I didn't quite go straight home after leaving the Half Pint. I made a couple of emergency stops.
The first was at a liquor store on 7th Avenue. It was on the way to the subway station at Christopher Street. It had a jaunty red neon sign. How could I resist?
Inside it looked just like the ones you see in films. Usually when a couple of armed, masked men burst through the door and ask for all the dosh. It wasn't quite like that. A couple of Japanese girls were running their eyes of the American wines. I was only interested in what was behind the counter. Bourbon. Just a small bottle. I'm not an alcy. The salesperson slipped the bottle inside a brown paper bag. How quaint. I considered drinking from it on the subway just for the pose value, but managed to restrain myself.
I'd only had that pie to eat since breakfast. Getting more food seemed a sensible idea. A gourmet deli lurked between 23rd St. subway station and the hotel. Quite upmarket. Dead upmarket. Towards the back was what I was looking for. The cold meats counter.
There was in impressive display of meats. So impressive I started to photograpgh it. "Are you trying to take a picture of me?" the server asked. "No, the meat", I replied. "That's not allowed." Land of the free, eh?
Just when I was on the home straight I was seduced by more bright lights. My favourite type of bright lights. Ones attached to a pub. I've started to believe what I tell the kids. That it's bad luck to walk past a pub that's open without having a beer.
My time in the States had been so filled with work that I'd had no time to do the ordinary boring things. Like go to a supermarket. Or visit a normal bar. Jake's seemed to fit the bill on the latter count.
I'll not pretend that it's a wonderful hidden gem. It's a pretty bog-standard bar. Maybe slightly flasher, by a tiny little bit. I didn't care. There was a stool at the bar with my name on it. They stocked something called Jake's Ale. I ordered one. And another. I won't bore you with tasting notes because I didn't take any. It was inoffensive enough, let's leave it at that.
There was a row of large tellies behind the bar. One was showing footie. What turned out to be Big Phil's last game in charge of Chelsea. How weird. I was sitting in Chelsea (the New York one) watching Chelsea (the southern bastard ones) play. I don't think anyone else noticed.
23rd Street & 7th Ave.
206 West 23rd Street,
New York, NY 10011.
Tel: 212 - 337 3100
News, Nuggets & Longreads 19 August 2017: Breakfast, Blackness, Beer Festivals - Here’s everything in beer and pubs that grabbed our attention in the past week, from breakfast boozing to totalitarianism. For Vice Angus Harrison asked ...
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