$12.95 for brunch in Hell's Kitchen isn't too unreasonable, even for a cheap chap like myself. But when for another $10 you can get unlimited champagne, bellinis, mimosas, and screwdrivers to go with your delicious food, then you've stumbled on a gold mine. Especially if you happen to be the type that takes advantage of anything free or unlimited to the very last drop. Which I am.
Some advice, though: if you decide to switch drinks (which is totally allowed), you may suffer some extra wait time. The waitresses only come around every so often with each pitcher, so declining a refill on your champagne in favor of a bellini may be a delicious decision, but it's not a cost-effective one.
From the food side of things (they serve food too? Yes! They do!!), everything is good. Omelettes and egg dishes come with a decorative fruit boob (an orange circle with a perky little raspberry in the center). The Monte Cristo is sumptuous, but should not be mixed directly with champagne except by the strongest of constitutions.
The atmosphere at this eatery is delightful. I've been twice now - once on Easter Sunday, and again this past Sunday right before the pride kick-off rally in Bryant Park (an excellent place to sun one's drunk self after brunch, and only a few short blocks away). I would say the percentage of gay clientele, judging entirely from a haphazard gaydar scan of the seating area, hovers somewhere between 70 and 95. A favorite pasttime of mine involves guessing the equipment of a lovely raven-haired waitress with a faint Adam's apple.
Be warned: the place seats only 85 and is understandably popular. If you have a party over 4, call ahead. While they don't take reservations, you can at least see if they have seating available. And champagne.
Film Center Cafe
635 9th Avenue (btwn 44th and 45th)
www.filmcentercafe.com
6.22.2007
'local' beans and local boys
I first visited 'local' at the behest of the owner of the clothing boutique of which I am currently employed after I had a sudden , and surprisingly brutal, panic attack upon my discovery, or lack thereof, of a Starbucks in the immediate area--where was I going to find my mediocre, unreasonably priced cup-of-joe in an area so foreign to me both geographically (living in Morningside Heights) and ideologically (I would not at all describe my wardrobe as trendy. I refuse to spend a billion dollars to look like an Olsen twin ... or a bag lady).
She directed me down the Sullivan between Prince and Houston to a plain storefront with a simple, black, lowercased 'local' on the cement-to-awning glass door. The unexposed brick and white, rectangular table tops didn't shock me, but I found myself at ease in the refuge of the coffee haven with its earthy smells and the quiet hum of the espresso machine. A voice from the back yelled, "Just a sec..." as he finished wrapping up some ham/fig and feta/green pepper sandwiches ($7 each) for two gentlemen typing away at their laptops. I discovered upon reading cleverly placed light pink and green chalkboards that they serve only fair-trade coffee and local (how apropos) baked goods from nearby establishments. The John-Mayer-(who I don't personally find particularly attractive, but whose rugged features still manage to appeal to my double-x chromosomes)-look-alike emerged with a certain boyish charm that was only slightly tainted by his SoHo-hipster attire (I do not care what my cousin Conor says, slippers are NOT an appropriate outdoor shoe choice.)
"I know what you want," he said with mock arrogance. Without a reply from me, we went to work on my beverage, and after a few whirs and whistles from his coffee machinery, presented me with an iced soy chai latte. "It'll blow your mind," he said.
It was totally what I wanted. And you know what? It BLEW MY MIND. (He also told me he only charged me $2 for my $4 drink. It was cute.)
Though they were out of skim milk (hey, it happens), my friend was also equally impressed with her coffee ($2), which she described as "EXCELLENT EXCELLENT." Also excellent was the outrageously tasty zucchini bread ($2.50).
I guess the coffee this side of corporate
A to Spring St/R to Prince
6.21.2007
Pleasant? Casual? Lower East Side? Well which is it?
Falai Panetteria
79 Clinton St (Rivington St.)
212-777-8956
I know, I know—the Lower East Side is a pretty terrifying place, the air so thick with self-righteous irony and hipster ennui that every exhalation comes out as a bored sigh. But have no fear, for there remains another Lower East Side, a place shaded by trees rather than oversized aviators, a place where the alleys remain skinnier than the jeans.
I discovered recently on a walk through Lower Manhattan that the spread of hipsterfication has—at least as of now—essentially stopped at Ludlow St. The streets to the east of Ludlow remain happily characterful (and I don’t mean full of characters, which would be an apt description of Ludlow and Orchard streets.) Though Suffolk and Norfolk streets offer little in the way of entertainment, one block further you’ll find Clinton St.
Among the restaurants studding Clinton St. like culinary jewels in a tinpan alley crown, is the quaint Falai Panetteria, the bakery branch of the more formal Falai a block away. About the only thing I can say of Falai Panetteria is that it is unerringly pleasant, nothing more and nothing less, but that is no small praise. A couple of hours into my walk, I was hungry, tired, and needing a place to rest my feet. Falai Panetteria, with its bright white walls, blue chairs, and stacks of freshly baked bread, seemed like a perfect choice. I was immediately afraid upon entering that I had inadvertently found my way back to Orchard St. The staff and clientele were, I dare say, hipsters, but of a different breed. Present were the skinny jeans, American Apparel, and ironic pop music (was that “Living on a Prayer” I heard?), absent the smug condescension.
I walked up to the counter, ordered one of the day’s specials, a baby octopus salad with potatoes, mixed greens, and sun-dried tomatoes in pesto. A moment later the waitress placed a basket of thick, doughy, rosemary-olive bread in front of me (delicious), but there was no olive oil in sight (strange). Within ten minutes, my salad arrived. Like the bright, clean room and the service, the salad was quite nice, nothing special, but enjoyable. What Falai deemed pesto was more like olive oil with basil, but not bad for that, just mislabeled. The octopus was the strange part, mostly delicious and tender, occasionally rubbery and over-cooked. Alas.
