The House of Chess

Walking down West 10th Street the other night, I passed a handsome townhouse with its windows brightly blazing and caught the odd sight of several serious men hunched over tables that were pushed up against the front windows.

They were playing chess, I soon realized. I peered further and realized the whole floor was occupied with men (all men) examining active chess board. I looked about and noticed a small plaque: Marshall Chess Club.

This club, whose existence has escaped my attention until now, has been housed in these premises—the former home of its founder, American chess master Frank J. Marshall (1877-1944)—since 1931. U.S. chess champ for many years, Marshall was known for an endgame strategy with the delightful name of "The Marshall Swindle."

The main room of the club is filled with about a dozen tables, but otherwise still looks like the living room of a Victorian gentleman: old fireplace, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, hardwood floors.

Marshall, who admitted to devoting his life single-mindedly to chess (his memoir was called "My Fifty Years of Chess"), wanted to form a club where chess lovers could meet, talk and play. Marshall's Chess Divan was begun at Keene's Chop House (as it was then called and spelled) in 1915. Keens still stands, of course. It moved about for many years, until Marshall bought himself a home in the Village and installed the club inside.

Anyone can join, as far as I know. Dues are $325 a year, for a New York area resident. For your money, you get lectures, classes, tournaments, "Friday Rapids/Blitz," summer chess camp, garden parties and something called "casual play" (which is probably what normal chess is for you and me).

The club owns the building, as far as I can see, which is why it still exists.

I like chess, but have never followed its personalities. It was interesting to me, however, that artist Marcel Duchamp and the novelist Sinclair Lewis used to hang here, and amusing that songwriter Johnny ("Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer") Marks was a habitue. Chess wunderkind Hikaru Nakamura is apparently an active member.

Subway Chess

The ground-level shopping arcade inside the Clark Street subway station in Brooklyn Heights is odd enough. That L-shape corridor of small, sad shops, inside what used to be the grand Hotel St. George, just seems from another era. But adding an extra layer of weirdness to it all is the singular Chess Classic Cafe. This is just a little, hole-in-the-wall deli. Nothing special about it. Except it's got that grandiose name. And you can play chess there. There are a couple small table and chair set-ups outside the cafe, which are routinely filled with men bent over their chess games. Anyone can play there. And it doesn't look like you have to buy a lot to do so.

Goodbye Subway Chess

Two years ago I wrote about the Chess Classic Cafe, arguably the most unique shop to grace the entire New York subway system. It was located in the arcade outside the Clark Street subway station in Brooklyn Height. It was a basic deli. But one that encouraged and fosters the playing of chess at tables just outside the cafe.

I peeked in the other day and found it gone, replace by a joint that will sell the sliders that are now ubiquitous throughout the City. Looks like an indy place, so that's good. Still. No Chess Cafe.

For those who love the old arcade, the barber, shoe repair store, newsstand and sushi place are still there.

More News on the Soon-to-Be Bookish P & G Bar

The NY Observer has acted on the news first reported here that the classic Upper West Side tavern P&G Cafe will move to a new home at 78th and Columbus, a building that was once the lair of post-scandal Florodora girl Evelyn Nesbit.

Owner Steve Chahalis told the Observer—which has been on this story like a cheap suit since the beginning—a few more details. The new location is huge: 4,300 square feet, four times as big as the cozy P&G. It will have a stage for live music and a full kitchen, thus restoring food service to the bar which once used to serve eats along with suds.

"We’re going to do steak and chops—like the sign has said forever," Mr. Chahalis said. "We’re also going to do burgers. I make these awesome teriyaki garlic-saffron-rubbed burgers. We’re going to do chicken wings and legs. I make my own hot sauces. I make a buffalo sauce and a hot teriyaki." I'm getting a little excited.

But I'm also a little worried. Read this:

The new venue will also have a more refined look than the previous stripped-down dive. One corner of the new L-shaped space, for instance, will feature a fireplace, chess tables and shelves of books. “I want to really do it up like a man’s study in deep burgundy and walnut,” Mr. Chahalis said, explaining, “On Columbus Avenue, you can’t just open a shithole.”

Chess? Books? At the P&G?

I don't know.

Plus, Chahalis wouldn't talk on the record about whether he's taking the sign with him—which is in direct contrast to what he told Lost City reader (and blogger himself) Ken Mac. Even Robert Tierney, the lazy-ass jerk of a chairman of the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission, has stated his "concern about the iconic sign." For me, the P&G can never be the P&G again without that sign. It must be save.

And the Inside....

Got inside the newly restored Brooklyn Farmacy and Soda Fountain. It's as gorgeous inside as it is outside. And they're really made good use of the space. It expands far to the back to the store. There's an elevated mezzanine at the rear, with a few soda parlor-type tables, and what appears to be a game room further back, with a chess board ready to go. The owner said they'd be up and running in two weeks. Meanwhile, if you're lucky enough to catch them in, you might score a free egg cream.