30th Dec 2007
Welcome to Greenwich Village
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.
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.
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