'Join us at the opera', we said, quite smugly, to a friend visiting from out of town. 'We've got great seats and we know the perfect place for a late dinner after the performance'.
We've enjoyed probably seven or eight productions at the LA Opera in the past couple of years, and we think we've got it down to a fine art. After a couple of stressful trips, battling rush hour and rushing through labyrinthine parking structures to make our seats in time, we have figured out the best exit off the 110, the best way to cut through Downtown LA during rush hour and the optimum parking spot. Not just the best lot, but the best corner of that lot so that we minimize walking (and rushing). Now we know, too, which seats are nearest the best exits for the loo. So we think we've pretty much nailed the whole opera experience.
After the show we always go to Kendall's. It's right underneath the opera house, and popular with the LA Opera company. We like the pile of instruments that stack up by the door, and the musicians in varying degrees of black tie. But we have at times had to take a table in the section far away from the bar, which doesn't have the same vibe. So now we leave the opera rather promptly, in order to secure the best seats at the bar.
Yes, I'm afraid we've become those annoying people who leave before the applause ends. We do stay for the first round of bows, of course. But we are out of our seats and down the stairs while the performers are still on the stage. I used to think it was bad form, but it's worth it for those great bar seats. For example, last week we sat next to Morris Robinson, having just seen him belting it out as Zaccaria in Nabucco.
That was the same night that we got our comeuppance. It turns out it is not always smart to leave before the final curtain. Sometimes we are too clever for our own good. And that annoying LA desire to beat the traffic should sometimes be resisted.
It transpires that at the end of the performance, the entire house join in to sing the fabulous, rousing 'Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves'. It is my absolutely favorite piece from any opera (I know, not that surprising, it's a crowd pleaser). I love to sing, especially with other people - blame it on my choir girl days. An entire opera house full of people singing my favorite piece - the thought of it almost brings to me tears. And while all that was going on, we and our poor trusting house guest were congratulating ourselves for having placed our cocktail and supper order in good time. Ugh! We've become the worst kind of Los Angeleno.
I'd like to say I've learned my lesson. But I suspect we'll still try to head out before the final curtain. After all, most performances don't involve such a bonus. Which of course makes it all the more once-in-a-lifetime, and all the more galling. As Thoreau has it 'to regret deeply is to live afresh'. So we'll probably enjoy that perfect spot at the bar even more, at least.
Showing posts with label bars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bars. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Two drinkers, off to see the world
Followers of this blog will be familiar with my love of a good drink. I do appreciate a quality, hard liquor beverage, perfectly served. Indeed, TLOML and I built our relationship on sharing such pleasures.
So those who know of Saltburn's Quaker past might wonder how we are faring - living in a town which didn't have any pubs at all for over a hundred years. Saltburn in the 1800s had just an old smugglers inn - The Ship - at the bottom of the cliffs. Thanks to the Quaker town planners, the town proper at the top of the cliffs was a model of sobriety. Only the hotels and restaurants could serve alchohol. My dad remembers enjoying a pint at the Queens Hotel while my oldest sister was being born in the nearby maternity hospital. (Those were the halcyon days for expectant dads. TLOML barely had time to pee, never mind go for a pint, when I was in labour).
Times have changed, thank goodness. The Queens is no longer a hotel but its bar remains. The other hotel bar, the Alexandra Vaults, is still running as a pub despite the fact the hotel is now a block of flats. It's known locally as the Back Alex as it's, um, round the back of the Alexandra Hotel.
Those former hotel bars look rather different to the hotel bars I have previously enjoyed - fancy places like SLS in Beverly Hills, the Pleiades (with the fancy nuts) in New York's Surrey Hotel. They are good honest boozers, rather than glitzy bars with astronomical prices. And they're supplemented by some more good honest boozers, the pubs that were created when Saltburn shook off its Quaker past: The Victoria, and the Marine, replete with sticky carpets, hand pulled bitter, and pub paraphernalia on the walls. Then there's Rapps, a cafe which is all buzzy with drinkers on a Friday night. So there are plenty of options. More options than we have nights out to explore them, frankly.
It's a somewhat less sophisticated drinking scene than TLOML and I have been used to in our previous, posher, postcodes. Gin and tonic is rarely served with a slice of lime (still less, cucumber - they'd probably hound you out of town for asking for that). And there's nowhere we can stop into at midnight on our way home for a range of single malts, or a Perfect Manhattan. The hipster speakeasies of lower Manhattan, the beach bars of Malibu, and those fancy hotel bars I just mentioned, seem very far away.
But for a pint of bitter shandy, served without pretension, you can't beat Saltburn. And these days, a pint of bitter shandy is about all we get out for anyway. So I'd say we have the perfect drinking scene here on our doorstep.
So those who know of Saltburn's Quaker past might wonder how we are faring - living in a town which didn't have any pubs at all for over a hundred years. Saltburn in the 1800s had just an old smugglers inn - The Ship - at the bottom of the cliffs. Thanks to the Quaker town planners, the town proper at the top of the cliffs was a model of sobriety. Only the hotels and restaurants could serve alchohol. My dad remembers enjoying a pint at the Queens Hotel while my oldest sister was being born in the nearby maternity hospital. (Those were the halcyon days for expectant dads. TLOML barely had time to pee, never mind go for a pint, when I was in labour).
Times have changed, thank goodness. The Queens is no longer a hotel but its bar remains. The other hotel bar, the Alexandra Vaults, is still running as a pub despite the fact the hotel is now a block of flats. It's known locally as the Back Alex as it's, um, round the back of the Alexandra Hotel.
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| The old Alexandra Hotel |
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| The Back Alex - nicest pub in Saltburn, despite (or because of?) being up an alleyway |
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| The Victoria, another favourite |
Those former hotel bars look rather different to the hotel bars I have previously enjoyed - fancy places like SLS in Beverly Hills, the Pleiades (with the fancy nuts) in New York's Surrey Hotel. They are good honest boozers, rather than glitzy bars with astronomical prices. And they're supplemented by some more good honest boozers, the pubs that were created when Saltburn shook off its Quaker past: The Victoria, and the Marine, replete with sticky carpets, hand pulled bitter, and pub paraphernalia on the walls. Then there's Rapps, a cafe which is all buzzy with drinkers on a Friday night. So there are plenty of options. More options than we have nights out to explore them, frankly.
