New York Story

July +, 2009

A summary:

Nice work if you can get it
Hawk!
Spite the devil and NY will name something after you

"Minneapolis... you can be a big fish here", my friend sloganizes over a whiskey.
It's his bachelor party and we are in Minneapolis at probably the coolest bar I have ever had the pleasure of getting stupid in and “I live in New York City!” I say, amazed. But here at Nye's Polonaise Room in Minneapolis... there are round, high-backed booths with sparkly vinyl upholstery. There is a second bar surrounding a piano in the corner with a crusty pianist and a microphone for karaoke jazz standards. There is a guy with a saxophone sitting at one end of this bar providing ridiculous accompaniment. My Maker's Mark costs $4... and as if that's not enough... there is an adjoining bar with a great, dance-worthy, live funk band kind of rocking the damn house down AND a patio area with a sassy bouncer ready to light a cigar, eavesdrop on your conversation and eulogize about his establishment . There are karaoke regulars in suits congratulating each other, there's a hipster contingent looking carefully displeased in the back, there's another guy out for his bachelor party with a bowling ball chained to his waist... and there are fabulously drunk and enthusiastic Japanese businessmen dancing with open mouths and fists pumping the air. Their pigtailed, schoolgirl uniformed escort looks at me over her shoulder and widens her eyes with amused exasperation... Inga steals her and makes her dance with us. The Japanese businessmen have clearly never been so happy.. ever.

We take over the place. We make ourselves at home.
We dance. Inga sings. We buy Chandler lethal sounding drinks. Ben tries on a... garbage bag? he finds in the gutter.
We walk home at 2:00 in the morning (the bars close at 2!), it takes about twenty minutes, along the Mississippi, over the bridge. We pass one person. One person! I flash a picture of him because he is such a novelty... and he is completely unsurprised.
"Oohkay. (he drawls out with Minnesotan length). Have a good night, now."

This last March I was in Austin, Texas for the SXSW film festival. Texas looks like Spokane, WA... sprawling and rusty. Boxy, brown buildings with gaping black windows stand next to faux, old-worldy americana, over-elaborate government buildings in white marble with frothy moldings tacked on next to big, reaching churches.
I had been in Austin ten minutes and I could feel a home building inside me. Looking out on the wide sidewalks, the bright, dry air. Home... not here necessarily, but somewhere like here. The man behind the counter making my coffee would be an awkward first date and eventually be my neighbor, and then my good friend's boyfriend. The Mexican Food/ Rug Cleaners out on TX Hwy 83 would be my favorite place to slum it up on the weekend. I'd buy a car, paint my house in bright colors like a taco hut. The lone star belt buckle I would wear would start out being ironic but would soon leave it's shadow on every pair of my pants. I'd say 'howdy' like I meant it until I did.

Home. [hohm] noun. A house. adjective. Principal or main. adverb. Deep; to the heart verb. To go or return... home.

The arrow struck home. Homing in on the truth, the target. Now we’re in the home stretch! Homebody. Homeland security. Home plate. Home spun. That really hit/drove it/ nothing to write/ until the cows come/ make everyone feel at/ eat you out of house and home free/ made/ less/ town/ room/ page/ field advantage/ brew/ is where the heart is.

Home is where you imagine yourself most... yourself.

You make yourself at home.

In Tompkins Square Park yesterday among the smack addicts, the musicians and the hipster dog-walkers... I saw this scrappy old hawk tugging at a branch in a tree. He was mangy, big tufts of feathers clumped up on his back. The branch came loose and plummeted to the ground... with the hawk in tow. He didn't let go. Just hit the ground, rearranged his grip and flew off again low to the ground, struggling under the weight but determined. He'd found the thing and he was damn well taking it for himself.


Of note... so much!:
The website for Nye's Polonaise Room is one tan page... no links, no pictures, just one plain, beige field that says simply "The Best Bar in America" with an address and phone number.
Chinatown Candy Store/ Travel Agency. ???(Mott? Elizabeth St.?)I don't remember what it's called and they wouldn't let me take photographs but wow. Anywhere I can book a flight to Hong Kong while eating candied shrimp deserves a mention...
Pure Dark. (Bleecker. W. Village) The people here are so nice! And it's their job to give you free stuff, like chocolate covered blueberries and cardamom cashews... amazing.
Murray's Cheese Shop.(Bleecker) Sopressata flatbread and cheese straws. Mmm...

