Version of McHale's to Return?

McHale's, the timeless bar at the corner of 46th and Eighth, closed more than six years ago. And it still hurts. You can go visit the neon sign at Emmett O'Lunney's pub on W. 50th Street. But otherwise, not a trace of it remains outside the memories of a few hundred Broadway stagehands. Me, I now go to Jimmy's Corner for my beer and the Edison Cafe for cheap Times Square eats.

Now, JVNY reports the words of tipster who says this: "This past Friday I was walking with friends in Midtown and we stopped by the gin mill on West 50th St that has the old McHale's 'BAR' sign. The lady standing in front told us that 'McHale's is re-opening on 51st St.' We immediately walked over to investigate. There is a bar under construction on the north side of 51st St between Broadway and 8th Ave, real modern looking, no sign up. We yelled in to what appeared to be the owner or at least manager who was going over blueprints or something. We asked 'is this place McHale's?' and he said yes. We cried that 'how can you name a place after a former business?' and he said 'why can’t I?' then backed off when he heard our outrage and came up with what I think is a story. He said 'I bought the name' and when we asked about 'Jimmy' he said he’d be there once a week and that they hired the old chef from McHale's."

This news may be so. But it cheers me not at all. Listen, I can open up an eatery and call it Toots Shor, but it doesn't it make it so—any more than Gabe Stuhlman's Fedora has anything to do with the original Fedora; the current Hurley's is a patch on the original bar on Sixth Avenue; or John DeLucie's upcoming restaurant in the Bill's Gay 90s space will have any real connection with Bill's.

McHale's outside the original McHale's space and location would not be McHale's. McHale's without Jimmy McHale would not be McHale's. Recreating burgers, however good, does not reconstitute a 70-year-old bar. Sorry.

To find out more about what I thought about McHale's and its shuttering, see here and here and here.

McHale's: Five Years Gone

McHale's Bar—the closure of which Times Square watering hole led to the creation of this blog—has been gone for five years.

It was pushed out in January 2006 after 62 years in business by the rent hike of a greedy landlord. There was hue and cry from its clientele and the air rang with protests, but it was all for naught. Owner Jimmy McHale (above), son of his father (also named Jimmy), who founded the place, moved out quietly and let the condo tower known at Platinum NYC rise on the northeast corner of Eighth Avenue and 46th Street. The monolith stands there still, offering no hints as to the intersection's former resident. The stagehands who had made the bar their home moved grudgingly around the corner to the Playwrights Tavern.

At the time of the shutting, Jimmy McHale made some vague comments about the bar reopening some day. But nothing came of that. The chef moved on to Rendezvous, an eatery across Eighth Avenue, and for a time that place advertised McHale's burgers on their menu. But soon enough, that place closed as well. Jimmy said he was saving much of the interior and the classic neon sign. However, in 2007, one of the McHale's signs turned up in a Chelsea antique shop. And in 2010, Lost City discovered that the biggest of the McHale's neon signs had found a new home in Emmet O'Lunney's on W. 50th Street. The owner apparently made an offer on the sign in the days before McHale's closed, and Jimmy McHale took the deal. The sign was restored and installed. So, I'd say there is zero chance of a new McHale's rising from the ashes.

I wonder what became of up the joint's long wooden bar, which hailed from the 1939 World's Fair. I hope some bar somewhere is using it. If anyone has any news of it, or of Jimmy's whereabouts, please write it.

I still have the McHale's t-shirt Jimmy himself gave me on my final visit to the bar. I don it only occasionally. I don't want to wear it out, because I know there won't be any more coming to me. 

McHale's Neon Sign Found Inside Other Times Square Bar

Tipsters have been very good to me this week. A reader, knowing how important the 2006 demise of the Times Square bar McHale's was to this blog, alerted me to the fact that the tavern's great old neon sign had not been lost to the scrap heap. It had been bought and saved, and hung inside Emmett O'Lunney's pub on W. 50th Street between Broadway and Eighth.

Could this be true? I trembled with excitement.

Read more »

A Good Sign: Hallucinogenic Edition

A Flikr account called Jon & Karen's Photostream, which recently joined my Flikr group pool Lost New York City, has some nice hallucinogenic photos of Manhattan and Brooklyn neon signs I love or have loved, including Waverly Restaurant, Nathan's of Coney Island, the late Armando's of Brooklyn Heights, and, yes, our dear, departed McHale's.

Don't know how they achieved the photographic effect. Probably a simple trick that is nonetheless mystifying to me. Nice work, though. If they actually hang out at the places they photograph, I account Jon and Karen fine people indeed.