It's a somewhat less sophisticated drinking scene than TLOML and I have been used to in our previous, posher, postcodes. Gin and tonic is rarely served with a slice of lime (still less, cucumber - they'd probably hound you out of town for asking for that). And there's nowhere we can stop into at midnight on our way home for a range of single malts, or a Perfect Manhattan. The hipster speakeasies of lower Manhattan, the beach bars of Malibu, and those fancy hotel bars I just mentioned, seem very far away.
But for a pint of bitter shandy, served without pretension, you can't beat Saltburn. And these days, a pint of bitter shandy is about all we get out for anyway. So I'd say we have the perfect drinking scene here on our doorstep.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Birthday Boozing Bonanza
We have
been told repeatedly, and really quite insistently, that we must go out as much
as possible before the baby comes. And we are trying to do as we are told. After
all, our months in Manhattan proved that we are really quite good at that going out thing.
TLOML
notched another year up on the totem pole of his life at the weekend. So we
used that as the excuse for a grown up, glammed up, Saturday night out at the
Proud bar in Camden
On Sunday
we spent the afternoon drinking (water for me, beer for him) with friends in
The Grafton, a new star on the already fairly stellar NW5 drinking scene. Being
of the age we are, and living as we do in London
Naturally,
an afternoon in the pub lead to a spontaneous curry. At least, as spontaneous
as such an inevitability can be. That makes two nights out on the trot, and with an afternoon of socialising in between them too. Still, we were home and watching Homeland by
10pm.
So, I guess
that’s a strong indication that our days of random late night cocktails are
over. Manhattan
Oh, wait, is that 'middle age' talking? Shoot. Maybe it isn’t London
I’ll blame
pregnancy for now. And maybe the lack of great table service in London
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
A return trip gives pause for thought
Every now and again someone asks me 'Do you miss anything about the States?'. 'Not much, besides the beach in Malibu, of course, but I've been missing that for a year already,' I say. 'Nope, the only thing I really miss is the people'. By 'the people', I don't mind all the people of the USA. I mean the friends I made there, and the family I got to know. I miss those guys, of course.
But I didn't think I was missing anything else particularly.
This weekend in New York I realised I'd been lying to myself. I do miss some things. Namely:
Strangely, I feel better having realised that I felt this way. There was something a bit cold-hearted of me, leaving that wonderful country behind with barely a shrug. Like the whole experience was wasted on me somehow.
America wasn't wasted on me! I do miss it! I suspect the list of 'things I miss' will grow, as time goes by. For now though, I'm happy to be back in rainy old London.
But I didn't think I was missing anything else particularly.
This weekend in New York I realised I'd been lying to myself. I do miss some things. Namely:
- The food. That Smith and Mills burger. Fresh, plump oysters at a price that didn't put me off my dinner. And brunch, glorious brunch. I'd gladly trade the Full English for a lifetime of pancakes, and Cookshop's dandelion and egg salad.
- Cocktails, and table service. We had a drink at Bar Pleiades on the Upper East Side, which is one of my favourite bars in Manhattan, and it made me wistful for fabulously well-crafted cocktails, gracefully served. Mind you, it really isn't fair to compare a fancy hotel bar with our local Kentish Town boozer. If I want a posh cocktail in London I could go to a fancy hotel bar here. We just don't do that sort of thing here as much. Hmmm... new resolution: go to more fancy hotel bars in London. Zetter Townhouse is going to get to know us pretty well, I think.
- A walk-in mani-pedi for $33. My Kentish Town mani costs more, takes longer, and actually isn't quite as good.
Strangely, I feel better having realised that I felt this way. There was something a bit cold-hearted of me, leaving that wonderful country behind with barely a shrug. Like the whole experience was wasted on me somehow.
America wasn't wasted on me! I do miss it! I suspect the list of 'things I miss' will grow, as time goes by. For now though, I'm happy to be back in rainy old London.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
There are pubs, and pubs, and pubs
Or more specifically, there are brilliant pubs, gastro pubs, and rough pubs. For the uninitiated, it can be rather difficult to tell the difference. Don't get me wrong, sometimes a rough pub, or a good honest old man's boozer, is just what you want. But if you are looking for a pub serving gins other than Gordons, or beers that aren't on electric taps, then you need to be able to spot the wheat from the chaff.
TLOML says 'that looks like a good pub' at pretty much any pub we walk past. I then, rather condescendingly, set him straight. I've been steeped in North London drinking culture for long enough to be able to interpret the decor clues. Allow me to share my condescenion with you.
Most pubs look fairly similar from the outside. Old, with a painted sign, maybe some window boxes, and a name like 'The Marquis of Granby' and 'The Red Lion'. The neighbourhood is no indicator of a pub's quality either: London is such a patchwork of social diversity, you're always within spitting distance of a Shameless-style estate, and a gentrified enclave.
Take, for example, these two pubs, which are a three minute walk apart:
One is a hip, independent pub full of mustachioed types in plaid shirts, and fresh-faced types who've just walked their dogs on the Heath. The other is rough.
The obvious clue is the St George's flags outside The Old Oak. Any pub which makes a thing about celebrating St George's Day is going to be rough. The less obvious clue is the handwriting on the chalkboard. If it's that kind of handwriting that all looks the same, it's a rough pub. If it looks like it was scrawled by someone French, or someone who is good at maths, it's a hipster independent pub.
Menus are also a good tip off. A chalkboard that suggests food from the four corners of the earth (chicken korma, Thai curry, fish and chips), is a worry. One that mentions provenance ('Glanrofan Farm pork'), is obviously going to be nice and upmarket. Mind you, that brings problems of its own: my former favourite local pub, The Bull & Last, is now so well known for its food it is impossible to drop in for a spontaneous drink and snack. The dark side of gastropub success I suppose. The Southampton, by contrast, is clearly determined not be known for its food. Their menu is basically four different types of pork pie, and a cheddar cheese plate. Nice.
The other big hint is that The Old Oak advertise the fact they have Sky Sports. That's a tricky one for Americans to understand, as even upmarket restaurants have TVs in the US. But here, pubs which show the football in a big way are generally a bit rough.