Still, the salad was large and filling and only cost me $11. I didn’t get a chance to sample the desserts, but the ample offerings of tarts and pastries looked enticing indeed. I wouldn’t go out of my way to get back to Falai Panatteria, but if I ever find myself fearing for my life among the hollow gazes of the hipsters, I won’t hesitate to duck in for, if not an absolutely safe haven, then at least a pleasant one.
79 Clinton St (Rivington St.)
212-777-8956
I know, I know—the Lower East Side is a pretty terrifying place, the air so thick with self-righteous irony and hipster ennui that every exhalation comes out as a bored sigh. But have no fear, for there remains another Lower East Side, a place shaded by trees rather than oversized aviators, a place where the alleys remain skinnier than the jeans.
I discovered recently on a walk through Lower Manhattan that the spread of hipsterfication has—at least as of now—essentially stopped at Ludlow St. The streets to the east of Ludlow remain happily characterful (and I don’t mean full of characters, which would be an apt description of Ludlow and Orchard streets.) Though Suffolk and Norfolk streets offer little in the way of entertainment, one block further you’ll find Clinton St.
Among the restaurants studding Clinton St. like culinary jewels in a tinpan alley crown, is the quaint Falai Panetteria, the bakery branch of the more formal Falai a block away. About the only thing I can say of Falai Panetteria is that it is unerringly pleasant, nothing more and nothing less, but that is no small praise. A couple of hours into my walk, I was hungry, tired, and needing a place to rest my feet. Falai Panetteria, with its bright white walls, blue chairs, and stacks of freshly baked bread, seemed like a perfect choice. I was immediately afraid upon entering that I had inadvertently found my way back to Orchard St. The staff and clientele were, I dare say, hipsters, but of a different breed. Present were the skinny jeans, American Apparel, and ironic pop music (was that “Living on a Prayer” I heard?), absent the smug condescension.
I walked up to the counter, ordered one of the day’s specials, a baby octopus salad with potatoes, mixed greens, and sun-dried tomatoes in pesto. A moment later the waitress placed a basket of thick, doughy, rosemary-olive bread in front of me (delicious), but there was no olive oil in sight (strange). Within ten minutes, my salad arrived. Like the bright, clean room and the service, the salad was quite nice, nothing special, but enjoyable. What Falai deemed pesto was more like olive oil with basil, but not bad for that, just mislabeled. The octopus was the strange part, mostly delicious and tender, occasionally rubbery and over-cooked. Alas.
Still, the salad was large and filling and only cost me $11. I didn’t get a chance to sample the desserts, but the ample offerings of tarts and pastries looked enticing indeed. I wouldn’t go out of my way to get back to Falai Panatteria, but if I ever find myself fearing for my life among the hollow gazes of the hipsters, I won’t hesitate to duck in for, if not an absolutely safe haven, then at least a pleasant one.
6.20.2007
Musical, Free, Gay-- Not Theatre, Just My Week
I have a strong liking for free events. Especially when included in the price of $0 is a few drinks. It is for this reasons that this week (so far) has been a good one. The fun began when I arrived at my desk Monday morning to receive an email from a friend stating, "I have to do a write up for Duran Duran's album release party tonight. Who wants to be my +1?" Shortly after responding with a, "why the hell not?" I received a second email from a friend planning Genre Magazine's Pride week party, asking me to attend the event on Tuesday.
Ok, so I'm pretty far from being gay and even further from being a Duran Duran fanatic, but there's no harm in supporting other communities (especially the latter...the Duran Durans aren't doing so well). The weirdest thing about these invitations is that the events were in the same place-- a 9th floor loft space on West (and I mean West) 28th.
The first night was pretty silly. The fans and coworkers of Duran Duran in 2007 are an amusing bunch. I'm pretty sure the bouncer didn't let anyone in who had symmetrical hair (thanks, side bangs). The centerpiece of the room was giant cut-outs of the band members, which you could pose with-- pretty awkward considering the 3-D versions were walking around. I wish I could give a review of the new tracks, but they didn't perform--LAME. And there was a super long line for weak drinks--LAMER.
My second night at the venue "The Exchange" was far more enjoyable. Though speciality drinks included cotton candy margaritas, I wasn't messing around this time. I ordered a vodka martini, and lacking proper ingredients, received a giant glass of vodka. Perfect. Adding to the perfection was the high number of college friends I ran into. My alma mater always did have a large gay population. The icing on this cake were my friends/gay twins/jugglers/apparently Genre cover boys posing for pictures. Indeed, I received a few glares as took the attention of the cute brothers (http://www.genremagazine.com/2007/6-1/magazine/content/441.cfm).
Upon leaving the event, I received a goody bag with the likes of men's underwear and shirts. Even if I can't use the items, I thought maybe I could give it to a man as a parting gift after a good night. When is that going to happen next, by the way? No fretting. I've had a wonderful (free) week so far. As it turns out, Gay week has been just that. And the parade hasn't even happened yet.
Ok, so I'm pretty far from being gay and even further from being a Duran Duran fanatic, but there's no harm in supporting other communities (especially the latter...the Duran Durans aren't doing so well). The weirdest thing about these invitations is that the events were in the same place-- a 9th floor loft space on West (and I mean West) 28th.
The first night was pretty silly. The fans and coworkers of Duran Duran in 2007 are an amusing bunch. I'm pretty sure the bouncer didn't let anyone in who had symmetrical hair (thanks, side bangs). The centerpiece of the room was giant cut-outs of the band members, which you could pose with-- pretty awkward considering the 3-D versions were walking around. I wish I could give a review of the new tracks, but they didn't perform--LAME. And there was a super long line for weak drinks--LAMER.
My second night at the venue "The Exchange" was far more enjoyable. Though speciality drinks included cotton candy margaritas, I wasn't messing around this time. I ordered a vodka martini, and lacking proper ingredients, received a giant glass of vodka. Perfect. Adding to the perfection was the high number of college friends I ran into. My alma mater always did have a large gay population. The icing on this cake were my friends/gay twins/jugglers/apparently Genre cover boys posing for pictures. Indeed, I received a few glares as took the attention of the cute brothers (http://www.genremagazine.com/2007/6-1/magazine/content/441.cfm).
