Swank Nite Life Hits Cellar

The press weasels at the Hotel Carlyle won't fess up to it—probably because they know they're making an awful mistake, and New Yorkers will hate them for it—but word is widespread that The Cafe Carlyle will be shut down this summer and relagated to some dank, subterranean room in the Upper East Side hotel's basement, thus making cabaret habitues feel more like second-class citizens than they already do.

The Cafe Carlyle and the Oak Room in the Algonquin Hotel are the last of the old-guard, elegant cabaret stages in Manhattan. Feinstein's at the Regency does a fine job, but it is less than ten years old and has no sense of history. Joe's Pub is an agreeable enough space, but made for ironic, downtown fare. The other places—Don't Tell Mama, etc.—are strictly amateur hour. Barbara Cook, who is currently playing the Cafe and is emblematic of the kind of top tier talent the hall attracts—announces the coming demise of the place nightly, speculating that the plush rose-colored banquettes and famous murals might be retained.

Why the Carlyle, which is supposed to stand for a kind of sophisticated Manhattan long since passed into history, would do this, heaven knows. But the hotel is owned by some mysterious, foreign conglomerate, probably based in Dubai or some other shady, profit-making country-slash-moneystate. So I guess the answer is probaby the old one: more money. No doubt, the space will be given out to high-end retail. The Cafe may charge $100 a pop to see Babs, but when I recently attending (on a Saturday night, no less), the room was half full, and the sound system lousy.

Is this anyway to treat the memory of Bobby Short?

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.

Moonstruck Strikes Again

In the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn, the Monte Leone pastry shop on Court Street recently closed its doors and posted a sign in the window. Amazingly, it wasn't bad news. The sign said the shop would open again soon in collaboration with—wait for it—Cammareri Bakery.

Recognize the name? You should. The bakery, which once sat at the corner of nearby Henry Street and Sackett Street, was featured in the film "Moonstuck." Nicholas Cage's character, Ronny Cammerari, worked there. In fact, the filmmakers changed the name of Cage's character when they decided to use the bakery as a location. The store lived on reflected glory for a few years, with pictures of Cher up on the wall. But it closed in the late '90s in one of the saddest stories I've ever heard. The Cammerari who ran it lost his wife and was so dejected that he couldn't go on, so he gave up the shop and retired.

Since then, the location has been The Red Rail, which had a brief heyday as a Yuppie brunch hangout; then the Red Rail bar, which had no heyday whatsoever. Now, its the Carroll Gardens outpost of the overpriced Park Slope cafe Naidre's. Cammerari's was better than any of them. Another negative aspect of Cammerari's closing: Mazzola's, the bakery down the block, suddenly had no competition, so it started steadily jacking up prices.

So, to see that sign in the window of Monte Leone was like seeing a ghost. How could Cammerari be back? Did the sad old owner find a new wife? Did someone buy the rights to the name? And why does Monte Leone's, which has always done well, need a business partner? Stay tuned.

One odd side note: Monte Leone's used to be located on Columbia near Sackett, just a block from where Cammerari's once sat. They just can't stay apart.

Tuna Salad Lives on in Flatiron

Sometime the dailies, in their munificence, decide good news is news also.

In today's Metro section, The New York Times helpfully notified folks that Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop has been saved from Corcoran and the other devils of real estate. A former patron of the preserved-in-amber lunch counter, which sits just a stone's throw from the Flatiron building, decided to hop behind the counter and buy the business, rather than see it turn paws up. Josh Konecky is the modern saint's name (all hail) and, lord preserve us, he has an 18-year lease. So we won't have to worry about being without "The Best Tuna Sandwich in New York" until 2024.

Why, in these odious times, would a landlord do such a thing when he could easily welcome another Sephora? The Times' description of the man offers a clue. His wife runs a Russian bookstore in the space above Eisenberg's. Obviously, the landlord is an impractical man with a soft spot for unprofitable niche businesses. Plus, he gets to eat lunch at the Sandwich Shop every day for only $2.



Speaking of sandwich shops, does anyone know why the Andrews Coffee Shop is fast disappearing from the Manhattan landscape? Once, they were on every other corne south of 23rd Street. Now, every week another one is boarded up. These places were never classics, but they were reliable, cheap and unpretentious. When I made $18,000 a year at my first job in 1990, I ate at Andrew's at least once a week. It was the only sit-down restaurant I could afford. Perhaps they've been banned by the culture police for being hopefully un-fabulous.

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.