The exception is the neighbourhood local, where the neighbourhood is more middle class than Shameless. Take the self-styled 'community' pub, the Dartmouth Arms, for example. The food isn't posh enough to be gastro, the beer isn't artisan enough to be hipster, and the TV screens aren't big enough to dominate. During Arsenal games it gets a bit busy, but it is never rough.
On balance, it may just be the perfect pub. I hope they manage to keep that fact hidden...
TLOML says 'that looks like a good pub' at pretty much any pub we walk past. I then, rather condescendingly, set him straight. I've been steeped in North London drinking culture for long enough to be able to interpret the decor clues. Allow me to share my condescenion with you.
Most pubs look fairly similar from the outside. Old, with a painted sign, maybe some window boxes, and a name like 'The Marquis of Granby' and 'The Red Lion'. The neighbourhood is no indicator of a pub's quality either: London is such a patchwork of social diversity, you're always within spitting distance of a Shameless-style estate, and a gentrified enclave.
Take, for example, these two pubs, which are a three minute walk apart:
 |
| The Southampton: a groovy little gem of a pub |
 |
| The Old Oak: a pub where eyecontact is a form of aggression |
The obvious clue is the St George's flags outside The Old Oak. Any pub which makes a thing about celebrating St George's Day is going to be rough. The less obvious clue is the handwriting on the chalkboard. If it's that kind of handwriting that all looks the same, it's a rough pub. If it looks like it was scrawled by someone French, or someone who is good at maths, it's a hipster independent pub.
Menus are also a good tip off. A chalkboard that suggests food from the four corners of the earth (chicken korma, Thai curry, fish and chips), is a worry. One that mentions provenance ('Glanrofan Farm pork'), is obviously going to be nice and upmarket. Mind you, that brings problems of its own: my former favourite local pub, The Bull & Last, is now so well known for its food it is impossible to drop in for a spontaneous drink and snack. The dark side of gastropub success I suppose. The Southampton, by contrast, is clearly determined not be known for its food. Their menu is basically four different types of pork pie, and a cheddar cheese plate. Nice.
The other big hint is that The Old Oak advertise the fact they have Sky Sports. That's a tricky one for Americans to understand, as even upmarket restaurants have TVs in the US. But here, pubs which show the football in a big way are generally a bit rough.
The exception is the neighbourhood local, where the neighbourhood is more middle class than Shameless. Take the self-styled 'community' pub, the Dartmouth Arms, for example. The food isn't posh enough to be gastro, the beer isn't artisan enough to be hipster, and the TV screens aren't big enough to dominate. During Arsenal games it gets a bit busy, but it is never rough.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Hogs, heifers and much hilarity
I recently had the surprising pleasure of drinking at Hogs and Heifers Saloon.
Surprising because I have passed the doorway a hundred times and never felt the slightest inclination to go in. It's a bar in the Meatpacking District with an entrance that is completely obscured by Fire Department, NYPD and Harley Davidson stickers. As a Manhattan sipping champagne socialist (I never mix the two, mind you), I just didn't think it was my kind of bar.
But when TLOML lines up an afternoon of burgers and divebars - all in the name of entertaining some highly sophisticated West Coasters - who am I to refuse? So, surprise! I entered the forbidding doors of Hogs and Heifers.
Surprise #2! I actually had a brilliant time. It could be the best dive bar in all of Manhattan.
Hogs and Heifers was concieved about twenty years ago as a good honest watering hole for hard working, hard drinking men. Over the years they became famous for their abrasive lady bartenders, who basically call the shots. If so inclined, they'll dance on the bar. But most of the time from what I saw they limit themselves to turning down the jukebox to yell insults at their customers.
(The jukebox, by the way, is pure magic: mainly country and western, with some classic rock and, joy! The Travelling Wilburys. Good times.)
Oh, and if the mood takes them, lady drinkers may also dance on the bar. If they do, they must leave their bra behind, on the wall of grubby old bras.
Sound familiar? Perhaps you're thinking of the critically panned box office hit Coyote Ugly. (I haven't seen it but 22% on Rotten Tomatoes is all I need to know.)
You'd be right. There's some controversy about whether this bar, or the Coyote Ugly Saloon were the true insipiration for the film. Both proudly stake the claim. From what I've seen online Coyote Ugly Saloon looks rather too clean and manufactured and the girls are way too fit. Hogs and Heifers is genuinely filthy and their bartenders sport little beer bellies as part of their signature look.
If you read the reviews online, you'll see phrases like 'disgusting, trashy bartenders', 'it just feels diiirrrrtttty and not in a good way', 'the bartender was unspeakably rude' and 'Can you please get your dirty shoes off the bar where you serve me?
It's true, the bartender is very rude. But funny. The girl serving the afternoon we were in there was an absolute blast. I particularly enjoyed it when she yelled to a couple of Euro-looking tourists, 'Get your hand off your crotch and buy an effin' drink' as they stood in the doorway looking frightened. And 'Hey, brawny guy called, he wants his shirt back', to TLOML in his hipster plaid shirt. Ask for a water, and she'll flip you the bird (then serve the offending drink, to be fair). It's a refreshingly sincere approach to customer service.
I'm not sure it'd be as much fun on a Saturday night, when it's probably packed with a shouty B&T crowd. But on a chilly, quiet Wednesday afternoon, it's perfect. Aside from the bewildered toursts, who routinely turned on their heels and left, our drinking companions were 3 or 4 shifty looking men drinking solo, a couple of leathery faced old birds, and a couple who looked like they were skiving off work. I especially liked this pair when she got on the bar and danced - and yes, her bra was removed from under her clothes, by the dextrous bartender - with gay abandon in her dowdy office attire. Yeah! That's the Hogs and Heifers way!
So if I tire of fancy cocktail bars, and crave a mid afternoon drink with a bunch of blue collar dudes, and the fun of watching tourists be insulted and drunk Jersey girls take their bras off, I know just where I'll head.
Surprising because I have passed the doorway a hundred times and never felt the slightest inclination to go in. It's a bar in the Meatpacking District with an entrance that is completely obscured by Fire Department, NYPD and Harley Davidson stickers. As a Manhattan sipping champagne socialist (I never mix the two, mind you), I just didn't think it was my kind of bar.
 |
| Not terribly appealing, is it? |
Surprise #2! I actually had a brilliant time. It could be the best dive bar in all of Manhattan.