Upon leaving the event, I received a goody bag with the likes of men's underwear and shirts. Even if I can't use the items, I thought maybe I could give it to a man as a parting gift after a good night. When is that going to happen next, by the way? No fretting. I've had a wonderful (free) week so far. As it turns out, Gay week has been just that. And the parade hasn't even happened yet.
Rejoice, Coeliacs! Rejoice! (and everyone else, too)
Risotteria
270 Bleecker St (at Morton St.)
212-924-6664
Subway: 1 to Chistopher St./Sheridan Square
A, B, C, D, E, F, V, Q to W. 4th
www.risotteria.com
In my family of amateur gourmands, risotto easily ranks among our favorite gustatory indulgences. My mother in particular practically swoons whenever she sees it on a menu. We all of us adore that most decadent and satisfying of Italian starches and its ability to be both luxurious and simple, elegant and rustic.
Of these adjectives, the only one that really applies to Risotteria, a West Village eatery specializing in (shock of shocks) risotto, is ‘simple.’ Risotteria occupies a modest glass storefront on the corner of Bleecker and Morton streets more redolent of a midtown diner than an Italian trattoria, an impression that continues in the cozy (read: tiny) ten-table dining room, where you find an open kitchen with bar stools and a wine list overhead hand-written in multi-colored chalk.
The picture starts to change, though, when the menus arrive accompanied by crispy, warming, olive-oil-and-herb doused bread sticks, which are reason enough to dine at Risotteria. The menu offers a broad array of salads, sandwiches, and the restaurant’s eponymous specialty, risotto. Many dishes are gluten-free or vegetarian for the more persnickety diner. Regrettably, that chalkboard drinks list fails to match the diversity of Risotteria’s food. Still, the few bottles of wine are reasonably priced, and some gluten-free beers are light and refreshing if not particularly exciting (the Anheuser-Bush Redbridge was surprisingly good).
I and three of my graight associates all ordered from the classic Arborio section of the menu, and not a single dish disappointed. My corn, porcini, and truffle-oil risotto was rich and creamy, loaded with the intensely earthy flavors and aromas of its constituent parts (perhaps a bit heavy on the truffle-oil, but there are worse excesses.) The other three dishes were lighter than mine, primarily featuring cheese, seafood, and vegetables, and all managed to strike the appropriate balance between luxurious richness of texture and refreshing lightness of flavor.
The meal itself transcends the quaint, dinette atmosphere, but mercifully Risotteria returns to its more rustic side when the check arrives—virtually nothing on the menu exceeds $15. And somewhere my mother weeps for joy.
270 Bleecker St (at Morton St.)
212-924-6664
Subway: 1 to Chistopher St./Sheridan Square
A, B, C, D, E, F, V, Q to W. 4th
www.risotteria.com
In my family of amateur gourmands, risotto easily ranks among our favorite gustatory indulgences. My mother in particular practically swoons whenever she sees it on a menu. We all of us adore that most decadent and satisfying of Italian starches and its ability to be both luxurious and simple, elegant and rustic.
Of these adjectives, the only one that really applies to Risotteria, a West Village eatery specializing in (shock of shocks) risotto, is ‘simple.’ Risotteria occupies a modest glass storefront on the corner of Bleecker and Morton streets more redolent of a midtown diner than an Italian trattoria, an impression that continues in the cozy (read: tiny) ten-table dining room, where you find an open kitchen with bar stools and a wine list overhead hand-written in multi-colored chalk.
The picture starts to change, though, when the menus arrive accompanied by crispy, warming, olive-oil-and-herb doused bread sticks, which are reason enough to dine at Risotteria. The menu offers a broad array of salads, sandwiches, and the restaurant’s eponymous specialty, risotto. Many dishes are gluten-free or vegetarian for the more persnickety diner. Regrettably, that chalkboard drinks list fails to match the diversity of Risotteria’s food. Still, the few bottles of wine are reasonably priced, and some gluten-free beers are light and refreshing if not particularly exciting (the Anheuser-Bush Redbridge was surprisingly good).
I and three of my graight associates all ordered from the classic Arborio section of the menu, and not a single dish disappointed. My corn, porcini, and truffle-oil risotto was rich and creamy, loaded with the intensely earthy flavors and aromas of its constituent parts (perhaps a bit heavy on the truffle-oil, but there are worse excesses.) The other three dishes were lighter than mine, primarily featuring cheese, seafood, and vegetables, and all managed to strike the appropriate balance between luxurious richness of texture and refreshing lightness of flavor.
The meal itself transcends the quaint, dinette atmosphere, but mercifully Risotteria returns to its more rustic side when the check arrives—virtually nothing on the menu exceeds $15. And somewhere my mother weeps for joy.
6.19.2007
there's no slice like home.
Place: Koronets
2848 Broadway
New York, NY 10025
(right off of the 1 train at 110th Street)
2848 Broadway
New York, NY 10025
(right off of the 1 train at 110th Street)
In a city like this, it's nice to have something that feels like home. Koronets pizza. Home to thousands since... well.... hungry kids have wanted a satiating bite.
Why I Probably Shouldn’t Watch Basketball
“Spurs or Cavs?”
As questions go, it was relatively innocent. And as nights out go, it was, to be frank, short. A few days back, I was staring at a flatscreen at Mercury Bar, watching the Cavaliers go gently into that good night, when the girl sitting next to me posed the question. (Disclaimer: I don’t really feel like reviewing the locale—simply put, $8 for a weak whisky and coke… not a sports bar, but a bar that shows sporting events.) Being, y’know, me… I took the bait.
