The Immigrant Experience—at $275 a Pop

The Tenament Museum on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side always seemed a worthy affair. I remember when it opened, more than a decade ago. There was a perfunctory ticket office across the street from a restored walk-up, wherein historical tours were conducted. (I still recall with a shiver the story of the 19th century father who left for work one day, leaving his large family behind, never to return.)

Well, the enterprise and the block has taken off some since then. The ticket office has moved a few doors over and is now surrounded by a largish gift shop, with snippy help and ample opportunities for buying ghetto-chic t-shirts, fridge magnets, calendars, wrapping paper, dishware and Metrocard holders, as well as tons of expensive books on what it was like to be dirt poor. Let's just say the place's sense of opportunism is creepy.

Creepier still, however, is the nearby Blue Moon Hotel. While it's true that there's no gaul like New York gaul, this is something special: a luxury, boutique hotel converted from an old tenament, and furnished with restored period furniture. ("Boutique," by the way, is hotel code in this city for "smaller, but still just as expensive.") It's a beautiful piece of refurbishment. But if you want to stay on former pushcart lane, you have a pony up a minimum of $275 a night; for more comfort, prices soar to $500.

I'm sorry, but this is perverse, and there's no other decent word for it. $275 for what?—to be closer to the haunted house across the street full of the tortured souls of immigrant dead? Why not just don a top hat, crush some urchins under your hansom cab wheels and be done with it? I'm all for preserving old New York, but when that preservation is just another scam for the money-grubbers, I'll pass.

The hotel, by the way, also boasts about "breathtaking" views of "the Williamsburg Bridge, Lower Manhattan, and Old Orchard Street." Yeah. I bet 1880s sweat shop workers got a good view of those just before they jumped.

A Few Status Reports

In the past, I've withheld my opinion on the old Best Pizza in New York debate that newspaper editors love so much that they turn to it every year. This is mainly because there are huge holes in my knowledge.

Well, I filled in one of those gaping cavities recently, and finally dined at Grimaldi's, the pizza joint on Old Fulton Street that the good folks at Zagat's routinely rank as tops in pies year after year. It's fairly maddened me these many years of living in Brooklyn that I've never been to the place, despite the fact that I can easliy walk there. But the lines are so ghastly on the weekends and evening—the only time I can go.

That line was once again snaking down the sidewalk on a recent Sunday when I dragged wife and kid to see it we breach the entrance. I was actually standing behind a real Italian, who turned to me and asked "Is this normal?" (Don't have to wait for good pizza in Rome—it's everywhere.) We gave up and had a mighty unmemorable meal at the Water Street Restaurant in DUMBO.

But I had the next day, Monday, off, and forged a plan with my wife. We arrived at noon, when Grimaldi's opens, and, sho' nuff, we were quickly escorted to a table. Let the word be spread. Early birders on weekdays will face no crowds! Our pizza arrived in under ten minutes and, yes, it's as good as they say. Crisp thin crust, flavorful sauce, toothsome mozzarella. Though I have to say that Totonno's in Coney Island is still my favorite pie, with extra points for atmosphere.

Later that week, I was wandering aimlessly through Chinatown—a wonderful pastime, and a good reminder that not ALL of Manhattan is gentrified and homogenized. As I swung around Bayard onto Baxter, I made a weird discovery among the many Malaysian and Vietnamese eateries. Chinatown has been slowly encroaching on Little Italy's territory for years, until the goombas are fairly surrounded on their tiny stretches of Mulberry and Kenmare. But here on Baxter was a stubborn holdout I've never heard of: Forlini's. An unfancy place of more than 50 years standing, it has three sections: a bar with booths, a small downstairs dining area and a more plush upstairs level. Apparently the joint, so near to Centre Street, is and always has been popular with judges and district attorneys. And according to every review I've read, the food is not just the usual red-sauce mediocre stuff, but top notch Italian.

You always here about New York's so-called "best kept secrets"—unknown treasures that are actually pretty well known by the time the press writes about them. Well this has got to be one of the real secrets. 18 years in New York and no one's ever said boo about it to me. Never read about in in the Times or Post or any "best of" lists. Zagat's doesn't mention it, even in it's list of old New York restaurants, where it certainly should rank.

Also, just a few doors south, is Paulie's Place, a tiny sandwich shop storefront, with a simple, ancient neon sign, an old green paint job and the look of something Berenice Abbott shot for the WPA back in the 30s. It was closed when I saw it, but a peer inside revealed a counter, a couple tables and a simple menu or heros. Obviously a local haunt. It had the look of a number of NYC places that are legendary for their longevity, modesty, old world ways and "echt" quotient. Yet, who's ever heard of Paulie's Place?

