Irony is what I’m about. The fact I was to visit two bars that were polar opposites was a good thing; one a “Spit & Sawdust” pub, the other a high end hotel bar which during the 20’s was the site of a literary group called “The Round Table”- like King Arthur’s literary knights. In circles the Algonquin will always be at the top of the destination charts for literary history. For Salt of the Earth people- it’s Molly’s.
My adventure started with a good walk, as it always does. In ninety-degree heat on the steamy sidewalks of New York’s streets and avenues I felt like a protagonist I created subjecting one self to the harsh elements. Extreme heat or cold brings out the soul, a grand appreciation for simple things too often neglected- an air-conditioned room, a furnace, a glass of water, a hot chocolate. Nowadays, gadgets, toys, and the necessities they’ve become spoil too many people. My neighbor in New Jersey used to drive her kids to the bus stop every day even when it was only 5 minutes to walk. Abundant resources lead to waste. Time really should be about essence; it should be a mandatory for kids to experience their surroundings instead of being in front of computer or video game, but enough of my preaching.
Molly’s was located on 3rd avenue between 23rd & 22nd streets. I decided to walk cross-town and NOT down Broadway, but Third Avenue. It’s easy to retrace steps, but I wanted something different. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and thought one of those bagel carts would be a good thing, but then I thought I should go straight for the pub to have a liquid meal- a Guinness. How many Irish places DON’T stock Guinness?
Building facades from the early part of the 20th Century fascinate me. The details are truly amazing and my walk took me past some interesting ones. I’d come across the Armory, a place I hadn’t been since 2001 when pictures were posted of the thousands missing from the Trade Centers. They called it the wall of remembrance: they littered the walls. There’s a giant eagle, which overhangs the center door from Third Avenue. It says in old script 69th Regiment and has all the glory of an old military establishment. A few fatigued guys stood outside and the presence of a military hummer on the side street made me think it was still military. In 1913 an important art show that revolutionized the American Art Movement took place here and it still continues. There was a plaque which read: “This plaque commemorates the armory art show of Feb 15, 1913 which revolutionized the American Art Movement by bringing to national attention the new art forms of Native American and modern European painters and sculptors and honors the artists who organized this historic event on this site.” I’ve read about this show and I think it might have had to do with the introduction of the Impressionists to the United States, but I’d have to check my facts.
Next to the building was another period building with early South Western influences, like Georgia O’Keefe meets Diego Rivera. There was a cattle skull, rattlesnakes, horses and Native American motifs. A woman named Annie stepped out of the building for a breath of fresh air. I looked like a tourist from Michigan facing the sky she said, so I asked if she knew anything about the building. Turns out it was a prior headquarters for the International Ladies Garment Workers Union which became very powerful in the early 1930’s. (I once owned a 1911 Union dues book from this organization and researched a New York event called “The Great Revolt” and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911 in which over a hundred mostly immigrant women died.) Annie told me only architects or tourists seem to have an interest in the design on the building. The building was one of three the architect built in New York: one on the upper West Side, the other unknown. When I told her I was from New York she thought it strange-I found out she was from the Bronx. I thanked her for her hospitality and continued to the other side of the street where a wall mural with four incredibly intense faces on brick attracted my attention. They were three-dimensional and out of wood fastened by masonry screws.
Third Avenue is densely packed with bars, pubs and restaurants in this area. At the corner of 22nd was a place called the Lyric Diner. It was open 24 hours and I thought what an awesome place to shuffle myself away after a few drinks and write. Two businesses down from the corner was the humble black and white front of Molly’s Pub & Restaurant Shebeen (Irish for unlicensed establishment or private house selling alcoholic liquor and typically regarded as slightly disreputable)
I opened the door to a dark wood bar with old pictures. There were quite a few men already at the bar that watched the World Cup. Some gathered to face the American game deep inside the bar and the others faced the opposite flat screen that aired the England game. It was a critical one for the US- one which against all odds would take them to the next round. Now, I’ve always liked soccer (football as the Europeans say) and I was glad to be there- no place better to watch the World Cup than in an Irish pub.
