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for Cafe Colonial (as earlier reported here). Sadly, this is the end of an era for the block (raising rents thanks to Keith McNally’s pizza joint) of original places such as the M&R Bar and Rialto. We know the Cafes of Habana and Gitane will stand the test of time…but now it’s worrisome to think of cool ole’ spots a la Tom & Jerry’s going South.
Wow, as I type this under a gray domed sky, it surpises me a victory was commanded via the Shack. Curbed reports (via other reports) indeed, Danny Meyers withdrew his plans for the Nolita joint to sit cemetary side from Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It still doesn’t mean neighbors should chill-ax (to which some seem to really have wanted those burgers).Nope, this battle isn’t over. Something will venture to that desloate, high rent real estate.
Promise you that.
The Shake Shack invasion of New York is throwing down take-out style in Nolita. Eek. Granted, Danny Meyers (a Midwesterner) endeavor cooks up a mean steak burger (much like what I grew up on in Kansas City at places such as Winsteads), still, it’s cropping up on holy ground. Old. Saint Patrick’s ground. Yes, I wish I concepted the idea, packaged and brought it to New York pearly gates. Still yet, the neighborhood already T-boned by long lines is about to further T- bone itself. The Villager reports Nolita nabes aren’t totally down with the idea:
“Residents of the historic Little Italy neighborhood of Nolita have reacted with a mixture of shock, dread and horror as news spread of the hamburger chain Shake Shack’s proposed location in the heart of the picturesque area,” read a press release from concerned neighbors, including the Little Italy Neighborhood Association and the Little Italy Restoration Association.
According to residents, the proposed outdoor seating area above the sidewalk-level eatery poses overcrowding and noise problems for the tenants living in an adjacent residential building, as well as for the 195-year-old St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral and cemetery directly across the street. Neighbors fear that without sufficient seating, the restaurant will force customers to flood the streets to scarf down their orders — disrupting the area’s quality of life and impinging on the historic church’s presence.”
As Bill Murray might conjure in Ghostbusters; “Nobody steps on a church in my town.” Bill, we need you. (a related piece on the No-Ness factor at the Nolitan.)
Take a trip with me to Cafe El Portal (down the stairs on Elizabeth Street) where proprietor Igancio’s mom is cooking up insane authentic food a la Nopales Burritos, some of the best guacamole and pico around, not to mention the pork tacos with a hint of lime. Wash it down with a Jarritos or Cerveza. Know the Mezcal flows freely (makes for a great post lunch sip) as does the small, warm blue-hued vibe of the place.
okay; just when i thought the boutique hotel thing was winding down, im horrified to read about a place oddly entitled; the Nolitan. Roll out the red carpet kids. When I lived in Nolita; did that make me one of these Nolitans? What is a Nolitan? An Avatar-like-Alien who wears Three as Four wardrobe and dreams of a dinner with Bjork. Regardless, the little trendy pink website is up; you can check it here.
Makes my brian hurts just to think about it; more of the La Esquina crowd (some of whom I like very much) decked to the halls. And what about the Crosby Street Hotel? They’re all soon to be forgotten. Henny Penny the sky is falling; it’s raining boutiques. Pouring. Personally, I still like to shack up at 60 Thom; a mere dinosaur in a massive, overcrowded swamp of over thought (i.e., overly designed) hotels where you never leave to step out on the city streets because all your needs are under one roof. Someone should take a page from the Portland hotels because they get it done right.
It’s true you know.
There goes the neighborhood. Come to think of it; the neighborhood has been gone for a long time. Now it’s really gone.
(my two related articles on this subject; read here and here.)
I was not a regular at Buffa’s, but while living on Mott Street I knew about it and stopped in a few times. It was one of those special old New York places with tons of character and characters that you hope will exist indefinitely. It is places like Buffa’s that made me fall in love with this city.