Hogs and Heifers was concieved about twenty years ago as a good honest watering hole for hard working, hard drinking men. Over the years they became famous for their abrasive lady bartenders, who basically call the shots. If so inclined, they'll dance on the bar. But most of the time from what I saw they limit themselves to turning down the jukebox to yell insults at their customers.
(The jukebox, by the way, is pure magic: mainly country and western, with some classic rock and, joy! The Travelling Wilburys. Good times.)
Oh, and if the mood takes them, lady drinkers may also dance on the bar. If they do, they must leave their bra behind, on the wall of grubby old bras.
 |
| One of the lady bar tenders and that wall of bras |
You'd be right. There's some controversy about whether this bar, or the Coyote Ugly Saloon were the true insipiration for the film. Both proudly stake the claim. From what I've seen online Coyote Ugly Saloon looks rather too clean and manufactured and the girls are way too fit. Hogs and Heifers is genuinely filthy and their bartenders sport little beer bellies as part of their signature look.
If you read the reviews online, you'll see phrases like 'disgusting, trashy bartenders', 'it just feels diiirrrrtttty and not in a good way', 'the bartender was unspeakably rude' and 'Can you please get your dirty shoes off the bar where you serve me?
It's true, the bartender is very rude. But funny. The girl serving the afternoon we were in there was an absolute blast. I particularly enjoyed it when she yelled to a couple of Euro-looking tourists, 'Get your hand off your crotch and buy an effin' drink' as they stood in the doorway looking frightened. And 'Hey, brawny guy called, he wants his shirt back', to TLOML in his hipster plaid shirt. Ask for a water, and she'll flip you the bird (then serve the offending drink, to be fair). It's a refreshingly sincere approach to customer service.
 |
| TLOML playing air guitar in his brawny shirt, with bras in the background. Picture is fuzzed to protect the innocent (also 'cos if I used flash the bartender would shout at me) |
I'm not sure it'd be as much fun on a Saturday night, when it's probably packed with a shouty B&T crowd. But on a chilly, quiet Wednesday afternoon, it's perfect. Aside from the bewildered toursts, who routinely turned on their heels and left, our drinking companions were 3 or 4 shifty looking men drinking solo, a couple of leathery faced old birds, and a couple who looked like they were skiving off work. I especially liked this pair when she got on the bar and danced - and yes, her bra was removed from under her clothes, by the dextrous bartender - with gay abandon in her dowdy office attire. Yeah! That's the Hogs and Heifers way!
So if I tire of fancy cocktail bars, and crave a mid afternoon drink with a bunch of blue collar dudes, and the fun of watching tourists be insulted and drunk Jersey girls take their bras off, I know just where I'll head.
Friday, September 30, 2011
The (still?) white hot Meatpacking District
Last night TLOML and I went out with our favourite New Yorker to celebrate Rosh Hashanah. We are not Jewish, and she is not especially observant, but it's a certainly a great excuse to go out for a nice dinner. She may not have a seat for the High Holidays (which can run to $'00s), but she had a reservation at a quality Japanese restaurant and that's good enough for us.
We dined at Matsuri which was the hottest restaurant in town in 2004. That's how we like our fancy restaurants - about seven years after they were too cool to get into. Although they insisted we couldn't move our reservation - perhaps they thought it was still 2004? - the cathedral size space was half empty. Still, it's gorgeous in there, and we were distracted enough by the food not to mind the absence of buzz. A surprising sort of yuzu granita on our kumamoto oysters stopped us in our conversational tracks.
We ate well and drank even better. And so we emerged, all excited about the Jewish New Year, all warmed up with sake and sushi, on the border of the Meatpacking district.
Like Matsuri, the Meatpacking was pretty hot in 2004. TLOML and my favourite New Yorker reminisced at length about drinking there in the early '00s, when a night out in the 'white hot' Meatpacking was an essential ingredient of any weekend in NYC. Edgy times.
I reminisced about those episodes in S&TC when Samantha moved here and had that big fight with the tranny hookers. Ah, season three, those were the good times.
Nowadays, the Meatpacking is pretty solidly packed with fancy shops and restaurants. I understand the tranny hookers have moved to a different part of town. Judging by the twenty-something Jersey girls I see tottering around in miniskirts on a Saturday night, I assumed the hotspots have moved on too.
So we figured the Plunge bar at the Gansevoort Hotel was safe. The Gansevoort was a beacon for urban chic when it opened, around the same time as Matsuri. Hopefully by now, like Matsuri, it would be half empty. Probably full of suits too. Perfect for a quiet tipple!
Not so. Plunge was pumping, jumping and other partying verbs. The crowd was young, good looking, and if they weren't hip, they were at least trying. There were a couple of suits, but they wandered around looking bewildered but happy to discover that the hotel their PA booked for them has a bar full of hot young things gyrating. Sure, some of them may have travelled from the other side of the Hudson but a little bridge and tunnel spice sprinkled in the general melee was no bad thing. (A side note: my Manhattan was watery and served in a plastic glass, though there were several doors between me and the pool. Beer next time, I think.)
Judging by my sore feet this morning, I'd say we marked Jewish New Year fairly emphatically. Shana tova!
We dined at Matsuri which was the hottest restaurant in town in 2004. That's how we like our fancy restaurants - about seven years after they were too cool to get into. Although they insisted we couldn't move our reservation - perhaps they thought it was still 2004? - the cathedral size space was half empty. Still, it's gorgeous in there, and we were distracted enough by the food not to mind the absence of buzz. A surprising sort of yuzu granita on our kumamoto oysters stopped us in our conversational tracks.
 |
| Matsuri seven years ago when every table was full |
We ate well and drank even better. And so we emerged, all excited about the Jewish New Year, all warmed up with sake and sushi, on the border of the Meatpacking district.
Like Matsuri, the Meatpacking was pretty hot in 2004. TLOML and my favourite New Yorker reminisced at length about drinking there in the early '00s, when a night out in the 'white hot' Meatpacking was an essential ingredient of any weekend in NYC. Edgy times.
I reminisced about those episodes in S&TC when Samantha moved here and had that big fight with the tranny hookers. Ah, season three, those were the good times.
