Bruner Blog

Went last nice to one of the coolest spots I’ve discovered in a while, St. Nick’s Pub, at 773 Saint Nicholas Avenue and 147th St, in Sugar Hill, Harlem.

I’ve been grousing for a while that there are few places in Harlem cool enough to tempt people to come uptown for, but obviously I just haven’t done enough exploring. (A reviewer on CitySearch writes, “For me, it’s worth the trip to harlem from brooklyn.”

The place is so fun, a late-night jazz free-for-all that seems not to have much renovation since it first operated in the 1930s. (I remember seeing somewhere the claim it was the oldest continuously operating jazz club in NYC, but I can’t find the citation again.)

We started the night with the late set at Smoke Jazz Club (105th & Broadway) of the Eric Alexander Quartet, a friend of Sean’s from college. That was fun, though the music a bit serious and bill quite expensive. After the set, we had another drink till about 2am, and then a couple of the party left but the rest (John, two visiting friends of his, and Anya, who made the schlep from Brooklyn, bless her) went to St. Nick’s on Anya’s advice.

By quarter-to-three or so when we got there, the joint was jumping, with a hot jam that must have included 10 or more musicians rotating across the stage and clogging up the narrow hall to the bathrooms and the back courtyard (very urban), where smokers and friends chilled.

The crowd was mostly black, though mixed and we five honkies were made most welcome, including two tourists from Montana and Vermont respectively. Neither had been to NYC in a decade or more; they certainly got their money’s worth for an only-in-NY scene. (In retrospect, I realize it was the night of the Sean Bell verdict, the judge ruling the three cops not guilty for shooting unarmed Bell 50 times on his wedding eve. The city has changed, I guess.)

Anyway, point is check out St. Nick’s Pub. It’s a happening joint. If you can swing it, Monday night is suppose to be the hottest night, with a crazy-ass jam session.

Yelp review

CitySearch

All About Jazz

Mommy, I don’t feel so good.

It was a New Year’s Eve celebration as they are meant to be celebrated, I supposed, at least in some debauched fantasy of how New Year’s Eve should be celebrated in downtown NYC. With Adi not feeling well, but an out-of-town buddy to entertain, along with two other stags, we pretty much ripped it up old-skool. Luckily, I had my camera with me, so the elements of today’s hangover are captured forever on Flickr.

We started at a J’s Greenwich Village bachelor pad. We decided to get an early move on the night, figuring we should pack in a big meal before too late or we’d never get a seat, as we didn’t have reservations anywhere, so we hit the pavement looking for a restaurant around 6pm. We hit on Lupa Osterio Romana, on Thompson just north of Houston. It looked great but they couldn’t take us till 7:30, so we killed around an hour at Aturo’s Cafe (pictures), around the corner on Houston, where bartender Tony looked after us. We ate the warm antipasto, with the questionable inclusion of scungilli (aka whelk), an acquired taste apparently. We then had dinner at Lupa’s, which was excellent (pictures).

From there hit our first party of the night, at the parent’s place friends of a friend. Very swanky West Village locale. (We felt under-dressed. I literally missed the memo.) There was a ton of food and booze, including a suckling pig, which looked amazing but we were stuffed. It was a cool scene, but we were planning to hit the Bulgarian Bar, so we thought we should get there before midnight.

The Bulgarian was pretty dead when we arrived, though, about 11:30, which was a bummer, as we had just paid a large sum to gain entrance. Then I remembered I was invited to another party not far away, so we quickly decamped for a highrise party with a great view over the Lower East Side. We rang in the new year among relative strangers who made us feel most welcome. We discovered only after we were already pretty lit the amazing scotch collection of the host.

We eventually made our way back to the Bulgarian for another hour or more of dancing and fun. On the way home, I needlessly consumed a huge shwarma sandwich, falling asleep bloated and awaking with killer indigestion. All in all, a swell New Year’s celebration.

A college buddy of mine recently moved to NYC; more specifically to Greenwich Village. It’s become unfashionable in recent years to refer to “Greenwich Village.” New Yorkers almost all say the “West Village” anymore, but I’m going to go out on a limb, because his place is on Bleecker and Sullivan, a block from Bleecker and McDougal, above which hangs the lacy sign of lights proclaiming “Welcome to Greenwich Village.”

As a result of his move, I’ve been spending more time exploring this most classic of NY neighborhoods recently. If you can get over the constant throngs of bridge and tunnel tourists (granted, it’s a big “if”), there’s actually some fun to be had. In fact, the area is so dense with eateries, bars and clubs, it will be a long while before I’ve settled on lasting favorites. But I figured I’d give you the benefit of a few early picks.