Unfortunately, Buffa’s no longer exists and what has replaced it is a sleek unimaginative café called Delicatessen offering mediocre food and drink at prices that don’t merit the cookie cutter atmosphere. In the last 10 years many of these types of places have cropped up around town offering their neighbors nothing while happily ripping off the unsuspecting tourists. Even though I know better I hastily sat down with my friend Jackie this past October not wanting to walk further to find another outdoor café that would accommodate us and our two dogs. We had lunch and some cocktails and for the most part all was acceptable except for the bland food and hands off service. Then the bill arrived and we saw that Jackie’s Bloody Mary was mixed with Ketel One vodka which she did not specify and it cost $15. We asked our aloof , wannabe hipster waiter about it and his reply was “Ketel One is the standard here…besides this is Soho.” We were speechless and couldn’t believe our ears. We didn’t need to be told where we were, we knew EXACTLY where we were. I don’t think a Bloody Mary costs $15 at Balthazar or at The Mercer Hotel, two chic, longstanding establishments a stone’s throw away. And, even if they do I wouldn’t flinch because everything else they have to offer makes it totally worth it.
We let the manager know about our waiter’s comments and she too defended the $15 price. It was not about the price at all, it was about the attitude. Even though the manager eventually took the drink off the bill we still felt disheartened that we got no apology or acknowledgement of the waiter’s rude behavior. It is really sad that this kind of place has replaced charming Buffa’s.
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Christina Dalle Pezze: After 10 years in Manhattan she defected to Brooklyn, but ventures back on the island every day to care for her thriving business, Simple Silhouettes in Soho.
Say what you want kids, this Turk’s bar was the Sunday Night party.
As I think about the warm, moody lighting and those round Turkish lights (many have ripped off this look), and pink lit butterflies…I can only help to think of “Sweet” as a surf bar once you step in the back garden and watch Jimmy One at his margarita station or listen to Alo spin some tales, barside. It was one of the first places to pop up off the Bowery when nobody was coming around. So, I dare say, pioneer to the founding Jimbo. Tip hat. The memories here are thick ; everyone in my family has dropped in. Outside, my mom thought a rat on a wire was a chipmunk (such a good, clean mind). During the week, it’s lowkey and neighborhoodly. It’s a nice place to order a Lombardi’s pizza. The music used to trip off an old jute box, like the Spring Lounge, it’s been upgraded, still produces nice beats.
Although the surfboards are down and it’s lost some of that tiki hut vibe (compliments of the State of NY); it’s still a place to hang with large groups of friends. Many birthdays, goodbyes and hellos (interchangeable) are had at this bar. But, perhaps that’s just more of life’s patterns.
It’s always been chill, hip and unpretentious (sans a few invasions and moments… I won’t go there)…and I always enjoy walking in. Good seasonal stuff; inside the warmth come holidays and sip coldies in the warm, summer months.
(image by Noah Kalina)
Good news from good people. Here is one L O N G success story out of Elizabeth Street. I still have my Unis black winter wool coat, wear it proudly. Dang, wish I were there for the party (and discount). Dope. Here’s to 9 more.
From UNIS:
It is our 9th Year Anniversary.
Happy Birthday to us!!!
And to celebrate we’re offering 30% discount all day Nov 20th, Friday in our Nolita location. Oh, drinks from 6-8pm that day too. And a modest party at the same location.
Faded memories of Little Charlie’s Clam Bar by old Mott street resident Abbie Kunath Park.
The giant shark painted in a glossy red color.
The giant plexi vat of iced beer.
The white clam sauce.
yum.
Like good ole’ English Tarka sings in a favorite song, Lovely New York (please, please have a listen here), I’m easily able to retrace my steps on the best linear block in New York City. Period. I’ve walked it a million times.
image: fashionista
My walk is a walk over a long period of my time in New York. It’s a walk with ghosts. It’s still a nice walk.
I kick off at the New Museum perched a top the Bowery before I make my way onto Spring. I hit the After Nature exhibit and opt for the stairs. It feels good to walk. I feel much excitement even as I’m out of breath climbing….climbing forever along the steep concrete steps. The building smells new and white. I count the stairs as I curve around. You see, I need the exercise and elevators always make me feel awkward. I’m wheezing by the time I’m reach the top. Boy…am I out of shape or what? This particular exhibit hangs a large taxidermied horse sawed right at the head with its long tail in my face.
