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Some special moments and places still make New York, New York.
Just yesterday, my good pal Kim and I went to check out the charming little tea pop-up shoppe of Waris. We sipped on oolong tea from the Himalayas, in what seemed like a bottomless pot, and Cafe Cluny granola.
The shop carries: Olympia LeTan (the first time her totes will be sold stateside), Assouline and Sponge Skincare and Bar Pitti olive oil. Take heed: The French 50th edition poster of Breathless about to run out.
We also met the nicest guy around, Gregory Sparks from Boffo. The tea went down even better. Check out the remaining Building Fashion fall schedule.
Oh, Waris’ tea, today is his last day. It’s worth it. Make time.
and forever MORE.
Yes, I’m still a sucker for his pop culture takes on such stores I’m allergic too; i.e. Prada. Today, The Selby is in his studio and not to be missed.
From an earlier, fascinating piece via This Recording’s “In Which Nothing Will Cut New York But A Diamond” the writer talks about the author Dawn Powell and I consider this with great fascination and truth. A true Midwest fish in a big New York Sea.
People think New York changes, but it never does. It doesn’t matter whether the year is 1919 or 2009: the city has always been too expensive and too vicious. A letter Powell wrote to a college friend shortly after her arrival in New York touched on what would become the central themes of her novels. “Beauty,” she stated, “is after all the only thing in the world that matters—not mental or spiritual beauty or any of that lying rot, but splendid physical beauty. . Let us not mention money—it is so obvious that it is money that makes beauty possible, so that very likely money is the only thing that matters more than beauty.”
She was lucky: those of us raised in New York have no other half, no dream-island to fall back on when the real city disappoints. We are all New York, and it is the rest of the world that seems unreal. Failure here means failure in full; a life lived elsewhere would be less than a life.
I’ve always had affinity for Crosby Street, a quiet little cobbletsone street which still sweeps away tourists (less those who hit the Crosby Street Hotel). Perhaps, it still feels like an old New York. I love it’s various shops a la MZ Wallace (my given), Housing Works Bookstore, MoMA Design Store, and south down the street to places such as the backdoor to Bloomingdale’s, N33, the Vespa SOHO branch and the gallery, Dutescoart Gallery, which houses the horses and that surfboard.
Crosby, a street with great private residences, an industrial feel and good news, graffati. The New York Times drew up a nice article on Crosby Street here. “Not so long ago, Crosby was little more than a supply street to the big buildings on Broadway (shoppers don’t seem to notice that there’s an alternate entrance to Bloomingdale’s on Crosby that’s much more low-key than the main doors on Broadway), and in fact, the street’s backdoor status may have served to protect it.”
While on Spring Street, I bounced over to Housing Works Bookstore Cafe I spent many days sipping coffee, moving through old piles of great books and of course, attempting to write a book (still untitled, still writing, still about an underachiever). It’s one of those great city treasures, rows and piles of books, rare finds, LP’s and old paperbacks for .50 cents. Not bad.
Regarding the classic speakeasy, Chumley’s it’s still reported via Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York construction is a long, long ways away.
Earlier I Loved New York pieces on the perennial fave: The Hits…Yes, they Keep on Coming and (at the time) …an overly optimistic post, Showing Signs of Life.
(image: Greenwich Village Daily Photo)
Funny things happen at Pravda. It’s where my visiting friend ordered three $25 glasses of Johnny Walker Blue, another sat next door to Jerry Seinfield and shared “eyes” pre-Soshana and one or two bent on mind-erasers. It’s that subterranean world which is like no other, with a formula (and the Balthazar stamp behind it) standing the test of time. Down the stairs you go. Inside: round, red leather banquets, a curvaceous, full-stocked bar, skinny little model servers, distressed mirrors, low candlelight and great drinks.
After all these years, the place is still cool.
Photo by Youngna Park/NYM
Lupa is one of those great joints for shaved meats and cheeses. I love it for lunch. It’s Batali at his most chill read: accessible. Beyond one meal when I over-dosed on carne, in this case cow’s brain. Otherwise, I’ve left with the most satisfying feeling. The pastas are al dente and perfectly seasoned. Sardines and tuna with cannellini beans. Rabbit sausage. Need I say more? The catch of the day, a whole roasted insanely fresh fish (bone in). If the Tomoe line is too long; please know you can always drop by for a glass of vines. The smell alone inside …I like to sit upfront at a communal table. Sneak in; sneak out. I’ve always had great meals with great friends at Lupa.
Wednesday’s posts are turning into food related extravaganzas. I like it. A Saturday was always incomplete without someone eating Parisi Deli (209 Elizabeth Street). The amazing bread, thick and generous cuts of meats and cheeses. The main figure and family legacy, Joe tells jokes to the older Italian women while everyone laughs, the firemen come over in the morning and if you don’t arrive by 2 o’clock the bread is probably already gone.
Read an earlier post mentioning Parisi + Lunch spots here. And if you are still hungry, check out my Dinner scene.
Back in my New York day, I always like to visit the 1963 established Cinema Village on West 12th. I remember that rainy day…a large tub of popcorn with a kiss of butter and Bunuel’s insanely fun Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. I miss having access to projected film. I miss old theatres who play great films.