Maybe Baxter Street is where great restaurants go to be left alone.

Lost City: New Orleans Edition: Snails and Ashtrays

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes: my account of New Orleans' lasting appeals. Sorry for the long hiatus. It turns out I am not a good blogger (read: obsessive blogger) and did not post a damn thing while on vacation. But I'm back, and here I pick up where I left off.

If you find yourself in New Orleans, and needs some convincing that you are in a place with a very distinct—or shall we say peculiar—culture, then take a tour of Antoine's. Antoine's is the oldest restaurant in the South, the oldest family-run restaurant in the U.S., and is a warren of wonderful weirdness, each room more grandly odd that the last.

The front looks a bit like a Dixie Sardi's, with lots of dark wood and countless framed whatsits on the wall, tuxedoed waiters standing by. Venture down the hall, though, and you encounter The Ashtray Collection. Under glass, are ash catchers from restaurants and bars the world over, many of them now long gone. It's like a bizarre roadside museum. Further back is a small, secreted room where, we are told, nothing you say can be heard by a human ear. Handy in Corruption Central.

Another private room with a long table looks like a Viking hall, and is decorated with the portraits and costumes (green, gold and purple) of past Mardi Gras kings—or, I should say, Rexes. In fact the room is called The Rex Room, and its full of expensive and elaborate crowns and scepters, some behind glass. It is very grand and very otherworldly.

The Japanese Room, meanwhile, which was designed with Oriental motifs around the turn of the 20th century century, was closed up after Dec. 7, 1941, and stayed that way for 43 years. After that, the Japanese suitably punished for their misdeeds, it was reopened and restored.

But for out-and-out, eye-widening weirdness, nothing beats the tiny Snail Room. They don't call it the Snail Room—I do, or did upon seeing a large design of a snail on one wall. This is the secret chamber of La Societe Des Escargots, the most exclusive club in all The Big Easy and maybe the world. Only 12 of the biggest social and business wheels of New Orleans belong at any given time, and no one new can be admitted until one of those dozen kick off. (How's that for a macabre membership rule?) These Sachems meet but once a month. I looked at the various posters and loving cups naming the members of the years. I recognized no one except Dick Foster, and I only knew him because he's the guy they named Bananas Foster after.

Which reminds me: Antoine's is where they invented Baked Alaska and Oysters Rockefeller. As far as I can tell, no Rockefellers were ever voted into the Snails.

Lost City: New Orleans Edition: Gaiety at Galatoire's

Do people have fun in restaurants? I know, they seem to have fun, they say they have fun, they go with the aim to have fun. But is it really a party atmosphere? Not in my experience. Manhattan's high-end eateries are mainly tension-making hives where everyone is worrying if the waiter likes them; if they've got a good table; if they've ordered right; if people are watching them in approval. Ugh.

I have never seen people have as much carefree fun in an eating establishment as I did at Galatoire's, the 100-year-old restaurant on Bourbon Street, where jackets are required, and so is a good attitude. I went on a Friday night, which I discovered later is party night at Galatoire's. All night, as I sat at my table for one with my Sazerac, turtle soup and pompano, I witnessed toasts being made (loudly) and birthdays being celebrated. Men in seersucker delighted in picking up the check, and well-dressed kiddies seemed genuinely grateful, smiling and kissing their elders. Ladies of a Certain Age happily gossiped. Mirrored walls meant you could easily witness the ebullience in total.

My waiter, who seemed to have a Brooklyn accent, led me through the menu, seeing I was a N'awlins newbie. ("Let's stick to what I like," he said. We did, and it was good.) The owner actually stopped by my table to see how I was doing. Imagine if you could go to such a place on a regular basis—how much more fun life would be. And imagine if were denied its delights—how dejected you would feel. No wonder old folks died of broken hearts when displaced by Katrina.

Come Back When You Can't Stay So Long

Not only has the quality of life in New York gone steadily down in recent years; so has the quality of tourists.

Used to be, folks you knew would give you weeks, nay months, advance notice of a visit, and invite you to spend as much time with them as possible. These days, I find visiting friends and relatives try to sandwich you into a brief slot like you're a job applicant or something. I had a friend from far off come to the city a few weeks back. Hadn't seen her in a year. She gave me about 48 hours notice or her arrival and then offered to meet me between 2 PM and 4 PM on a Wednesday. How convenient. Now, she knows I'm a working a stiff, but this is the option I was given. I said, impossible on such short notice; are their other times? No, was the answer. So, we didn't meet. Thousands of miles, and we didn't meet.

