Last night, I exited a performance of "Die Agyptische Helena" at the Met to encounter a happy sight: there was a newly opened P.J. Clarke's restaurant across the street, ready for business. I have long bemoaned the lack of attractive eating and drinking options around Lincoln Center. So, though this Clarke's is just another pale copy of the real thing (the second of its kind, by my count, after the Financial District branch), I welcome it with open arms.
Inside, it's what you'd expect. Woody, red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, old photographs; the usual old-time hokum. Still looks too new, not lived-in enough. The space is huge and will easily suck up dozens upon dozens of concert-goers. The menu appears to be the same as what you'd find on Third Avenue. The vibe was friendly and good-natured.
They're still working things out. Our waitress was lively and sweet, but we were twice served a salad we didn't order. Our Manhattans were well made, but our food choices—chili, calamari, fries—were all uniformly taste-free, nothing like the chow on Third. Oh, well. It was their fifth day open. Since I get to LCT fairly enough, I'm sure to be back.