.jpg) |
| Samantha in the Meatpacking |
So we figured the Plunge bar at the Gansevoort Hotel was safe. The Gansevoort was a beacon for urban chic when it opened, around the same time as Matsuri. Hopefully by now, like Matsuri, it would be half empty. Probably full of suits too. Perfect for a quiet tipple!
Not so. Plunge was pumping, jumping and other partying verbs. The crowd was young, good looking, and if they weren't hip, they were at least trying. There were a couple of suits, but they wandered around looking bewildered but happy to discover that the hotel their PA booked for them has a bar full of hot young things gyrating. Sure, some of them may have travelled from the other side of the Hudson but a little bridge and tunnel spice sprinkled in the general melee was no bad thing. (A side note: my Manhattan was watery and served in a plastic glass, though there were several doors between me and the pool. Beer next time, I think.)
Judging by my sore feet this morning, I'd say we marked Jewish New Year fairly emphatically. Shana tova!
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Emperor's New Bar
There's a fine line between a stripped down, edgy, no frills bar and just a crap bar, as we discovered this weekend in the West Village.
The very hip Little Branch straddles that line. Which side it ultimately lands on probably depends on whether you're a jazz-shoe-and-braces-wearing 20 something or, um, not. We are not. We are in our late 30s, and perhaps not truly hip. Sorry TLOML, just saying... Also, we are bar snobs. If we wait in line, as we reluctantly did, by an unmarked door, we expect that once we pass through that door we will be in a beautifully (or at least wittily) decorated space with fabulous cocktails and impeccable service.
I know, I know, we're a tough crowd. But come on! This is New York! Blame the likes of Employees Only and Weather Up for spoiling us. Even Bathtub Gin, though it's not our scene, has that brilliant 'secret entrance, fantastic interior' thing down pat.
Little Branch certainly does the secret entrance, unmarked door thing well. The door is so skanky looking - and the wait to get in so long - that I was sure the interior would be a veritable palace.
Sadly not. The NY Magazine review describes the decor as 'a warm color scheme of mustard-painted walls and low ceilings made from orange-painted sheets of corrugated steel'. I think they're being generous. I'm pretty sure the space hasn't been repainted since its former life as a dank, damp basement. That corrugated steel just happened to be there. As for the cocktails, I'm sure they're excellent - Little Branch is from the same family as Milk and Honey - but our patience wore out too quickly for us to order.
Anyway, no harm done. We bailed and headed to our favourite West Village bar: Fedora. The neon sign is visible from a block away, and there's no line to get in. But don't let that put you off: it's just a good old fashioned bar, with a killer cocktail list. A bar that has a cocktail named after the Honey Badger is one which does not take itself too seriously, and for that, Fedora, we salute you.
The very hip Little Branch straddles that line. Which side it ultimately lands on probably depends on whether you're a jazz-shoe-and-braces-wearing 20 something or, um, not. We are not. We are in our late 30s, and perhaps not truly hip. Sorry TLOML, just saying... Also, we are bar snobs. If we wait in line, as we reluctantly did, by an unmarked door, we expect that once we pass through that door we will be in a beautifully (or at least wittily) decorated space with fabulous cocktails and impeccable service.
I know, I know, we're a tough crowd. But come on! This is New York! Blame the likes of Employees Only and Weather Up for spoiling us. Even Bathtub Gin, though it's not our scene, has that brilliant 'secret entrance, fantastic interior' thing down pat.
Little Branch certainly does the secret entrance, unmarked door thing well. The door is so skanky looking - and the wait to get in so long - that I was sure the interior would be a veritable palace.
Sadly not. The NY Magazine review describes the decor as 'a warm color scheme of mustard-painted walls and low ceilings made from orange-painted sheets of corrugated steel'. I think they're being generous. I'm pretty sure the space hasn't been repainted since its former life as a dank, damp basement. That corrugated steel just happened to be there. As for the cocktails, I'm sure they're excellent - Little Branch is from the same family as Milk and Honey - but our patience wore out too quickly for us to order.
Anyway, no harm done. We bailed and headed to our favourite West Village bar: Fedora. The neon sign is visible from a block away, and there's no line to get in. But don't let that put you off: it's just a good old fashioned bar, with a killer cocktail list. A bar that has a cocktail named after the Honey Badger is one which does not take itself too seriously, and for that, Fedora, we salute you.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Old school vs new school
Yesterday we had lunch with our favourite New Yorker, at the David Burke Kitchen in the James Hotel in Soho. The James Hotel is a bit of a hotspot, or so they would have you believe. Their press release claimed the building 'anchored' the South West corner of Thompson and Grand Streets. Which is quite a claim - was it at risk of slipping away before the hotel was built last year? We had a nosey at the Treehouse bar upstairs, and the enthusiastic host said 'hotspot!' in a dramatic stage whisper and with a knowing wink. And Jimmy's, the roof top bar, was impossible to get into even for three well dressed New Yorkers on a quiet summer Sunday afternoon. Their website says 'we apologise for our success', by way of explanation for their aggressive door policy. Snide!
So yes, the James Hotel is pretty into itself. Probably rightly so. It's gorgeous. And the David Burke Kitchen, also a hotspot, deserves its reputation. It's a lovely restaurant, full of cute touches, like the peanut brittle you can help yourself to on the way out. I had the pretzel crusted crab cake, which was mental (good mental) and an outstanding lobster cobb salad, heavy on the lobster and super fresh.
It was a very good lunch. And afterwards, we wanted to celebrate how great it was with a drink. But, as I mentioned, Jimmys was not so welcoming. So instead we crossed the road to Cafe Noir, a bar which has been anchoring the North East corner of Thompson and Grand for decades.
Cafe Noir is possibly the perfect day time drinking den. It's just one of those appealingly scruffy, straightforward bars where the concept is simply drinking. It's open sided to the street for good people watching. They had a DJ spinning reggae mixed with a little Amy Winehouse, his personal tribute. It was danceably good fun in there... or was that the grapefruit margaritas talking?
Reflecting on my sore head today I concluded that when it comes to a fancy lunch, new school is the way to go. But when it comes to solid afternoon drinking, old school wins every time.