A couple of nights ago, we were persuaded by a leaflet guy to check out standup at Comedy Corner. (I’d link to their web site, but they don’t seem to have one. McDougal and Bleecker.) There are several other comedy joints in the neighborhood, and I haven’t seen standup for years, so I can’t claim it’s the best around, but it was a fun scene. I don’t remember any of the comics’ names — a bunch of striking writers for the likes of SNL, Conan, The Daily Show — though I wish I remembered the hot blond SNL writer, as funny sexy female comedians are too few. It was the 11:30 show, so sparsely attended and quite blue, and altogether an awkward but fun vibe in the room. Note to self: always sit in the back at a comedy place, unless you want to get picked on all night (we, two 40-something dudes sitting alone, didn’t have it as bad as the couple who were the only blacks in the room and obviously on a date). $15 cover plus two-drink minimum at reasonable prices.

Last night we started our prowl looking for a slice of pizza. You wouldn’t think that should be such a challenge, given that there are at least two pizza place on every block down there, but with a third friend visiting from DC we were decision-challenged group. We wandered blocks, passing up numerous joints, until we finally reached out at whatever came into view next, which happened to be Bleecker Street Pizza. We decided it had credibility in that the employees were all white (we reasoned that after all white people invented pizza, and it’s rare to find non-Spanish speakers making your pizza in NY anymore). You could tell just looking at the slices in waiting it was quality stuff, and while we waited a guy who was obviously a regular came in to pick up an order and shouted to the waiting patrons, “This is the best pizza in Manhattan!” Certainly a good sign, and although I won’t commit to that yet, it was uncommonly good. So confident in their product, they had only three varieties of pizza on offer: plain, mushroom and extra mozzarella, which they ran out of as soon as it was our turn to order. The plain, however, was transcendent.

We then checked out the trendy “secret” bar Little Branch. Secret bars, as a trend, are apparently so passe that even dishing on how passe secret bars are is itself passe. Thankfully, we’re so old and uncool we’re still easily impressed. The 15-minute wait outside in the cold with the charming gravelly voiced doorman Kevin (I’d compare his sound to Satchmo’s, except I’m sure he’s gotten that so often he wouldn’t be impressed) proved entirely worthwhile after we were shown in, as the function of his selectiveness is more about keeping the crowd inside of a manageable size than creating false pretension. Not that the place isn’t pretentious, for it is, but it’s the kind of pretentiousness that is actually merited. The atmosphere is cool, subdued, classy, grownup, and the emphasis is on fine cocktails.

I’m generally not much of a cocktail drinker — I’m almost exclusively a drinker of red wine or straight scotch or whiskey anymore — but it seemed a shame not put the foxy little mixologist through her paces, so I had a Manhattan. I added after ordering it, “dry.” The gentleman to my left turned and asked if I had just ordered a Manhattan Dry, which is apparently an obscure version of the drink, quite different than a dry Manhattan. He turned out to be none other than the establishment’s proprietor and kingpin of the NYC neo-speakeasy scene, Sasha Petraske. He was quite pleasant and chatted with me for a few minutes, and even though I hadn’t really ordered the cooler cocktail (it was too late by then to change my order), he handed me a business card to his most exclusive joint, the appointment-only Milk & Honey.

We were soon after seated in perhaps the best booth in the place, at the far end next to a display of ’20s-era bar-tending paraphernalia. We agreed it would be ideal if we each had a pretty lady with us, but the prime spot was wasted on three stag dudes. Also, we were out of cash and it’s a cash-only place, so we moved on after soaking in the scene and nursing our superior (and not especially over-priced) cocktails for a few minutes.

After that, we were ready to call it a night, and the new Prince of Greenwich Village did so, but the out-of-towner needed to take a leak, so he he made a pit stop in another bar, then urging me to stay for one more, as the scene was so cool. Indeed, Arthur’s Tavern is now my favorite NY nightspot of the moment. Far from trendy, it’s been around since 1937. Hard to encapsulate the scene succinctly (especially since this post is already too long), but it featured live music, no cover, no pretensions at all and a serious groove. A small, dark, wood-paneled place. The band was the highlight. Most black, the musicians were very good, focused on ’70s funk and soul. The real surprise came when the singer hit the stage, a short white guy, 60ish, of indeterminate ethnicity (Greek? Italian? Syrian?). Decidedly not a black man, who most resembled a deli employee, he was committed artist of soul-stirring song stylings. At 3am, when we left, they were still funking strong.