Fires of Hell Lit

The evildoers at Platinum, the 43-story Platinum condominium tower at 46th and Eighth that killed McHale's, have lit the long, fake fireplace in their lobby. Great work guys! When do the little red men with pitchforks arrive?

43-Story Headstone

On the site of the late lamented McHale's, at 46th and 8th, the 43-story Platinum condominium tower is almost complete.

And don't it just make you sick.

Who Will Save the Signs?

The plans for what it arguably Brooklyn's most high-profile condo complex, the one that will convert the old Domino Sugar Plant in Williamsburg into a conclave of happy shiny people, will not include the iconic "Domino Sugar" sign, the NY Sun reports. Not that anybody really thought it would. Developers aren't typically as whimsical and sentimental as the rest of us, and wouldn't see how such a thing would add value. But there was a little hope.

Which leads me to a perennial worry of mine: as the City goes through its current transformation from iconoclastic patchwork to developer's tinkertown, what's to become of the signs that once proclaimed "One guy with a particular idea does business here?" The matter is never discussed by the builders, who obviously see the neon placards as just another piece of junk to be disposed of, and not the relics and urban artwork of another New York. Last we saw of the McHale's sign, it was in the window of some antique store; Lord knows where it landed. The owner of Gertel's nabbed his own sign for himself and hung it up over his wholesale concern in Brooklyn, thank God. But how often can we count on businesspeople to value their old signage?

Along with the Domino sign, other priceless signs whose fate we should be worrying about include the P & G Bar and the Jade Mountain "Chow Mein" sign (still hanging on Second Avenue, last I checked). Really, shouldn't the Met or the Smithsonian get involved? Surely some curators can see artistry and historical value in these metal-glass-and-neon creations.

On another note, I was recently relieved to see that the Old Town Bar sign was finally back in place, newly bulbed-up.

The Last Good Bar in Times Square

McHale's has been gone from the corner of Eighth Avenue and 46th Street for 16 months now, but the hole it's left in the neighborhood continues to yawn. Everyone knew what a great bar it was, but even I am surprised at how irreplaceable it has turned out to be. No other tavern possesses its combination of history, warmth, good food, affordable prices, atmosphere, local color and all-around New Yorky-ness. Most of the places in Times Square where you can get a drink now fall into three categories: hotel bars that make you feel like a tourist; high-hat fancy-pants cocktail emporia (Blue Fin, Bar Centrale, The Whiskey), where $12 martinis and intimidation are the name of the game; and crass faux Irish pubs, all variations of the same uninspired mix of dark wood, big screen TVs, maps of Ireland and Guinness.

There's the Cub Room on 47th, but it's kind of charmless and the drinks aren't well made. Rudy's on Ninth is an out-and-out dive of legendary proportions, but its clientele and free hot dogs can get downright scary at times.

More and more, when in the neighborhood at night, I don't even consider the options. I just turn on my heel, march down 44th Street and disappear inside Jimmy's Corner. This is the last great Times Square tavern, a joint of character and authenticity. The bartendresses are friendly (and it is all women behind the bar); the owner, old Jimmy himself, is always present; the juke box is loaded with standards, jazz and soul; and the drinks are cheap.

A few things to know about Jimmy's Corner. It's owned by Jimmy Glenn, a former boxing trainer, so there are pictures of pugilists and boxing bills all over the walls. He once owned a gym where aspirants to the ring would spar and train. You may see an actual boxer there from time to time. It's narrow as hell: a long bar, a row of stools beside it and a few inches between the chairs and the wall for people to pass. If you venture past the jukebox, it opens up a bit. It's hard to see the folks back there, so if you want to meet somebody you're not supposed to, this is the place.

The gals behind the bar are chatty and a bit raunchy. One might think they were tending bar in a Texas honky tonk. They're all dressed in black and short skirts (which, I imagine, is how Jimmy likes it). Taped to the mirror behind them are hundreds of dollar bills signed by various patrons from around the country It's pretty crowded on that wall. A waitress told me there's a waiting list for dollars to be posted. Right now, they stil accept signed dollars but put them in a pile on top of the cash register. The bar make soon start taping the bills to the ceiling to accomodate the overflow.

Last time I was at Jimmy's I sat beside a German tourist. He signed his dollar and passed it over the bar. I was a bit surprised to see him there. I asked how he found Jimmy's. He said he had been roaming Times Square all night, trying to find a bar that wouldn't make him feel self-conscious and underdressed.

See? That's the whole problem with the new Times Square right there.