So yes, the James Hotel is pretty into itself. Probably rightly so. It's gorgeous. And the David Burke Kitchen, also a hotspot, deserves its reputation. It's a lovely restaurant, full of cute touches, like the peanut brittle you can help yourself to on the way out. I had the pretzel crusted crab cake, which was mental (good mental) and an outstanding lobster cobb salad, heavy on the lobster and super fresh.
 |
| It's like a massive crab cake, with pretzel sticks all around it. Crazy but good. |
It was a very good lunch. And afterwards, we wanted to celebrate how great it was with a drink. But, as I mentioned, Jimmys was not so welcoming. So instead we crossed the road to Cafe Noir, a bar which has been anchoring the North East corner of Thompson and Grand for decades.
 |
| Cafe Noir was considerably busier and messier than this yesterday |
Cafe Noir is possibly the perfect day time drinking den. It's just one of those appealingly scruffy, straightforward bars where the concept is simply drinking. It's open sided to the street for good people watching. They had a DJ spinning reggae mixed with a little Amy Winehouse, his personal tribute. It was danceably good fun in there... or was that the grapefruit margaritas talking?
Reflecting on my sore head today I concluded that when it comes to a fancy lunch, new school is the way to go. But when it comes to solid afternoon drinking, old school wins every time.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
A New Yorker's Guide to Gin
Gin is having a moment. TLOML has been convinced this would happen for years - to the extent that he was actually trying to find an independent gin company to buy stocks in. Alas, I fear we have missed the boat. Every good cocktail bar has a hip gin cocktail prominently on its list. It's the new vodka.
Hendricks was what started it all for TLOML. So refreshingly cucumber-y! He had a long relationship with the 'ultimate gin and tonic' at the SLS Beverly Hills. It involves Hendricks, Fever Tree tonic water, an edible flower and spherical ice cubes. Apparently they absolutely must be spherical.
Fortunately for our bank balance we moved away from spontaneous pop-in-for-a-drink-and-ooops!-spend-$100-on-bar-snacks proximity to SLS. So we got into mixing our own Hendricks and tonics at the beach pad, where I'm ashamed to admit the icecubes were never spherical.
Here in New York we noticed even more obscure gins on offer and thought it might be time to branch out. We recently bought a bottle of Old Tom on the recommendation of our friendly local liqor store owner.
Sceptical? So were we. Think it looks more like whiskey than gin? So did we. But it is really good. A sipping gin, if you can believe it. Well, TLOML enjoyed his neat over ice, but I needed a splash of tonic in mine to make it sippable.
I think the next thing for us to try will be a New York gin. There are two which are appearing behind our favourite bars with greater frequency. They're locally made, by alco-artisans, and that in itself was enough to sell us in.
Our current second favourite bar serves Brooklyn, which smells like lavender and tastes like heaven. Well, if heaven were a refreshing, botanical sharpener. But - like all the good things in life - it's hard to find. Only two stores in all of Manhattan sell it. The daftly spelt Breuckelen (apparently it's Dutch) is easier to find and shares many of the same qualities: it's made in Brooklyn by gin fanatics, and it's good.
I suspect all of these new artisan gins are being made by bankers who lost their jobs and decided to spluff their final pay cheque on a potstill and some juniper berries - while their female counterparts set up cupcake shops. I don't blame them, I can see the appeal. And I'm mighty glad they're making it so easy for us to enjoy good local drinks. No more booze-miles guilt!
Hendricks was what started it all for TLOML. So refreshingly cucumber-y! He had a long relationship with the 'ultimate gin and tonic' at the SLS Beverly Hills. It involves Hendricks, Fever Tree tonic water, an edible flower and spherical ice cubes. Apparently they absolutely must be spherical.
Fortunately for our bank balance we moved away from spontaneous pop-in-for-a-drink-and-ooops!-spend-$100-on-bar-snacks proximity to SLS. So we got into mixing our own Hendricks and tonics at the beach pad, where I'm ashamed to admit the icecubes were never spherical.
Here in New York we noticed even more obscure gins on offer and thought it might be time to branch out. We recently bought a bottle of Old Tom on the recommendation of our friendly local liqor store owner.
Sceptical? So were we. Think it looks more like whiskey than gin? So did we. But it is really good. A sipping gin, if you can believe it. Well, TLOML enjoyed his neat over ice, but I needed a splash of tonic in mine to make it sippable.
I think the next thing for us to try will be a New York gin. There are two which are appearing behind our favourite bars with greater frequency. They're locally made, by alco-artisans, and that in itself was enough to sell us in.
Our current second favourite bar serves Brooklyn, which smells like lavender and tastes like heaven. Well, if heaven were a refreshing, botanical sharpener. But - like all the good things in life - it's hard to find. Only two stores in all of Manhattan sell it. The daftly spelt Breuckelen (apparently it's Dutch) is easier to find and shares many of the same qualities: it's made in Brooklyn by gin fanatics, and it's good.
I suspect all of these new artisan gins are being made by bankers who lost their jobs and decided to spluff their final pay cheque on a potstill and some juniper berries - while their female counterparts set up cupcake shops. I don't blame them, I can see the appeal. And I'm mighty glad they're making it so easy for us to enjoy good local drinks. No more booze-miles guilt!
Monday, June 20, 2011
More speakin' easy
As promised, I have been exploring some of NY's hidden bars (for which read - ostensibly secret but actually hugely popular and well documented bars leaping on the speakeasy trendwagon).
Last night we had a nice friends and family dinner at Pastis, at the Wondertwin's behest. Afterwards we decided it would be plain silly to go home at a civilised hour on a Sunday night. Instead we wandered down into the Village, to Employees Only.
If you want somewhere that feels slightly clandestine even before you enter, Employees Only fits the bill. The bar has blacked out windows, and a flouro psychic sign is the only indication of occupancy.
As you approach the storefront, a burly chap who looks like he's waiting for a bus apprehended us. I think he just wanted to check that we knew what we are about.
'Are you here for a drink?' he mutters. 'Affirmative,' we responded. Apparently satisfied, he let us pass.
Inside, there actually is a psychic sitting in the doorway. Thirsty, we passed on the whole ESP experience, and headed into the bar. Despite being late on a Sunday, it was pretty busy and with significantly more atmosphere than the Lenox Lounge midweek.
The bar staff are quite intense and really super super serious. I suspect they don't call themselves bartenders, or even mixologists, but something far more heavyweight like 'Creative Director of Taste Combination.' They denied our request for a virgin bloody mary, insisting 'we don't do that', as if we'd just asked them to slaughter a small child. (The tomato juice and celery behind them gave the lie away). During the fifteen minutes it took the two of them to prepare a couple of cocktails neither one of them cracked a smile or made eye contact with us. It probably disturbs the vapours or something.