Cavs. Not because I pull for LeBron and the boys—to be honest, my feelings towards basketball resemble 98% of this country’s thoughts on hockey. I was watching for two reasons: first, my boy Mikey was in the sixth row—sorry, bud—and second, I pull for underdogs. (The Vikings, the Twins, the city of Buffalo in general.) There’s something distinctly American about pulling for underdogs. I’m serious—when they signed the Declaration of Independence, Richard Henry Lee was already pulling for the Cubs. They cut it from the Preamble.
“Me too! Ohmygawd, right?”
Great. We talk. We talk about basketball, fine. We talk about underdogs, she gets it. We talk about her being the only girl on her hockey team back in high school… kind of hot. The Cavs, meanwhile, continue to blow the greatest opportunity afforded to the city of Cleveland since “The Drew Carey Show”. Small price to pay for human connection. She puts a tentative hand on my shoulder. “My boyfriend’s coming. I can’t flirt with you anymore.” Oh. Graight.
I’m not saying that it was indicative of my generation. (beat) Okay, fine, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I watched the rest from a secure location (read: booth with Artesia and Alistair) and observed the following: she’s obviously not into this guy, he’s obviously crazy about her, the Cavs are getting outmuscled in the paint and kind of deserve to be swept. But you can’t admit your unhappiness these days. You make hopeful small talk about a doomed sports team while your boyfriend’s in the bathroom. (Or, conversely, you pretend that your conversation’s going somewhere and that 3-0 isn’t an insurmountable deficit.) Displays of effort or passion are completely inappropriate. If you really need to devote yourself to something… pull for an underdog. But in fifteen years, when you’re still alone, marry your best friend and pull for whoever’s in first.
Wow. Sorry. Was that cynical? That was cynical. It’s a good thing that Company is playing right down my street—I really need to hear “Being Alive” now. Um… there’s always next year, Cleveland? (And again, Mikey… sorry, bud.)
As questions go, it was relatively innocent. And as nights out go, it was, to be frank, short. A few days back, I was staring at a flatscreen at Mercury Bar, watching the Cavaliers go gently into that good night, when the girl sitting next to me posed the question. (Disclaimer: I don’t really feel like reviewing the locale—simply put, $8 for a weak whisky and coke… not a sports bar, but a bar that shows sporting events.) Being, y’know, me… I took the bait.
Cavs. Not because I pull for LeBron and the boys—to be honest, my feelings towards basketball resemble 98% of this country’s thoughts on hockey. I was watching for two reasons: first, my boy Mikey was in the sixth row—sorry, bud—and second, I pull for underdogs. (The Vikings, the Twins, the city of Buffalo in general.) There’s something distinctly American about pulling for underdogs. I’m serious—when they signed the Declaration of Independence, Richard Henry Lee was already pulling for the Cubs. They cut it from the Preamble.
“Me too! Ohmygawd, right?”
Great. We talk. We talk about basketball, fine. We talk about underdogs, she gets it. We talk about her being the only girl on her hockey team back in high school… kind of hot. The Cavs, meanwhile, continue to blow the greatest opportunity afforded to the city of Cleveland since “The Drew Carey Show”. Small price to pay for human connection. She puts a tentative hand on my shoulder. “My boyfriend’s coming. I can’t flirt with you anymore.” Oh. Graight.
I’m not saying that it was indicative of my generation. (beat) Okay, fine, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I watched the rest from a secure location (read: booth with Artesia and Alistair) and observed the following: she’s obviously not into this guy, he’s obviously crazy about her, the Cavs are getting outmuscled in the paint and kind of deserve to be swept. But you can’t admit your unhappiness these days. You make hopeful small talk about a doomed sports team while your boyfriend’s in the bathroom. (Or, conversely, you pretend that your conversation’s going somewhere and that 3-0 isn’t an insurmountable deficit.) Displays of effort or passion are completely inappropriate. If you really need to devote yourself to something… pull for an underdog. But in fifteen years, when you’re still alone, marry your best friend and pull for whoever’s in first.
Wow. Sorry. Was that cynical? That was cynical. It’s a good thing that Company is playing right down my street—I really need to hear “Being Alive” now. Um… there’s always next year, Cleveland? (And again, Mikey… sorry, bud.)
bare hugs
i just wanna sing and dance forever, so obviously going to the tonys was a big deal for me. i sat there in the first mezz dreaming of the day i get my invite to sit in the orchestra, practicing my speech in my head like everyone does, imagining the rush of performing for 5800 people in radio city and millions out there in the world, especially because my tony performances will not have to contend with the series finale of the sopranos. so yes, going to the tonys reinforced my desire to devote my life to musicals. but last night, i actually left the roseland ballroom physically itching to dance.
i seriously hated legally blonde this season, despite wanting so badly to like it and introducing everyone i knew to the san francisco recording of the opening number before the show moved to its home in the city and elle woods took over every duane reade. but i left the theater only saying “ohmygod ohmygod you guys” with a look of mournful disappointment, shaking my head, my confidence in jerry mitchell taken down yet yet another notch (since hairspray also makes my soul die a little). jer had his work cut out for him if he was going to restore my faith (though to his credit, how many choreographers teach their audition combinations with words like, “windshield wipers… oh yeah!” and “buy your sack of potatoes…throw your sack of potatoes!”. true story.) but following a night full of pole dancing, more nude colored bedazzled male thongs than i cared to count, and this joke: “you could date oedipus” “that motherf*cker?”, however, jerry is back in my good graces, and i have yet another event driving my ambition for the great white way.
it’s a burlesque show called broadway bares, performed by broadway choruses from every show. this year the theme was “myth-behavior,” which has actually be proven totally impossible to say without sounding like a bad gay stereotype. when i first got a text message asking me if we should go, i thought it was a typo, because broadway cares/equity fights aids is a big deal and everyone knows it and blah blah blah, and i made fun of the person who sent it to me for making a freudian slip. salt on me. no one was wearing anywhere near as much material as would constitute a slip, but freud would have sat back all night and just said, “i told you so.”