Still a Player

I visited the Players Club in Gramercy Park last night and am happy to say it is still its glorious, fossilized self. Who knows who now pays dues at this Edwardian frieze of a club, but god bless 'em for keeping the place open so folks can see that actors once tried, at least, to comport themselves with dignity. The hundreds of portraits on the walls alone justify the organization's continued existence. A few John Singer Sargeants among them and one John Decker, Barrymore's boozy L.A. friend. Some of these players are long forgotten to the city's collective memory. But that makes their painted visages all the more poignant.

Pete's Tavern—the place that has flogged it connection to O. Henry into the ground—is around the corner on Irving Place. I thought about stopping in for a drink. But last time I went I had such a worthless meal of tasteless pasta at a lonely drafty table, I couldn't bear the thought of returning so soon. They have a thriving business there, and I'm glad. They'll stay open that way. I just wish the kitchen did better work. McSorley's and P.J. Clarke's can produce decent bar food, why not Pete's? Also, the help is a little indifferent. Don't let them shunt you back into the back rooms. That's not the real Pete's. Only the bar room was part of the original. Tough to score a seat there. The few booths are always roped off for some moneyed bastards who like to dream they wrote "The Gift of the Magi."

Pizza Man Gone

I meant to mention this some weeks ago. New York lost an original pizza man in February. Arturo Giunta, who lent his name and pies to the Houston Street standby Arturo's for half a century, died at the age of 79 last month.

Arturo's has been on the same corner of Houston and Thompson since 1957—an eon in Manhattan real estate years. It's never had the same cachet with the trend-suckers and culture vultures as John's, Lombardi's or other classic pie purveyors. The New York Times never wrote soppy nostalgia pieces about it (not that I'm against those pieces; I'd write them if they'd let me). But it does good work quietly and steadily, and its beautiful old awnings and stenciled windows seem never to have been touched.

No word in the New York Post article announcing the death as to whether his surviving wife, daughter and son will continue the business. But if they don't, I'm coming after them with a pizza cutter.

Hello Again

Hello. I'm back, after a long break. I'd like to say I was on vacation at my villa on Lake Como, or at least that I'd passed out and coudn't remember my name. But I can't truthfully say any more than I suddenly got busy with non-blog real work. (Of course, all real work is non-blog, really.) But, never fear! Guilt has brought me back. It always brings me back.

This is not to say that New York trends haven't continued to suck since I last communicated. They suck more than ever, as shown in yesterday's City Section article about the Landmark Preservations Board that doesn't really protect New York City landmarks but rather gives developers the go-ahead to knock 'em on down. The latest is the squat, relatively unknown New York City Department of Purchase Storehouse, known as the Purchase Building, which sits hidden below the Brooklyn Bridge. I've actually passed this thing a couple times when playing with my kid in the nearby waterfront playground, and wondered why they didn't take that ugly fence out from around that cute, art deco structure. Well, know I know: Because the City wants to make it disappear, so Brooklyn Bridge Park can have plenty of elbow room.

This is the same uninspired commission of dunderheads that last year "undesignated" the 1915 Cass Gilbert-designed Austin, Nichols & Company building on the Brooklyn waterfront and the 1968 Jamaica Savings Bank, which kind of looks like those cool Kennedy Airport terminals that vandals trashed last year at an unveiling party gone amok. So, not only are they not protected worthy older building, they're agressively unprotecting them. Gosh: Think they understand they job much?

Bits and Pieces

I've heard some good news and some bad news over the past few days.

Good new: Russ & Daughters, the venerable of appetizing store on Houston Street near Allen recently bought its building, thus securing its future for the time being. They're into their fourth generation over there.

The bad news is hardly surprising, except in the respect that it comes on this late date: Western Union sent its final telegram on Friday, Feb. 3. Geez, didn't e-mail and cell phones kill this form of communication years ago? Awfully nice for old WU to hang on this long, given that the telegram was such a romantic, dramatic and tactile way to send an important message. The company posted this message on its website a while back. "Effective January 27, 2006, Western Union will discontinue all Telegram and Commercial Messaging services. We regret any inconvenience this may cause you, and we thank you for your loyal patronage."

By close of business, Western Union charged a whopping $10 to send a wire. Given that, it's a wonder they still averaged 20,000 of them a year. Nothing compared to the 200 million they tapped out in 1929, but still.

Some Tea With Your Condo?

The New York Post reported today that RTR Funding Group, the typically anonymously named development outfit that bought the defunct Russian Tea Room back in 2004, has plans for the famously opulent watering hole.

To bring the Tea Room back to life, you ask? Bite your tongue! No: to built a bunch of luxury apartments on top of it, of course. Because that's what Manhattan needs—more faceless condos for the city's richest one percent to dump their precious junk in.

Gerald Lieblich, the oligarch who is president of RTR (guess he's not one of the R's or the T), declined to comment on the project. But do these guys ever say anything to anybody? None of our business, right? Just our city.