The Power of Platinum? Wood

Work has continued apace at the northeast corner of 46th Street and Eighth Avenue, future home of the condo tower Platinum NYC, formerly the address of the great corner bar and stagehand hangout McHale's.

The revolting billboards featuring the neo-Nazi, Atlas-like figure pushing a big silver ball are still there. But the Thing That Ate McHale's has begun to reach for the skies. A couple stories of wooden framework have been erected, and there's a crane in place. There was little actual activity the day I checked things out as it has just rained. Have no idea when they're going to be laying on those awesome sheets of platinum on the sides of the tower.

According to a sign near the site, the work on the building is apparently causing traffic to be blocked off from 46th Street between Eighth and Broadway on some weekends, which must piss off matinee audiences at the nearby theatres. But that's the Power of Platinum. It trumps the power of the theatre.

What They Tore Down McHale's For

McHale's Future Looking Not So Bright

When McHale's glorious tavern at Eight Avenue and 46th Street closed in January 2006 to make way for a vile condo tower dedicated to life in the Platinum lane, the owner Jimmy McHale said he was saving much of the interior and the classic neon sign in hopes of reopening some day, possibly in the ground floor space of the tavern.

Well, he may still do so, but it will apparently be without the sign. Through the SnugMug.com site, I am late in noticing an item on the New York magazine site saying the grand old green-and-red neon artwork had turned up in a Chelsea antique store. Don't know which which Chelsea antique shop or how Jimmy could part with that object above all others. In may ways, that sign WAS McHale's, a beacon which said everything about the place: traditional, old-style, classy, unpretentious, urban, vintage New York. These signs are irreplacable. Why aren't they being snatched up by MOMA or something?

Excuse me while I heave a big sigh.

What They Tore Down McHale's For

I saw these horrendous billboards on the northeast corner of Eighth Avenue and 46th Street. (Sorry for the picture quality; I was there to see a show, so it was dark.) Followers of this blog know that that corner was home to the great old Broadway tavern McHale's, which bit the dust last year around this time, after 50 years in business, to make way for a much-needed condo tower.

The huns who perpetrated this act of barbarism were pretty low profile at the time, but they've since shed their crippling shyness, if the signs are any indication. My God, they are big, and well lit. You can't see in this photo, but the tag line at the top reads "The Power of Platinum." What the power of platinum—whatever power that may be (surely only superheros know)—has to do with a nice place to live I do not know. Judging from the internet address at the bottom of the sign, the tower will be called The Platinum or Platinum NYC or some such Uber-Alles nonsense. Makes you feel all cozy doesn't it? Platinum apartments.

The web address leads you to a most frightening site, where iconic images of New York flash by you, interspersed with photographs of muscular, Atlas-like men and women who have been recently dipped in a silvery substance. (What the fuck?) The montage is crescendoed by a few rendering of the building itself. Judging only by those pictures, let me just say that it's fucking tall, and it's Holy-God-fucking shiny, and the James Bond lobby has a long, looooong horizontal fireplace. No doubt stoked by the fires of Hades.

Evil Has a Name

Thanks goes out today to the New York Times, which has provided me at long last with the names of the villians who tore down McHale's bar so that Manhattan might have more desperately needed luxury residences. Longtime readers might recall that McHale's demise was the reason this blog was born. But at the time, none of the articles written about the place could find out who has bought the property and was tearing it down.

Remember these names: S.J.P. Residential; chairman and chief executive Steven J. Pozycki; and his cohort Allen F. Goldman. They live in infamy.

The devil's minions work out of Parsippany, and old Goldman has an interesting pedigree. Before joining S.J.P., he jumped ship at Applied Development, who head, Joseph Barry, was indicted in fall 2003 on 16 charges of bribery, conspiracy and fraud. But Goldman has nothing to do with that. However, he is responsible for this pre-McHale's deal quote: "Steve Pozycki and SJP have really developed an outstanding reputation for being sensitive to the community."

Yeah. Good thing they came around and sensed the overwhelming vibe that the theatre community really wanted that rotten old McHale's mashed to a pulp. Who needs a $5 beer when you're just aching for a $1 million condo?

McHale's Lives!—Sort Of

News about McHale's, the classic Theatre District haunt whose death instigated the creation of this blog!

No, it's not reopening. No, there is no current hope in hell that it will reopen in the near future. But, if you're game, you can now close your eyes and pretend you're eating one of McHale's classic two-ton hamburgers.