Still, well worth the wait. The cocktails were superb. Mine went straight into my Top 3 Perfect Manhattans of All Time list. The music was danceably good (Stevie Wonder, how can you not break out?! Although the Wondertwin and I did wonder why no-one else felt the same way. Fools). And we got treated to a little impromptu burlesque show to boot.
All in all, an excellent way to wind up a quiet Sunday night dinner. Hurrah for the speakeasy! Campbell's Apartment tomorrow...
Last night we had a nice friends and family dinner at Pastis, at the Wondertwin's behest. Afterwards we decided it would be plain silly to go home at a civilised hour on a Sunday night. Instead we wandered down into the Village, to Employees Only.
If you want somewhere that feels slightly clandestine even before you enter, Employees Only fits the bill. The bar has blacked out windows, and a flouro psychic sign is the only indication of occupancy.
As you approach the storefront, a burly chap who looks like he's waiting for a bus apprehended us. I think he just wanted to check that we knew what we are about.
'Are you here for a drink?' he mutters. 'Affirmative,' we responded. Apparently satisfied, he let us pass.
Inside, there actually is a psychic sitting in the doorway. Thirsty, we passed on the whole ESP experience, and headed into the bar. Despite being late on a Sunday, it was pretty busy and with significantly more atmosphere than the Lenox Lounge midweek.
 |
| The burlesque girl on our visit was less skinny and also not dancing on the bar. But the vibe was similar. |
The bar staff are quite intense and really super super serious. I suspect they don't call themselves bartenders, or even mixologists, but something far more heavyweight like 'Creative Director of Taste Combination.' They denied our request for a virgin bloody mary, insisting 'we don't do that', as if we'd just asked them to slaughter a small child. (The tomato juice and celery behind them gave the lie away). During the fifteen minutes it took the two of them to prepare a couple of cocktails neither one of them cracked a smile or made eye contact with us. It probably disturbs the vapours or something.
Still, well worth the wait. The cocktails were superb. Mine went straight into my Top 3 Perfect Manhattans of All Time list. The music was danceably good (Stevie Wonder, how can you not break out?! Although the Wondertwin and I did wonder why no-one else felt the same way. Fools). And we got treated to a little impromptu burlesque show to boot.
All in all, an excellent way to wind up a quiet Sunday night dinner. Hurrah for the speakeasy! Campbell's Apartment tomorrow...
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Across 110th Street
When you haven't seen the love of your life for a couple of hours, and he greets you with the words, 'Loads has happened!', and goes on to elaborate 'I bought some fruit, and the super came and fitted a new aircon unit and it turns out the fuse had gone which is why the light wasn't working... oh! and I put a wash on' that's when you know you need to inject a little adventure into your life.
So I thought I'd surprise him with a trip to Harlem, to the legendary Lenox Lounge. TLOML loves jazz, and southern food, and anything north of 60th Street feels like a grand voyage to me.
TLOML, trying to guess where we were going, said, 'we're not going into Harlem or something crazy are we?'.
I knew I was onto something. I googled 'Is Harlem safe?'. For every story of a brute muttering 'Imma cut you' and chasing a terrified cracker down the street, there was another story of a happy Columbia grad student sauntering along 125th Street late at night unmolested.
It sounded like the perfect blend. Being from a middle class enclave not far from this....
...in the Boro, I do enjoy just a frisson of urban danger on a night out.
So we headed North, TLOML guessing wildly that we were going to cocktails at the Met, or an event at Columbia. He was pretty pleased when we emerged on 125th Street and made for Sylvia's. Sylvia's has been in 'the historical village of Harlem' since the 1960s, and serves fried chicken, waffles and all that good stuff.
We took a table on the street and I looked out for 'pimps trying to catch a woman that's week, pushers who won't let the junkies go free, and women trying to catch a trick' (apologies to Bobby Womack). They were absent.
After taking down the chicken'n'ribs combo and some collard greens, we headed to the Lenox Lounge, the legendary jazz club which is described as 'bustling and boisterous', 'authentic' and having a 'cool vibe' in internet reviews.
Never trust internet reviews.
Aside from us, there was a table of Danes in their 50s, two Swiss women (who I had earlier decided were Scottish schoolteachers, if that helps create a mental image), some grey haired Australians, and a solitary Japanese kid (who TLOML decided was just waiting for his tour bus to pick him up).
And by the way, we know their nationalities because the brilliant Sweet Georgia Brown worked the crowd so well. As TLOML said, it was like being on a cruise ship. Watching the olds get up and twist about awkwardly was compelling in a bad way. The Swiss women had some of the strangest dance moves I have ever seen. A sort of out of sync version of the 'birdie', and that description doesn't do the weirdness justice.
I should say, at least, Sweet Georgia Brown, the self-proclaimed 'last of the red hot mamas', was awesome, busting out some great innuendo-laden jazz and blues. We had a pretty good night all round. But edgy, vibey and atmospheric it was not.
Next time I want adventure, we're going to the East Village. And next time we want a chilled out night with daiquiris and good Southern food, we're going to Harlem.
PS Read my subsequent update here
So I thought I'd surprise him with a trip to Harlem, to the legendary Lenox Lounge. TLOML loves jazz, and southern food, and anything north of 60th Street feels like a grand voyage to me.
TLOML, trying to guess where we were going, said, 'we're not going into Harlem or something crazy are we?'.
I knew I was onto something. I googled 'Is Harlem safe?'. For every story of a brute muttering 'Imma cut you' and chasing a terrified cracker down the street, there was another story of a happy Columbia grad student sauntering along 125th Street late at night unmolested.
It sounded like the perfect blend. Being from a middle class enclave not far from this....
So we headed North, TLOML guessing wildly that we were going to cocktails at the Met, or an event at Columbia. He was pretty pleased when we emerged on 125th Street and made for Sylvia's. Sylvia's has been in 'the historical village of Harlem' since the 1960s, and serves fried chicken, waffles and all that good stuff.
We took a table on the street and I looked out for 'pimps trying to catch a woman that's week, pushers who won't let the junkies go free, and women trying to catch a trick' (apologies to Bobby Womack). They were absent.