I made myself comfortable and watched the England game from a sharp angle. Most people knew each other and I felt respectful NOT to go looking about. I knew little about the cup and spoke even less. During my second Guinness the USA scored it’s winning goal in the last few minutes of the game. An enormous roar filled the bar, clapping abound – I smiled and joined in. It was my lucky day as I watched USA advance to the next stage. After the game, a few people left the bar and left open seats deep inside the pub. I relocated to the opposite end where I started to probe the back room, absorbing the old photographs, the poet’s pictures and quotes, the Celtic jugs and various décor, the sawdust and the selection of liquor on the shelves. It’s here I’d eat fish and chips.
When I visited my family in Liverpool as a teenager I was taken to a little chip shop somewhere in Birkenhead where fish and chips where taken directly from the fryer dripping with oil and put in a REAL Newspaper to eat. It was delicious, fresh with malt vinegar.
My fish and chips at Molly’s were fabulous, spread with tarter sauce and malt vinegar-so much so I mopped up every bit. Jimmy, the bartender treated me to a drink. I just sat and listened to chatter, something I hoped would bring me inspiration. On my last beer a man in business attire sat next to me and ordered a coke. He told the bartender how he’d lost his job a year ago and had 3 job conferences set up today 8:30, 10:30 and 2:30. It was discouraging news and by this time I’d already started to fall into my own funk. The dark surroundings lent me melancholy ways. I thought at this point, as much as I should chat with the guy I needed to protect my already fragile persona. I listened and thought of the economy and how tough it is out there and what it must be like to be middle aged (he must have been about 50) and dealing with unemployment, especially with societies technological advances. It must make employers more selective and older people more difficult to accept in business. He ordered a burger.
Already, my mind was loaded with my own angst and juggles. The drink didn’t seem to help much and outside the heat was simply oppressive. I’d started in on myself about guilt, and how I thought in the best interest of all, it’d be better I was home.
Days like this I felt like writing- not experiencing. It was a way to get away- a damn cheap way to better myself and clear my head; instead I’d have to remain caged up, protect it until I could free myself later. I hadn’t talked to the guy, I’m sure he could have used a pick me up conversation, but I internalized, which can at times be necessary.
Most people know my enthusiastic side. I’m very much an optimist and like to think there is a better side to everything, but I do hit lows. It’s not a long process, I can usually bounce back pretty quickly, but I have my moments. It wasn’t long after the realization of goin downhill that I had to get to the other bar- a more upscale and expensive bar. I was more likely to be myself here than in a fine pricy place like the Oak Room, but I had to carry on. I left.
I’d walk uptown, on 3rd avenue to 44th and walk across. The heat made me want to retreat to several bars along the way, but I held out. Called my pal Jefferson to tell him how much he’d dig Molly’s and we talked about a place he wanted to get me to in Coney Island, a place I’d love. He gave me a little enthusiasm as I envisioned a seat in some strange place along a Coney Island boardwalk in the summer. I thought about a side trip next week to this drinkin joint with him- something different- no plan.
I’ve been the Algonquin a few times before, but I’d never seen the Oak Room. It was a secret room with an entrance in the back of the lobby; a concierge showed me a quick glance. New York magazine called the Oak Room New York’s best cabaret. In 1989 Harry Connick, Jr. was recruited to play there before he made it big. I understand there is a writer’s table installed in the lobby to encourage new writers, which I somehow missed. As it happened, the Oak Room was closed after they played their last show earlier in the month. Their cabaret series returns in September in the small and cozy place. There is way too much to say in regard to its history, but I’ll leave you to read it for yourself.
The Blue Room was the bar directly behind the Oak Room. There was no one there. Hirshfield drawings filled its walls. The drinks are expensive, and the World Cup played the next series of games. I continued to drift deeper into my funk, until my mind just seized- cluttered with everything but my main mission.
There was no freedom, no open air to breathe, and no joy, just stagnant and stale beer in which I swam. I thought to myself, why do I bother? I thought there must be a deeper meaning; I feel it as each day passes. I was reminded about “being in the thick of it”, and how the city is as necessary to my persona as the sight of my third eye. Vision is sometimes lost when everything is piled high. I once had an ego, which deteriorated long ago and the pieces I constantly pick up. I remember failure.
I heard Franklin’s Tower by the Grateful Dead this evening and just downloaded the Very Best of the Grateful Dead so I could hear some real strong memories- reflect. I rode the express train into the station of indecision and walked. I wanted to walk, I needed to walk and eat some hot wings before I returned home.
It’s Friday, and I just applied for a full-time position with my company.