The irony.
I’m the ass.
Maurizio Cattelan, Untitled, 2007.
I finally arrive on Spring Street, passing Jay Maisel’s (190 Bowery) massive photo house/studio. I smile. I love the fact he hasn’t sold out; it’s 35,000 square feet of an old Germania bank building and proudly maintains its wear and tear. Good for him. I catch the bus boy (one of Jimbo’s new guys) hosing off the sidewalk in front of Sweet and Vicious (5 Spring) and zigzag across the street to visit Jen Bekman (6 Spring) and her perfectly astute gallery. Hey, I just passed where I used to dwell (someone else has the 5th floor apartment). Yo, Nicky Fresh. Looks the same except for a new paint job. My attention turns as the loud guy barks from across the street, the one that hangs out the window-smoking butts all day. I once watched him lower a bucket to collect …something. So I visit next door, the natty bespoke shop, Duncan Quinn (8 Spring). The Beatles music (Help!) is playing loud and it smells like pricey cologne. I almost buy a hankie or a bright tie (from good ole’ Teddy) for “my man” but I still hold the money tight.
ahhh...good day mates at DQ.
Walking…past Wylie Law (hey, Wylie) and the Vig (12 Spring–no love lost here) SANS the one time I made Rory and Robin join me (on a mission). I glance over at the old Horse Stables where the inventor used to live (he kept the place as ratty as Maisel) with lit candles in each window. Long story short…he sold out to Rubert Murdoch’s kid who in turn sold out to a developer who came up with the Candle Building (11 Spring) which just sold for $26 million (originally $40 large).
It’s lunchtime and I sneak into Bread (20 Spring) before the rush, the annoying tatooed guy and fashion chicks arrive. I sit at the white tiled bar and order the “Special Salad” with mesclun cherry tomatoes olives fennel Sicilian tuna and avocado in house dressing. It is indeed special. I leave just as a Louis Vitton bag plops down by my Chuck Taylors. Back on the road again. I pick up two packs of my favorite anti-oxidant Superpac vitamins from the corner Bodega (Spring + Mott). Back outside, I notice the line getting long at Lombardi’s and think of the fun times with Kerry drinking a Heineken and eating a pie (with olives). Gee, I miss delivery. Wow. My mouth is watering and I’m full. Still, it’s good NOT to be in that line. I detest lines. Soon, the designer ice cream shop with the Vespa will own another line. I don’t like that side of the block.
The kids scream and play outside at the DeSalvio Playground. The Chinese guys play chess. The pigeons look for scraps. The garbage stinks. I think I hear birds chirping. An older man is working on his Tai chi. Good for him. He’ll live to be 100.
I wave to the bartender (Michelle hasn’t arrived yet) at48 Spring, now that’s a landmark. The Spring Lounge (aka Shark Bar) where I met my (now) husband seven years (and some change) ago. He would now say ”Spring Street is dead…”. NO it’s NOT, I counter. Well, maybe you can’t go home again. (Tarka sings: “I want to go home…I just can’t go home. I want to go home.“) Stop singing. Stop thinking. Still, I love those low tables and little stools. I love the juke box, even if it’s electric now, even if the Schaffer is a dollar more. The lounge doors are open. Always tempting that Spring Lounge. My wedding picture is hanging behind the bar. Hey, there’s Vinnie watching the Yankees. Michelle must not be working today. Ho-hum. I wave again and move along.
I crave carbs. What about a slice of pizza at Pommies (Pomodoro’s )? Nah. I drop in Nails by Deca (50 Spring) for a pedicure. It will last 2 weeks and I always dig the happy ending neck massage. I cross the street to Ceci Cela for a cup of Americana. I think of Tarka again… glancing next door at Gatsbys. You know, the pub which plays all that bloody footie.
Spring Street still has its ghosts.