i seriously hated legally blonde this season, despite wanting so badly to like it and introducing everyone i knew to the san francisco recording of the opening number before the show moved to its home in the city and elle woods took over every duane reade. but i left the theater only saying “ohmygod ohmygod you guys” with a look of mournful disappointment, shaking my head, my confidence in jerry mitchell taken down yet yet another notch (since hairspray also makes my soul die a little). jer had his work cut out for him if he was going to restore my faith (though to his credit, how many choreographers teach their audition combinations with words like, “windshield wipers… oh yeah!” and “buy your sack of potatoes…throw your sack of potatoes!”. true story.) but following a night full of pole dancing, more nude colored bedazzled male thongs than i cared to count, and this joke: “you could date oedipus” “that motherf*cker?”, however, jerry is back in my good graces, and i have yet another event driving my ambition for the great white way.
it’s a burlesque show called broadway bares, performed by broadway choruses from every show. this year the theme was “myth-behavior,” which has actually be proven totally impossible to say without sounding like a bad gay stereotype. when i first got a text message asking me if we should go, i thought it was a typo, because broadway cares/equity fights aids is a big deal and everyone knows it and blah blah blah, and i made fun of the person who sent it to me for making a freudian slip. salt on me. no one was wearing anywhere near as much material as would constitute a slip, but freud would have sat back all night and just said, “i told you so.”
6.18.2007
Vintage clothes sometimes don't fit, but the bar did
Feeling particularly feisty for a weekday night, my friends and I decided to try a new bar. Now, I have nothing against expanding horizons, especially when it's in the name of drinking, but I like feeling at home when I drink (I also like to drink when I'm at home). There are definite perks to having your regular bar-- being aware of the price range, finding the bathrooms with ease, y'know, going where everybody knows your name. Yet, despite its newness, I immediately felt quite comfortable at Vintage. A lot of this could have been due to the fact that we were able to grab some cushy chairs in the back-- a *must* if this is where you choose to booze.
The atmosphere at Vintage is not particularly swanky, but not cheap looking either. It felt cozy. I would give the clientele a similar review-- not swanky, but not cheap...I don't know if clientele can be cozy, but fine, they were cozy too. After a good look around, it was time for my first drink of the night. Well, I mean, obviously it wasn't my first first drink. But it was my first drink at this particular venue. I went to the bar and ordered my signature rum and diet, to which the friendly bartender responded, "What kind of rum?" This took me aback, as such a query is not typical of my ordering dialogue. I guess I'm not usually in bars where it matters. A modest lady, I responded with "whatever's cheap." Yet, given that I was asked for rum-type at all, I started to fear that Vintage might be out of my desired price range. Wrong! Just $5 for my R & D. Phew.
Satisfied with both the price and potency of my drink, I cozied myself into a chair and entered into a game of Botticelli (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Botticelli_%28game%29 --not a drinking game, per se, but fun to play while drinking). Despite the fact that I am horrible at said game, I had a great time. Enjoying myself while doing something I'm bad at?...a rare occasion indeed. I can’t help but conclude that Vintage played a part in my cheery mood. Thusly, I must recommend, it’s a pretty graight bar.
Vintage
Between 50th & 51st
(212) 581-4655
http://www.vintagebar.net
Bar Notables:
*Waitress service for drinks if you're in the back (not mandatory)
*MANY MANY varieties of beer (nothing on draft though); definitely worth a go for beer lovers
*Also a large list of specialty martinis (with specials)
*Cute menu for bites
:( Not Graight service-- waiters are spacey and slow, but everyone is nice
Subways:
C, E at 50th, 1 at 50th...or there's every subway and the tube at 42nd
6.17.2007
Straight play
Obviously I didn't take advantage of Broadway's student rush option until after I graduated. Obviously. (Recent graduates - this works. Save your student ID and see how long you can get away with it.)
While it was edged out for two Tony Awards, Talk Radio is still definitely worth an investment of $26.25 and an evening. Liev Schreiber stars as self-important, self-disgusted, megalomaniacal, lovable talk radio host Barry Champlain in this revival of Eric Bogosian's 1987 play. Champlain's whole deal is that he thinks he's better than eveyone else and can therefore do it all alone. What makes this work is that Liev Schreiber is better than everyone else and he can do it all alone.
The best moments of the show were without a doubt those when Barry ruled the booth alone. The many callers, voiced hilariously by Christine Pedi, Barbara Rosenblat, Adam Sietz, Marc Thompson, Cornell Womack, and Christy Pusz, were also a highlight. The eminently talented Schreiber worked together with these voices to turn a seemingly non-theatrical genre, radio, into something not only appropriate for the stage, but positively electrifying to watch.
Eric Bogosian deserves some credit for this feat as well, but I'm hesitant to give it to him because I'm still pissed about his needless violation of the fourth wall. The first time an actor turned out to the audience and began, "I first met Barry Champlain," I nearly swallowed my tongue. When it happened again two more times, I had learned to cope by rolling my eyes and zoning out until Liev came back onstage. Matters weren't helped here by the sliding scale of hard-to-watch acting of Peter Hermann as Champlain's up-tight suit of a boss, Michael Laurence as his long-time buddy turned resentful, and worst of all, Stephanie March (Law & Order: SVU) as his whiny would-be womanfriend.
Despite these admittedly grating shortcomings, go see this play. Ultimately it's a vehicle for Liev, and heis a force of nature on the stage. I have never seen any other actor make 45 seconds of silence so thrilling.
Talk Radio
Written by Eric Bogosian
Directed by Robert Falls
Starring Liev Schreiber
Featuring Stephanie March, Peter Hermann, Michael Laurence, and Sebastian Stan
At the Longacre Theater (220 W 48th Street, btwn 7th and 8th)
Website: www.talkradioonbroadway.com
While it was edged out for two Tony Awards, Talk Radio is still definitely worth an investment of $26.25 and an evening. Liev Schreiber stars as self-important, self-disgusted, megalomaniacal, lovable talk radio host Barry Champlain in this revival of Eric Bogosian's 1987 play. Champlain's whole deal is that he thinks he's better than eveyone else and can therefore do it all alone. What makes this work is that Liev Schreiber is better than everyone else and he can do it all alone.