Another recent visitor expressed a desire to meet me and my wife, but at 8 PM or so in Manhattan. This pal knows good and well that we live in Brooklyn and have a young son. If that brain of his was working, he should have understood that a night in Manhattan was a no-go. Kids don't have bedtimes of midnight, and they don't much enjoy nightspots. But, again, this was the only option offered. And God forbid that anyone should have to go...all...the....way...to.....(pant)....Brooklyn! (There is no match for insensitivity in this world than the carefree childless when confronted with the demands and needs of the parents with children. Unless, of course, it's the carefree childless on holiday.)

What's going on here? Now, before you think me oversensitive, keep in mind that these are people on vacation. They are free and easy, with no pressing engagements. I, meanwhile, am still a functional drone in my native city, with working hours and other sundry responsibilities. Yet, THEY are the ones with no flexibility. It's like something out of Alice in Wonderland.

Perhaps there is no such thing as a good tourist. Even if you know 'em.

Lost City: New Orleans Edition: Sazerac, Mon Amour

Within minutes of checking in at the Hotel Monteleone on Rue Royale in the French Quarter, I made it my mission to visit the lodge's Carousel Bar as my Stop One. The Carousel is actually a carousel, and a more appropriate symbol for a bar to adopt in a merry-go-round town like New Orleans there never was. You perch on one of the stools surrounding the circular bar, and it will take you round the world once every 15 minutes. This means: good people watching; mild disorientation; and more disorientation, once you'd had a refreshment or two.

I found my seat fairly easily—quite a trick, as the Carousel is a popular joint among locals and tourists alike. The critical question of What to Order was answered quickly. New Orleans has birthed many a cocktail; perhaps more than any other city, save New York. One of these is the Sazerac. I had never tried this ancient concoction, which some say is the oldest cocktail on record. I wasn't about to let another hour pass in Crescent City without knowing its taste. So I put in my order. A rocks glass held its ingredients: Bourbon, Pernod licorice liqueur, sugar, Angostura bitters and lemon peel. A lovely look it has; a sort of burnt orange, accented by the yellow lemon peel. I took a sip.

Now, where has this drink been all my life? Some old cocktails—a Sidecar, say, or a Rusty Nail—take some getting used to. You don't wonder why they've gone out of style; instead, you wonder why they ever WERE in style. A Sazarac bewitches from the first. Some sweet, some sour, some tang, some fruit, and refreshing in a way many cocktails aren't. (I would soon find out that, to survive in New Orleans, a cocktail must be both potent and refreshingly light. The Pimm's Cup and the Hurricane also fit this description. They are stealth drinks: all lemonade going down, with a blackjack hidden inside.)

Encouraged and delighted, I ordered that other famous Big Easy cocktail, the Hurricane. Once again, I was ignorant of the drink. I only knew that folks in college drank it when they wanted to get drunk, and fast. Another revelation. Pure enjoyment in a tall, hourglass vessel. Story goes that inventor Pat O'Brien came up with it in order to move a lot a rum sitting around in his store room. The drink still moves a lot of rum—both light and dark—plus plenty of fruit juice, ranging from passion fruit to grapefruit to pineapple, lotsa ice, and various fruit garnishes.

The Carousel served a superior Hurricane. The next night, I dropped by Pat O'Brien's proper to taste the original. Not nearly as good. I later discovered that Pat O'Brien sells its own "Hurricane Mix," which just makes me go "ick." I have to believe the mix is swilled by barrelful at the bar, explaining the commonness of their Hurricanes.

The Monteleone, by the way, is a literary landmark. Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote and Ernest Hemingway hung out at the Carousel. Capote claimed to have been born at the Monteleone. In truth, he was born at a nearby hospital, but his mother stayed at the hotel until it was time to give birth. Truman was a good little liar, and a romantic one, too.

Neglect, Mine and Con Ed's

I have been neglecting the Web Site during the last couple weeks, but I have a couple good excuses.

One: I work in one of the areas recently afflicted by the impotence of Con Ed and its sad excuse for a power grid. I have been working from home off and on since July 18, and have been one hot boy both here and there. And hot boys don't feel much like blogging. They just want to get cool, or find that next glass of chilled rose. (Con Ed's underground cables are not, by the way, one of the aspects of Olde New York that I cherish or wish to preserve.)