McHale's old fry-cook, a man by the name of Italo, who was responsible for those fine burgers—one of the main drawing points at the old 46th-and-Eighth joint—was adopted by a restaurant directly across the Avenue called, rather nauseatingly, Le Rendezvous. The place is trumpeting their new acquisition on the back page of the menu, which begins with a maudlin paragraph about how the demise of McHale's was a blow to the entire community. (True, but you don't have to get all syrupy about it.) It then goes on to list the same great line-up of all-beef patties and same cheap prices that were once found across the street. Otherwise, the bill of fare is mainly made up various Middle-Eastern dishes.

Now, Le Rendezvous is no McHale's. The décor is Modern Trendy Anonymous. The music is obnoxious and the hostess in a chilly Eastern European import who seems none too impressed with the Empire City or the might of the American Capitalist Machine. But, if you want to honor the memory of McHale's, or at least comfort yourself that the place hasn't entirely disappeared without a trace, a meal here might be in order.

Three-dollar Beers Have No Place in Times Square!

The Midtown Real Estate Barons, incensed that the Theatre District is still sneaking in cheap booze and eats in under their very nose, has forced the closing of the Sam's, the latest in a domino chain of death that has led to the demise of JR's, McHale's and Barrymore's. April 20 was the final night for the place.

All four were one-story, modest bar/eateries that lent aid and comfort to the working rank and file of Broadway, and all four lied within a one block area stretching from the north side of West 45th Street to the north side of W. 46th near Eighth. It's already known that McHale's—currently covered is ugly black masking from tip to toe—will be replaced by one of those condo towers made for Pod People Who Suck. The shadow forces that are buying up the block to the south, however, have not revealed themselves or the nature of Their Sinister Plan. Word on the street, however, is the power behind the many snuffed candles is none other that the Shubert Organization, whose fostering of a healthy theatre environment does not apparently extend to restaurants where theatre professionals can afford to eat. Nice short-sightness, Fat Cats!

Next to close will probably by Frankie and Johnny's, the steakhouse that dates back to the speakeasy era, or Puleo's. Both are neighbors of Sam's. A few more boarded-up storefronts and the area will begin to look like it did in the 1970s.

Buy That Building!

I was strolling around the Lower East Side this past weekend with my wife. We were pointing out some unorthodox (read: not in Midtown) tourist sights to some visiting friends from Italy. While doing so, we made brief stops at two cherished vestiges of the old LES: Yonah Schimmel's Knishery on Houston and Guss' Pickles on Orchard Street.

When I visit such landmark businesses, I can never hold back from asking the One Essential Question: Do you own the building? This is the key to survival in our vicious, ahistorial real estate market. If you're a lowly renter, you can be kicked onto the the sidewalk at any moment (see McHale's, Second Avenue Deli, CBGB's). Own the building and you can stay in business as long as someone in the family is willing to get up at the crack of dawn to "make the donuts," as it were. (This is also essential. The great South Brooklyn salumenia Lattacini Barese, founded in 1927, owned its Union Street building. But when owner Joe Balzano had a heart attack, neither of his sons were keen on rising each morn to make the fresh mozzarella. They sold the building in 2002. It's a real estate office now—natch.)

In both cases, the answer was depressing. Yonah Schimmel's doesn't own the the old tenement in which they're housed. "Chinese!," the counter woman gruffly replied. The woman behind the pickle barrels at Guss' laughed at the notion of ownership. This is bad news for anyone who wants Manhattan to have at least one shop turning out, as a specialty, knishs and pickles—two foods any self-respecting burg calling itself New York City should always produce.

The Proverbial Straw

McHale's closed.

That's why I've decided to create this blog, something thought I'd never do, mainly because I have a visceral dislike of the word "blog," surely one of the most graceless syllables in the English language. (Leave it to the wordsmiths of the 21st century.)

But something has to be written about the disappearance of McHale's. And Howard Johnson's. And Le Cirque, Lutece, the Second Avenue Deli, CBGBs (soon), the Rainbow Room (as it was), Lattacini Barese, Frank's Department Store, Gage and Tollner and countless other classic stores, restaurants, bars, landmarks, merchants that have been steamrolled under the current, ruthless, soulless real estate market (all hail!) and our mayor's love of development, "progress," big box stores, unfriendly competition, faceless high rises and the high cost of living he's become accustomed to.

So here is the place where howls in a wilderness in protest of New York's fast and steady loss of history, culture and texture will be heard, since the dailies and weeklies seem less than alarmed (even though they are among the old world institutions which are in danger).

If you hear of any local and cherished corner of New York civilization that's in danger of extinction, please drop a line.