The best moments of the show were without a doubt those when Barry ruled the booth alone. The many callers, voiced hilariously by Christine Pedi, Barbara Rosenblat, Adam Sietz, Marc Thompson, Cornell Womack, and Christy Pusz, were also a highlight. The eminently talented Schreiber worked together with these voices to turn a seemingly non-theatrical genre, radio, into something not only appropriate for the stage, but positively electrifying to watch.
Eric Bogosian deserves some credit for this feat as well, but I'm hesitant to give it to him because I'm still pissed about his needless violation of the fourth wall. The first time an actor turned out to the audience and began, "I first met Barry Champlain," I nearly swallowed my tongue. When it happened again two more times, I had learned to cope by rolling my eyes and zoning out until Liev came back onstage. Matters weren't helped here by the sliding scale of hard-to-watch acting of Peter Hermann as Champlain's up-tight suit of a boss, Michael Laurence as his long-time buddy turned resentful, and worst of all, Stephanie March (Law & Order: SVU) as his whiny would-be womanfriend.
Despite these admittedly grating shortcomings, go see this play. Ultimately it's a vehicle for Liev, and heis a force of nature on the stage. I have never seen any other actor make 45 seconds of silence so thrilling.
Talk Radio
Written by Eric Bogosian
Directed by Robert Falls
Starring Liev Schreiber
Featuring Stephanie March, Peter Hermann, Michael Laurence, and Sebastian Stan
At the Longacre Theater (220 W 48th Street, btwn 7th and 8th)
Website: www.talkradioonbroadway.com
Numbers One (through Ten) with a Bullet
A while ago, I was passing the time with some friends by playing Would You Rather, a classic collegiate diversion wherein participants must choose between the more desirable of two usually unappealing options. It’s the only game where you’ll hear someone say, “Yeah, I guess I’d take screwing a cow over losing my mother.” Anyway, someone posed the question, “Would you rather live in a world without sports or music?”
To me, this question is unanswerable. Sports can galvanize nations, rejuvenate cities, and lift individuals to the pantheon of heroes. I don’t remember my first kiss, but I remember watching Jack Morris and the Minnesota Twins go ten long innings to beat the Atlanta Braves in Game 7 of the ’91 World Series. (I remember most subsequent kisses, however.) On the other hand, a life without music would be virtually pointless… You’d never worry about what song to play at your wedding; you’d never sing “Happy Birthday.” Without music, the boombox held high above Lloyd Dobler’s head would be mute. To truly live, you need both sports and music. So, obviously, it would follow that music about sports would be all the more sacrosanct.
Well. Now that I’ve written a sufficiently bombastic intro… here’s a top ten list.
10. You’ll Never Walk Alone – Liverpool FC Fight Song (itunes)
- So, it’s from the 1945 Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Carousel. Fine. Tell that to 45,000 fans at Anfield, belting it out at the top of their hooligan lungs. I may root for Arsenal—and Carousel is downright depressing—but you have to had it to the Reds… it’s a pretty inspiring song. (Can you imagine American football teams doing this? What if the 70s classic “San Diego Super Chargers” was replaced by “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”?)
9. Centerfield – John Fogerty (itunes)
- Overplayed? Yes, probably. But every year when the opening day of little league rolled around, my dad would play it as I laced up my spikes and for a few perfect moments, anything was possible.
8. I Wish I Was a Little Bit Tiger – Skee-Lo vs. Survivor (Soulwax Mashup)
- The most brilliant thing about this mashup is that it doesn’t include any of the lyrics from “Eye of the Tiger.” (Seriously, if the guy “[stalking] his prey in the night” is the “last known survivor,” what prey is left to stalk?) But when that killer riff is slammed up against Skee-Lo’s underdog aspirations, you can’t help but think that his dreams—being taller, being a baller, etc.—might just come true. Don’t worry Mr. –Lo, I got picked last in basketball, too.
7. Racing in the Street – Bruce Springsteen (itunes)
- Not that amateur drag racing is a favorite sport of mine or anything. To me, it’s a song about how the need for competition transcends age and status. Then again, I like to pretend that Varsity Blues is a serious film. But I needed one Springsteen song and “Glory Days” is a dull travesty.
6. Boxing – Ben Folds (itunes)
- Just your normal, everyday, imaginary conversation between an aging Muhammad Ali and Howard Cosell. It’s the other side of the coin from “Racing in the Street”; you can turn to sports to feel young, but they can just as easily remind you of your age.
5. Theme from The Natural – Randy Newman (itunes)
- It’s as emotionally manipulative as it is Coplandesque. And that’s fine. I hear it and I see Robert Redford crushing the pennant-winning homerun into the stadium lights, sparks raining down on the outfield. Plus, I always wanted a New York Knights jersey.
4. (You Gotta Have) Heart – from the musical Damn Yankees (itunes)
- As cliché as it seems, this song’s thesis is undeniable: all the talent in the world won’t win ballgames for a team without heart. Now, if Jeter and A-Rod worked this out as a duet, the Yanks would be back on track. (By the way… two songs originally from musical theater on one list? Really?)
3. Fireworks – The Tragically Hip (itunes)
- The relationship between sports and love is a funny one. Some guys keep their sporting lives separate from their romantic lives. For other guys, sports can be a great way to relate to the opposite sex. That line in this song—“You said you didn't give a fuck about hockey / And I never saw someone say that before”—it kills me every time. But the guy lets go of Bobby Orr so he can hold his girl’s hand.
On a side note, I definitely fall into the latter category of guys. Once I saw Mike Mussina take a perfect game into the 9th inning against the Red Sox. With two outs and a 1-2 count on Carl Everett (who doesn’t believe in dinosaurs), I called my then girlfriend and made her turn on the TV. Everett bloops the next pitch into center for a single and my dad just glares at me. What can I say? I was trying to share something I love with someone I loved. Sorry Moose.
