the-wool Manhattan snob like myself would care about a Park Slope bar. It’s a fair question, but suffice to say, my wife’s family owns a brownstone in that `hood, so on many an occasion, my brothers-in-law and I would repair to the endearingly dark, dank and slightly decrepit confines of the Carriage House while our wives held court at home. Not being a sports fan in the slightest, I would devote most of my attention to the jukebox, while my brothers-in-law would shout obscenities at basketball and football players on the television screens. I do believe I was admonished for putting “Bringin' On the Heartbreak” by Def Leppard on one too many times (pickings were slim, you see). It was that type of place.

In all honesty, the boys and I did log a fair amount of hours in the Carriage House over the last couple of decades, usually around Christmas. I can remember many a intense familial discussion against that bar. We ducked in yesterday to say goodbye to the place and have a final few pints. Unsurprisingly, it was kind of depressing.

I saw the below tagged on the back wall and couldn’t resist a picture. That said, there’s a bit of irony to it. The hipsters don’t go to Park Slope, least of all to a dive like the Carriage House. If any demographic is to blame, it’s the stroller-pushing yuppies that drove the rents up, not Pabst-swigging LCD fans with comedy beards.

Pour one out for the Carriage House.

Down Cortlandt Alley ... By Horse

As laboriously extolled in this post from 2016, I’ve always been a huge fan of Cortlandt Alley, that dark, thin canyon stemming south into TriBeCa off Canal Street. I love its slightly forbidding aura, its back history as the narrow strand of pavement that once led to the Mudd Club, a storied venue I was never old enough to attend. I love its periodic bursts of street art, its weathered exteriors and rough-hewn, industrial trappings leftover from bygone eras. In every season, Cortlandt Alley takes on a new vibe. I never find it boring or unpleasant to walk down, even if I’m hopscotching over random dollops of (human?) excrement, dead rats and pigeons flattened the night before by delivery trucks, or evading the suspicious eyes of furtive weed-smokers in its darker recesses.

And I walk down it a lot. After I drop my son off at school in the Gramercy neighborhood, I hop on a downtown 6 train and get off at Canal to walk the rest of the way to my office at the bottom of Manhattan, taking a hard left down Cortlandt Alley on each and every one of those commutes. I’m now so familiar with that particular strip that I practically notice each and every change to its topography on a daily basis.

As was seemingly inevitable, however, there’s been a recent uptick in renovation and refurbishment in the Alley (as I mentioned just last summer). Scaffolding appears and disappears with some regularity, as certain addresses endeavor to spruce themselves up. While a wholesale facelift of the stretch seems unlikely, certain patches of it are very definitely changing. At its southernmost segment between White & Franklin Streets, a pricey-but-seemingly-dormant condo vainly tries to keep up appearances. But the real big activity is happening on the portion between White and Walker Streets. A few months back, a series of light fixtures were installed along its easterly wall, decimating a bit of this byway’s signature gloom. Beyond that, there was clearly something brewing in that building. Sure enough, just last week, some signage went up. Evidently, Cortlandt Alley is now home to a new venture called the Au Cheval Diner.

Here’s how the official website describes it…

An eclectic diner hidden down Cortlandt Alley with a passion for eggs, Au Cheval elevates traditional diner fare. Guests can indulge in dishes ranging from chopped chicken liver and roasted bone marrow, to traditional sandwiches, egg-focused entrees, and griddled cheeseburgers. The bar program showcases strong, classic cocktails including the Negroni, Vieux Bonal, and Hemingway Punch. A robust draught beer list offers a wide range of neighborhood, domestic, and international selections. The dimly lit restaurant, pulsating with an eclectic and resonant soundtrack, features leather booths, reclaimed wood paneling and a zinc bar that wraps around the open kitchen.

If my high school French still serves me well, Au Cheval means “by horse” …. a particular species of mammal that very rarely graces Cortlandt Alley, these days. While I am wary of Cortlandt Alley becoming further gentrified, it’s a bit late to lament the damage of that particular tsunami in 2019. I do, at least, appreciate Au Cheval’s relative discretion. Yeah, they’ve brought a bit of polish to the pathway, but we’ll see where it goes. I’d be curious to hear what constitutes their “eclectic and resonant soundtrack.” I want to believe they’d play geographically-appropriate stuff like DNA, The Lounge Lizards, Teenage Jesus, The Cramps and the like, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Still, I might try to check it out. Watch this space.

Here's a bit of DNA playing just down the way from Au Cheval's front door. Today, this space is someone's doubtlessly well-appointed, private and expensive apartment.