I’ve made it to Layafette. I’ve been on the block over 2 hours. That’s right, I haven’t left Spring Street yet. You know a street is special when you can spend an entire day kicking it. I pick up the Post and pretentious glossy magazine at the corner magazine shop which smells like rolling paper and tobacco. Outside, I smell a blast of the subway down under. Moving…always moving, I pass Kates Paperie (72 Spring); do I really need my favorite pen? I crisscross over to MoMA Design Store (86 Spring) to purchase some postcards and Muji. I love Muji. I run up to MZ Wallace (on Crosby Street). Bummer, they don’t have any of my favorite totes anymore. Oh well.
Back on Spring, the streets are bustling. I take a seat on the benches in front of Balthazar and read the paper.
I’m only forced to leave when an annoying bike messenger irks me. At first, I’m friendly but then he turns unnecessarily strange. Get off the meth, dude. I leave my Post behind for the next person who pretends to read and instead watches the people under their darkened designer shades.
I cross Broadway, making my way into Soho where retail lives. I love walking into Chanel (130 Spring) with it’s fancy bags and shoes and all that glitters. At this juncture, I might wander off the beaten path and visit Barneys Co-Op, Patagonia, Morgan Le Fay, DWR’s Tools For Living, Knoll and Adidas.
By now, it’s 4ish and I’m stopping in on my friend Kim. She just got a killer 10 minute back massage from Spa Belles (202 Spring) and I visited the Spring Street Wine Shop (187 Spring) to pick a bottle of Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse 08. I pass Aqua Grill, (210 Spring) it’s been there a long time. I always like their raw bar. Good brunch, too. I pass the fire station and those brave souls. Smack in the face to the new Trump building (I detest Trump and his gold shrines). I feel invaded but move on. I’ve almost made it to the end of Spring Street, but not before I have some suds at the Ear, a bar so old it slants not to mention you can talk horse racing with the patrons.
And, if Im lucky I’ll have a warm dinner over at Giorgione with the , Tonno con Avocado e Rugola, tuna tartar, avocado, arugula, the Tonno Alla Griglia grilled yellow fin tuna, braised green lentils, roasted tomatoes, zucchini and some of that Super Tuscan (the other KD showed me that rope). And Donna, who shared a wood oven pizza with me.
I wish I had time to walk across the West Side Highway and stroll along the path. I’m tired.
My day on Spring has come to an end…the night is fading and still yet, “I have miles to go before I sleep”.
It’s still early in the middle west but a girl can still dream of being out of work’s trenches and free of the day’s grip.
Ah, many good nights, I would slip into Peasant where rustic farm tables and gothic rustic chic candles burned to hear the murmur of someone’s pre IPod crazed mix, a bottle of red and a helping of the bread sticks. The Ralph Lauren set designers couldn’t mimic this scene if they tried. Well…Maybe across the Bowery to Loreley for a pint and a snack mate, if it still wasn’t too dark outside, a drink at the Spring Lounge (hard to believe I haven’t touched on this one yet…soon come), or over to the long wood bar of the ever-electic, fashion crowd at Sweet and Vicious where the juke box eats your money but you might not hear your song.
In fact, sometimes, you just don’t hear your song.
During the course of the day, I will follow my old footsteps (at various points of my time in New York). Here I sit drinking Starbucks Coffee, that dirty powerhouse, a shoppe I NEVER dropped into. Why you ask? Because I would rather drink about a million other cups of coffee ranging from the street carts, the deli’s for a predictable cup of joe and my egg white and cheese on whole wheat toast…to my stroll to Ceci Cela for a cafe Americana and ham & cheese baguette, to go please. Café Con Leche and molettes at the Cafe Habana… barside. And that favorite walk down Spring Street to Balthazar Bakery for my all time favorite cup of coffee, where I would sit on the long benches people watching, reading my paper or merely passing time.
Yep, I sit here and drink my Starbucks enviously knowing those mentioned above are open for business this morning. I would probably really be irked now that Stumptown is around. I drink it from my friend (and old Portlander) Kim’s French press. Lucky me, I can order online. Still, something about ordering feels a sad, second place consolation prize for the real thing…live coffee.
Hmph.
See you at lunch.