2. A Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request – Steve Goodman (itunes)
- As a kid from Buffalo who pulls for Minnesota sports teams, I know a thing or two about senseless devotion. If he’d stayed away from the Cubs, this titular fan might have a few years left. Yet Goodman’s good-natured cynicism is both touching and hilarious; you can hear him smiling the whole time, through defeat and even death.
1. Hit Somebody – Warren Zevon (itunes)
- This song has everything you could ever want. Great story? Check. Infectious chorus? Check. Farmboy from Canada, Hammond organ, and David Letterman? Check, check, and check. Honestly, someone should make a movie out of it. (I usually reserve that sort of praise for ten-minute Dylan epics.) Zevon’s hero, an unwilling goon who longs for something more than pugilism, is eminently relatable. Buddy slaves away every game, securing his teammates’ success with scars and blood, but never demanding the spotlight. In the end, he pays the ultimate price for the lone goal of his career. That’s fucking Greek, man. Can’t you see his crumpled body, bathed in red light, lying in the goal crease? That’s heroic. That’s just a good song.
To me, this question is unanswerable. Sports can galvanize nations, rejuvenate cities, and lift individuals to the pantheon of heroes. I don’t remember my first kiss, but I remember watching Jack Morris and the Minnesota Twins go ten long innings to beat the Atlanta Braves in Game 7 of the ’91 World Series. (I remember most subsequent kisses, however.) On the other hand, a life without music would be virtually pointless… You’d never worry about what song to play at your wedding; you’d never sing “Happy Birthday.” Without music, the boombox held high above Lloyd Dobler’s head would be mute. To truly live, you need both sports and music. So, obviously, it would follow that music about sports would be all the more sacrosanct.
Well. Now that I’ve written a sufficiently bombastic intro… here’s a top ten list.
10. You’ll Never Walk Alone – Liverpool FC Fight Song (itunes)
- So, it’s from the 1945 Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Carousel. Fine. Tell that to 45,000 fans at Anfield, belting it out at the top of their hooligan lungs. I may root for Arsenal—and Carousel is downright depressing—but you have to had it to the Reds… it’s a pretty inspiring song. (Can you imagine American football teams doing this? What if the 70s classic “San Diego Super Chargers” was replaced by “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”?)
9. Centerfield – John Fogerty (itunes)
- Overplayed? Yes, probably. But every year when the opening day of little league rolled around, my dad would play it as I laced up my spikes and for a few perfect moments, anything was possible.
8. I Wish I Was a Little Bit Tiger – Skee-Lo vs. Survivor (Soulwax Mashup)
- The most brilliant thing about this mashup is that it doesn’t include any of the lyrics from “Eye of the Tiger.” (Seriously, if the guy “[stalking] his prey in the night” is the “last known survivor,” what prey is left to stalk?) But when that killer riff is slammed up against Skee-Lo’s underdog aspirations, you can’t help but think that his dreams—being taller, being a baller, etc.—might just come true. Don’t worry Mr. –Lo, I got picked last in basketball, too.
7. Racing in the Street – Bruce Springsteen (itunes)
- Not that amateur drag racing is a favorite sport of mine or anything. To me, it’s a song about how the need for competition transcends age and status. Then again, I like to pretend that Varsity Blues is a serious film. But I needed one Springsteen song and “Glory Days” is a dull travesty.
6. Boxing – Ben Folds (itunes)
- Just your normal, everyday, imaginary conversation between an aging Muhammad Ali and Howard Cosell. It’s the other side of the coin from “Racing in the Street”; you can turn to sports to feel young, but they can just as easily remind you of your age.
5. Theme from The Natural – Randy Newman (itunes)
- It’s as emotionally manipulative as it is Coplandesque. And that’s fine. I hear it and I see Robert Redford crushing the pennant-winning homerun into the stadium lights, sparks raining down on the outfield. Plus, I always wanted a New York Knights jersey.
4. (You Gotta Have) Heart – from the musical Damn Yankees (itunes)
- As cliché as it seems, this song’s thesis is undeniable: all the talent in the world won’t win ballgames for a team without heart. Now, if Jeter and A-Rod worked this out as a duet, the Yanks would be back on track. (By the way… two songs originally from musical theater on one list? Really?)
3. Fireworks – The Tragically Hip (itunes)
- The relationship between sports and love is a funny one. Some guys keep their sporting lives separate from their romantic lives. For other guys, sports can be a great way to relate to the opposite sex. That line in this song—“You said you didn't give a fuck about hockey / And I never saw someone say that before”—it kills me every time. But the guy lets go of Bobby Orr so he can hold his girl’s hand.
On a side note, I definitely fall into the latter category of guys. Once I saw Mike Mussina take a perfect game into the 9th inning against the Red Sox. With two outs and a 1-2 count on Carl Everett (who doesn’t believe in dinosaurs), I called my then girlfriend and made her turn on the TV. Everett bloops the next pitch into center for a single and my dad just glares at me. What can I say? I was trying to share something I love with someone I loved. Sorry Moose.
2. A Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request – Steve Goodman (itunes)
- As a kid from Buffalo who pulls for Minnesota sports teams, I know a thing or two about senseless devotion. If he’d stayed away from the Cubs, this titular fan might have a few years left. Yet Goodman’s good-natured cynicism is both touching and hilarious; you can hear him smiling the whole time, through defeat and even death.
1. Hit Somebody – Warren Zevon (itunes)
- This song has everything you could ever want. Great story? Check. Infectious chorus? Check. Farmboy from Canada, Hammond organ, and David Letterman? Check, check, and check. Honestly, someone should make a movie out of it. (I usually reserve that sort of praise for ten-minute Dylan epics.) Zevon’s hero, an unwilling goon who longs for something more than pugilism, is eminently relatable. Buddy slaves away every game, securing his teammates’ success with scars and blood, but never demanding the spotlight. In the end, he pays the ultimate price for the lone goal of his career. That’s fucking Greek, man. Can’t you see his crumpled body, bathed in red light, lying in the goal crease? That’s heroic. That’s just a good song.
say cheese!
