Something Else That's Cool About P.J. Clarke's

At P.J. Clarke's, the iconic bar in the east 50s in Manhattan, once you walk past the main bar into the initial dining area, there are two hidden alcoves, one to the right and one to the left. There's a table and a few chairs inside each, obscured from view. I've mentioned these rooms before as perfect niches for clandestine meetings or trysts.

What I hadn't noticed before was a little speakeasy-like, peek-a-boo window connecting the southern room to the the barroom. Perfect for a patron beckoning a waitress or bartender's attention, or for a waitress to pass through a plate or drink, or for a fella to keep an eye out for any arriving enemies.

One for the Ladies

I apologize in advance if this post is off-color. But I was standing at the bar at P.J. Clarke's, the grand old tavern on Third Avenue, and I was struck by the thought—as I have been before—that it is an awful shame that the female patrons of the classic bar never get to see men's bathroom.

Let me explain. The gentleman's lavatory—unchanged for many decades now—is a remarkable enclosure. This is primarily due to two absolutely monumental white porcelain urinals that have to be seen to be believed. These are not the tawdry, utilitarian objects you see in most restrooms. They are pinnacles of the ceramic arts, the ultimate in lavatory decoration. They are tall and wide and winged. Combined with the dark wood walls and the vaulted stained-glass ceiling, they make a visit a bathroom at Clarke's a rather grandish experience. It's a toilet that Cole Porter might write a line about in "You're the Top."

And half of the population never get to see them! That seems like an injustice to me. So I took pictures of the interior, for all the world to see. If they offend, I apologize. Sorry I couldn't get the full effect in the pictures. The bathroom if a cramped place. To capture the full length of the urinals, I would have had to open the door and take the shots from the bar. And that would have just been strange.

Lincoln Center Gets a P.J. Clarke's

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.

Squat Buildings Live in Midtown

Since I spent some time earlier this week trashing the owner of P.J. Clarke's new venture in the Financial District, I thought it only fair to report that I dined at the original, two-story, red-brick P.J. Clarke's on Third Avenue and 55th Street and am happy to report that the old temple of beer and burgers is still alive and well. Three deep at the bar and plenty of diners in the back. My cheeseburger was savory and delicious, and not of the impossibly monstrous size served up by most burger joints these days. The waiter had that smooth, no-nonsense efficiency that you want in such a place down pat, with just the right touch of politeness. And the bathroom was as ever. It occured to me while standing under the arched stained glass room of the men's room that pissing into the elephantine white urinals of P.J. Clarke's is one of the defining privileges of living in New York City. Too bad women can't enjoy it.

Attracting my interest during my stay were two cubby holes tucked into the small dining area just past the bar. Turn to the left or right and crane your neck and you'll spot two tables secreted away from the din of the room. The lucky diners at these four-tops can barely be glimpsed. The alcoves were obviously designed to accomodate the Tammany Hall chieftains of days gone by, allowing them privacy as they worked out their back-room deals. Who gets them now, I wonder? I can't imagine you can just walk in and ask for one. They must be reserved for regulars. However, I am now determined to claim one upon my next visit. But first I'll have to come up with a couple guests to join me, a back-room deal to work out, and a double sawbuck to slip the maitre'd.

Authenticity Merchants

Recent news about P.J. Clarke's, the grand old tavern on Manhattan's east side, illustrates that local landmark saviors can also be cultural anti-Christs.

Clarke's, one of those old-world joints with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and huge porceline urinals, was on hard times a few years back until a group of investors (including Timothy Hutton, who is also the president of The Players Club and seems obsessed with New York history) decided to save the place. They closed it down for a while, and then reopened with a strong adherance to decor and menu traditions.

So, good, nu? Not quite. Because the lead investor, Philip Scotti, as it turns out, is just another of those soulless developers who have a chain restaurant where their sense of taste ought to be. Scotti plans to rubber stamp the Clarke model and plant a string of faux-tavern xeroxes across the nation, including one in that bete noir of American culture: Las Vegas. His first such attempt opened recently in the financial district. Its name? P.J. Clarke's on the Hudson.

Now, just a guess here, but I'm thinking that the original Clarke was probably a beefy Irishman with ruddy cheeks, a barrel chest and a meaty fist for anyone who suggested he call his watering hole P.J. Clarke's on the Anything. Such gentile suffixes are for the carriage set. But—as Scotti no doubt knows—they also work for the suspendered money merchants down on Wall Street, vulgarians who like to pretend, while downing a brew or two, that they're just like regular barflies—just ones with English-made shoes and bespoke suits.

There is some justice, however. New York Times restaurant critic Frank Bruni, smelling a rat, branded the new Clarke's for the hollow and cynical copy it is in his blistering March 15 review. I doubt that alone will close the Clarke's manque. But we can hope. Maybe the downtown development curse known as Bloomberg, Pataki and Silverstein will do it in.