Excuse number two: I was in New Orleans from July 20 to July 23 and far to busy soaking up culture, food and drink to be running my hands over some prosaic keyboard. However, since New Orleans most certainly ranks as a city of historical and cultural treasures in danger of being wiped off the face of the planet, I will be spending the next few days relating it's wonders, as recorded by yours truly.

So, let us begin (keep in mind I am still very hot) with...

McClellan the Great

I was trolling about Battery Park looking for the water taxi that goes to Red Hook when I noticed the city had slapped on a handsome new paint job on the 1909 Battery Marine Terminal. A hideous cast-iron relic as recently as 2004 when I entered it to board a ferry to Governor's Island, it now looks fine in colors of army green and umber. A not easily seen plaque inside the building reminded me it was dedicated by then mayor George B. McClellan Jr.

McClennan's name has cropped up regularly in recent years, making me wonder if this now completely forgotten politico might have actually been one of the most significant Hizzoners the city ever had. Everything seemed to have happened during his six years in office from 1903 to 1909. He was there to inaugurate the New York City subway system, and officially renamed Longacre Square as Times Square. He oversaw the building of the Queensboro and Manhattan bridges, Chelsea Piers, the Municipal Building, and the Catskill water system. On the darker side, he was Mayor during the horrid tragedy of the General Slocum, a touring boat that caught fire in the East River, killing more than 1,000 people, making it worst loss of life in NYC until 9/11. He battled William Randolph Hearst and won, and willingly committed political suicide by challenging Tammany Hall.

Certainly a better man than his dithering father, the Civil War general who could never find a good enough reason to fight Johnny Reb. And a better politician than any George we've got these days.

Lonely Town

I often have occasion to pace the streets of this town while running errands or killing time between work and evening engagements. Lately, as I've executed these aimless, self-made trails, I've wondered: is New York the best place in the world to be lonely, or the worst.

Favoring Gotham as a home base for the lonesome is the fact that you can be alone in the crowd—solitary but not isolated. This presents you with the (perhaps fictitious) possibility that you could engage the throng at any moment you choose. Another plus is that the city gives your ample license to be down; no one's going to upbraid you with asinine comments like "Turn that frown upsidedown!" or "Cheer up! It may never happen!" New York embraces unhappiness, understands it's part of the cycle of emotions.

The flip side of the above is the fact that if you choose to wallow in your loneliness, no one's going to try and snap you out of it. In a small town or smaller city, some friend or workmate might express concern. New York is pitiless. No one really cares how you feel, and the surest way to earn contempt is to complain, show weakness or—worse!—ask for help. (I've always said, the best way to get rid of somebody in NYC is to ask them for something.) So when you're alone in New York, you better like it that way to some extent, because you're REALLY alone, bub.

Another numbing consideration is the knowledge that if you cross city lines, no one will notice. When you're gone, you're gone. Your apartment's been rented. You job is filled. Your table reserved. The Deathless City moves on in an instant. Leave a village and at least someone will wonder, "What happened to him?" Here, if they think anything, it's "Poor bastard—couldn't hack it." I think this is one of the main reasons people remain in New York long after their love affair with the place has died—they'll be damned if they give any of their fellow New Yorkers the satisfaction of seeing them in retreat.

Sand, Surf, Strikes

I attended my first Brooklyn Cyclones game last night, and though the team is of only a few seasons' standing, the experience had the feeling of age-old tradition. The pairing of Brooklyn and Baseball goes back a long time after all, as does Coney Island, the honkytonk neighborhood that gives the stadium a home, its name (after the famed nearly rollercoaster) and a certain raffish character which only adds to the sportive fun. (You can "Shoot the Geek" on the way to the game, while munching on your funnel cake.)

Attending this smallish stadium, one can get an inkling of the homey, intimate pastime baseball once was, as well as the slat-air-and-neon appeal Coney Island used to hold. The worst seat in the stadium will afford you a fine view of the ocean and the neighboring attractions The Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone itself—as well as bountiful ocean breezes. Charming, too, are the low-tech advertisements for local exterminators and waste disposal outfits that adorn the big screen beside the scoreboard.

Unfortunately, the Cyclones stunk up the place on this particular day, in an error-filled game against State College's Spikes. I wanted to wait until the sky was sufficiently dark to witness the illumination of the long-dormant Parachute Jump, of which the stadium has a commanding view. This tradition began on July 8. But, by the middle of the ninth inning, the towering metal structure remained a shadow, so we left. Curse Daylight Savings Time.