Art Bar.(West Villageish) Great back room. Dark like the dead of night with low-slung couches and a horrible 'last supper' mural with an incongruous bunch that includes Frida Kahlo, Richard Nixon and Jim Morrison.
Alice's Teacup.(UWS) This place is magical. I bit into a warm strawberry/chocolate chip scone and started weeping. A chemical reaction. Like someone had flipped a switch. Alycia made me keep crying until she could take a picture. Ahh, friends.
Superfine.(DUMBO) I went here for brunch on a Sunday. The BEST huevos rancheros I have ever had. And the live bluegrass band, "The Mayor of Goodtimes and the Bleeding Hearts"... adorable... if a little immediately on top of our table. The guy on the upright bass was obscured so that you could only see his face. He had a distracted, slack jawed countenance and was staring out the window while he played... I kept thinking 'wait, who is that guy behind the band? Is he fixing something?'.
Miriam. (Park Slope) Holy shit. I love brunch. Delicious, unique Israeli food. Get the burekas - amazing. I have to go back for the highly lauded Mediterranean crispy dough.
Cafe Luluc. Wonderful French brunch place open weekdays - take a lesson, world.
92Y Tribeca. NY premiere of Little Dizzle was here. Nice environment and staff. Crappy sound system.
Rudy's. (Hell's Kitchen) Divey dive bar. The doorman was so drunk he had to lean on me while I was getting out my I.D. Free hotdogs! Classy joint.
Vol de Nuit or just The Belgian Beer Bar. (NYU) I had a Maredsous (whoo! dark, creamy deliciousness) and a Leffe blond.
San Loco. (LES) Catfish Guaco Loco, Catfish Guaco Loco, Catfish Guaco Loco... yeah. Matt Wilson, I love your crazy face.
Yakitori Taisho.(East Village). Super legit, late night Japanese deliciousness. It's crowded and rowdy, the chairs are uncomfortable, the decor is bizarre... the chefs are in your lap. Wonderful.
Typhoon Lounge. (East Village) Another late night Japanese place. We managed to piss off the staff, coming in late with a big group, one of whom smuggled in some fried hot dogs like an asshole. Delicious sushi, curried beef, sesame chicken.
Fette Sau. (Williamsburg) Total carnage. One wall is illustrated with different cuts of meat, carefully labeled "Shank" and "Cushion Shoulder". The taps at the bar are made from rusty, old meat cleavers. The brisket was out of this world as was the potato salad. And the bartender was very helpful in picking out an amazing Pennsylvania Hirsch bourbon. I also tried my friend's more traditional Kentucky-born Black Maple Hill bourbon... pretty tasty, but a little on the light side..
Spuyten Duyvil. (Williamsburg) Belgian beer bar that looks like 'the company store' in a Disney old west with rude bartenders and a wonderful large and ivy-lined but weirdly quiet back garden.

Which brings me to this historical bonus...
Spuyten Duyvil.
Belgian beer bar in Williamsburg, Neighborhood in the Bronx, Creek joining the Harlem River and the Hudson... from the Dutch ‘spinning devil’
Re-imagined by Washington Irving, the legend of Spuyten Duyvil goes something like this.... Peter Stuyvesant, then governor of New Amsterdam, sent his trumpeter, Anthony van Corlear, to warn the Dutch settlers that the English navy was about to invade. A storm was brewing when Anthony reached the northernmost tip of Manhattan, about 10 blocks from where I sit in lovely Inwood. He stood on the banks and called for the ferryman to take him across. When the ferryman did not answer, he "vapored like an impatient ghost upon the brink" and then dove in with his trumpet held high, deciding he would swim across if he had to. Half way across, the devil reached up and took hold of his leg, pulling him down into the waters. He struggled and fought and just as he freed himself he sent a blare from his trumpet into the night. But the storm was too strong and the shore too far and "in spite of the devil", he sank to the bottom and drowned.
On a stormy night, it's said, on the banks of the Spuyten Duyvil, you can still hear Anthony's trumpet blowing "louder than the wind".