After taking down the chicken'n'ribs combo and some collard greens, we headed to the Lenox Lounge, the legendary jazz club which is described as 'bustling and boisterous', 'authentic' and having a 'cool vibe' in internet reviews.
Never trust internet reviews.
Aside from us, there was a table of Danes in their 50s, two Swiss women (who I had earlier decided were Scottish schoolteachers, if that helps create a mental image), some grey haired Australians, and a solitary Japanese kid (who TLOML decided was just waiting for his tour bus to pick him up).
And by the way, we know their nationalities because the brilliant Sweet Georgia Brown worked the crowd so well. As TLOML said, it was like being on a cruise ship. Watching the olds get up and twist about awkwardly was compelling in a bad way. The Swiss women had some of the strangest dance moves I have ever seen. A sort of out of sync version of the 'birdie', and that description doesn't do the weirdness justice.
I should say, at least, Sweet Georgia Brown, the self-proclaimed 'last of the red hot mamas', was awesome, busting out some great innuendo-laden jazz and blues. We had a pretty good night all round. But edgy, vibey and atmospheric it was not.
Next time I want adventure, we're going to the East Village. And next time we want a chilled out night with daiquiris and good Southern food, we're going to Harlem.
PS Read my subsequent update here
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Speakeasies and secret bars
'In secret' appears to be the hottest way to drink right now. In fact if Boardwalk Empire is anything to go by, this has long been the case here in the States.
It's one of those things that just doesn't translate to the UK, where there's no need to hide your bottle in a brown paper bag. The closest we got to prohibition was in 1736, when the Gin Act imposed a prohibitively high duty on gin. Thanks to mass riots the tax was scrapped within 5 years. Ha! Take that, fun killers.
My first intro to the coolness of clandestine drinking in the US was courtesy of the fabulous and all-knowing Erinn V. She took us to La Descarga, in deepest darkest Hollywood. At first sight the man on the street with the clipboard was guarding access to a flight of lino-covered stairs which reminded me of my old dentist in Kentish Town.
At the stairs you arrive in another time and place altogether: the bedroom of a devoutly Catholic lady of many decades ago. Step into her wardrobe, as if heading for Narnia, and you emerge on the other side into a gorgeous little hall of a rum bar. It's an absolute gem and since I have left LA I don't mind sharing the secret (sorry Erinn...).
New York may be a different matter. I plan on exploring a few more of these drinking dens, but am not sure I'll be revealing the details of all of them. Just in case my massive readership rushes in and ruins the hush-hush vibe.
For example, I know of a fun bar called PDT, which stands for Please Don't Tell. It's accessed through a phone booth in a hot dog place, but due to its name I will not reveal which hot dog place.
This last weekend we hit Cienfuegos, which we had heard was a bit of a hidden gem.. It was fun, charmingly shabbily Cuban, and with all the good rums available. But way too easy to find and to enter. So I don't mind spilling the beans on that one.
My hunt for the best in secret boozing continues. An old drinking buddy of mine, who used to smuggle bottles of vodka into the rather hip and expensive Highgate, to oil the wheels of our shameless flirting with the hot - or so we thought in those days - bar men, moves to NY next week. We are starting her introduction to NYC at The Campbell Apartment, a bar in an old flat in Grand Central. It's not that secret - but after that I promise you it'll be onwards and underground-wards for us.
There's everything to play for now. My Wondertwin arrives for a vacation pretty soon, and she'll settle for nothing less than hard liquor in illicit surroundings. Thanks to the research I am assiduously carrying out - and to her husband* - we should be able to hit a few quality speakeasies pretty hard.
Look out secret bars, we're coming to find you!
*Officially one of the world's finest husbands, not only because he does such a good job staying home with t'bairn while we sip wine, but also for his services to amazing pastrymaking.
It's one of those things that just doesn't translate to the UK, where there's no need to hide your bottle in a brown paper bag. The closest we got to prohibition was in 1736, when the Gin Act imposed a prohibitively high duty on gin. Thanks to mass riots the tax was scrapped within 5 years. Ha! Take that, fun killers.
My first intro to the coolness of clandestine drinking in the US was courtesy of the fabulous and all-knowing Erinn V. She took us to La Descarga, in deepest darkest Hollywood. At first sight the man on the street with the clipboard was guarding access to a flight of lino-covered stairs which reminded me of my old dentist in Kentish Town.
 |
| Not the La Descarga entrance, but quite similar |
At the stairs you arrive in another time and place altogether: the bedroom of a devoutly Catholic lady of many decades ago. Step into her wardrobe, as if heading for Narnia, and you emerge on the other side into a gorgeous little hall of a rum bar. It's an absolute gem and since I have left LA I don't mind sharing the secret (sorry Erinn...).
 |
| Inside La Descarga |
New York may be a different matter. I plan on exploring a few more of these drinking dens, but am not sure I'll be revealing the details of all of them. Just in case my massive readership rushes in and ruins the hush-hush vibe.
For example, I know of a fun bar called PDT, which stands for Please Don't Tell. It's accessed through a phone booth in a hot dog place, but due to its name I will not reveal which hot dog place.
This last weekend we hit Cienfuegos, which we had heard was a bit of a hidden gem.. It was fun, charmingly shabbily Cuban, and with all the good rums available. But way too easy to find and to enter. So I don't mind spilling the beans on that one.
My hunt for the best in secret boozing continues. An old drinking buddy of mine, who used to smuggle bottles of vodka into the rather hip and expensive Highgate, to oil the wheels of our shameless flirting with the hot - or so we thought in those days - bar men, moves to NY next week. We are starting her introduction to NYC at The Campbell Apartment, a bar in an old flat in Grand Central. It's not that secret - but after that I promise you it'll be onwards and underground-wards for us.
 |
| The Campbell Apartment |
There's everything to play for now. My Wondertwin arrives for a vacation pretty soon, and she'll settle for nothing less than hard liquor in illicit surroundings. Thanks to the research I am assiduously carrying out - and to her husband* - we should be able to hit a few quality speakeasies pretty hard.
Look out secret bars, we're coming to find you!
*Officially one of the world's finest husbands, not only because he does such a good job staying home with t'bairn while we sip wine, but also for his services to amazing pastrymaking.
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