Restaurant: Say Cheese (Note: They deliver!)
New York, NY 10036
(212) 265-8840
“I was just born this way.” I say that a lot. It’s my standard comeback to comments like, “Wow. I can’t believe you can live without eating Chicken. It’s the best… seriously, why do you do this to yourself?” or “I hope you don’t mind that I’m eating these really awesome octopus tentacles right now. I hate when people get offended at what I eat for moral reasons.” To that, I simply say “No morals…” followed by my self-given tagline, “I was just born this way.”
One of my personal favourites is when friends joke (I hope), “All I’ll say is this. If you ever turn vegan, I will never speak to you again.” Sadly, vegans and veggies have a hippie stigma and are notorious for “having a problem” under the guise of “having a cause.” But as a vegetarian from the womb, knowing shockingly little about the joys of meat (a year ago I asked a friend what ham was. Shh), I can tell you with absolute certainty that I have no problem over-eating my fair share of non-lettuce centred meals. While I do listen to Cat Stevens, everyone knows I like my occasional dose of Britney. Though I admittedly try, I’m no hippie. And I could never be a vegan. Why? CHEESE. Why will I drop whatever I’m doing for some Brie and baguettes? I was just born with a penchant for cheese.
Naturally, Say Cheese caught my eye immediately. It’s a small unassuming eatery-- extremely casual, and overwhelmingly enticing. Everything on the menu features a cheese as its star. Save the salads. But who chooses salads over cheese? Only those hippie vegans, right? My friends and I moseyed over for a lazy Sunday lunch, and thankfully the slightly-nicer-than-fast-food atmosphere was very conducive to our silly moods. My friends enjoyed mozzarella sticks and a “Presto Pesto” sandwich (which had Chicken in it. Not offended, see?), while I had a classic grilled cheese and tomato cheddar soup (melt-in-your-mouth scrumptious for a total of only $5!). I mean, maybe I was just really hungry. So anything would have tasted good? All I know is that it was comfort food in every way mixed with fits of laughter. A lot of yum for my buck.
I’ve always been of the “anything tastes fine if you add enough salt” mentality. If no salt, a sharp cheese fixes anything. Any hole-in-the-wall is a great time if you’re with the right company. If you’re sitting there thinking yes, YES, and yes… get yourself to Say Cheese.
a dry martoni
some people are just born lucky. the type of people for whom the 2 is just always across the platform at 96th when they’re in a hurry and that wake up without an alarm when it matters. the type that the nevada gaming council does its very best to keep out of vegas.
i am not one of those people. but i wholeheartedly support having lucky friends if it’s at all possible.
i don’t think i’ve ever been to a professional sporting event and seen the team i was rooting for come out on top. when i was 19 i went gambling for the first time, lost five bucks in nickel slots (and that is a LOT of nickels!) and vowed to never go back. and the express train? if i’m running late, it’s running local. but! to my credit, i have never lost a cakewalk and i have fortunate friends. so when a particularly providential pal came into two tickets for the tonys—about three hours before we had to actually be in our seats in the first mezz of radio city—i just laughed in amazement. for about two seconds. then i sprinted to duane reade to buy a new pair of fake eyelashes and a bottled tan.
THE TONYS! how am i supposed to talk about 5,000 people that love musical theater so much they wear sequins on AND off stage (see: krakowski, jane; noni-rose, anika; and kurtz, swoosie) all gathered under the same roof to celebrate the genre?! it was four hours of pretending to be glamorous and important and fancying myself thisclose to being actually on the stage and bemoaning spring awakening’s domination and using pretension to mask giddiness born from nervousness born from oh-my-gosh-bernadette-peters-is-standing-next-to-me and carrying my judith leiber bag like it was necessary without telling anyone that it actually only had my lipgloss and literally nothing else in it because i gave my id and my credit card to my date and had to check my camera at the door.
at some point there’s a voice over in that movie match point where the guy says something to the effect of “i’d rather be lucky than good”. i think i’d rather be good, with a heaping helping of auspicious associates, a seriously stocked closet of sparkly dresses to wear to fabulous functions, and about a million blank thank you cards.
i am not one of those people. but i wholeheartedly support having lucky friends if it’s at all possible.
i don’t think i’ve ever been to a professional sporting event and seen the team i was rooting for come out on top. when i was 19 i went gambling for the first time, lost five bucks in nickel slots (and that is a LOT of nickels!) and vowed to never go back. and the express train? if i’m running late, it’s running local. but! to my credit, i have never lost a cakewalk and i have fortunate friends. so when a particularly providential pal came into two tickets for the tonys—about three hours before we had to actually be in our seats in the first mezz of radio city—i just laughed in amazement. for about two seconds. then i sprinted to duane reade to buy a new pair of fake eyelashes and a bottled tan.
THE TONYS! how am i supposed to talk about 5,000 people that love musical theater so much they wear sequins on AND off stage (see: krakowski, jane; noni-rose, anika; and kurtz, swoosie) all gathered under the same roof to celebrate the genre?! it was four hours of pretending to be glamorous and important and fancying myself thisclose to being actually on the stage and bemoaning spring awakening’s domination and using pretension to mask giddiness born from nervousness born from oh-my-gosh-bernadette-peters-is-standing-next-to-me and carrying my judith leiber bag like it was necessary without telling anyone that it actually only had my lipgloss and literally nothing else in it because i gave my id and my credit card to my date and had to check my camera at the door.
at some point there’s a voice over in that movie match point where the guy says something to the effect of “i’d rather be lucky than good”. i think i’d rather be good, with a heaping helping of auspicious associates, a seriously stocked closet of sparkly dresses to wear to fabulous functions, and about a million blank thank you cards.
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