Photo via Flickr/byronv2

Sometimes a lady just wants to enjoy a glass of wine, some candlelight, and a little ambient activity without the bother of making plans or, quite frankly, conversation.

Unfortunately, ever since Eve solo-drank her first Appletini and damned us all, visiting even the coziest bar alone and unbothered has become nearly impossible. Until now. So pull up a barstool, swirl your Syrah, and order that charcuterie board – you’re not going anywhere.

How to visit a bar alone and in peace:

1. Be a dude.
2. If Step 1 is within reach, you may stop reading and go directly to your bar of choice. If not, read on.
3. Stop showering. Give it a few days.
4. As for what to wear, where do I begin? You know best what looks worst on you. Wear that.
5. If you’re truly lost – or for some strange reason don’t own unflattering, man-repelling clothes – I’d be happy to lend you some.
6. When entering the bar, go straight to an open seat. Look for one next to a built-in barricade, like a column, or another loud woman.
7. Order two drinks.
8. This makes it look as though you may have company after all. Perhaps he or she is using the facilities. It’s been an hour but perhaps you guys just finished dinner at an Indian restaurant. Perhaps he or she simply suffers from IBS. Regardless, once IBS is out there, no one will be hitting on anything.
9. That second drink also makes it impossible for anyone to buy your next. Even if they do manage to get past your IBS-suffering boyfriend in the bathroom.
10. And if you’re worried about getting drunk and taking advantage of yourself, make the second drink a Shirley Temple.
11. Drain your face of all emotion. Pleasant indifference is your companion for the night.
12. Resist scowling at the guy who keeps trying to make eye contact from across the bar. Your scowl, his invitation.
13. If someone does approach, just start acting really fucking weird.
14. Take any usual filter and drop it in that cute little tea light. Watch it go up in flames and describe how you’re “drifting into smoke and ashes, like the memory of loves lost in labors unfound.”
15. In fact, mention love. A lot. Like, until he leaves.
16. Everyone will expect you to bring a book. They know the trick, and they’ll use it against you. Bring a whole stack of books instead.
17. Inevitably, someone will purse his lips, furrow his brow, and say, “That book any good?”
18. Eh, you’ll say. Don’t think you’d like it. “Try me,” he’ll say.
19. Well, it’s about a girl who goes to a bar to read her book.
20. He’ll smirk and tilt his head at your witty banter – how playful! – but you’ll continue.
21. No one will just let her fucking read, you’ll say. So she finally puts the book down and talks to the man. The two of them leave together. To his place. But then, before he can even slip his key into the lock, comes the climax: she stabs him. Dead.
22. “Bye,” he’ll say. Take care, you’ll say, as you motion for another glass of wine and turn the page.

Can I get a proper drink, please?

By Suzanne Meyers

It’s true – the rumor mill, the grapevine and the British tabloids are correct (and aren’t they all controlled by Murdoch anyway?) – James Bond no longer orders his usual tipple, a vodka martini, shaken not stirred. No, this time around in the new film Skyfall, he’s wrapping his suave lips around a bottle of Heineken.

A beer for the world’s greatest, most debonair spy?  How can it be? Apparently it revolves around the notion of product placement and the 28 million pounds sterling injected into the film’s production. Still, you can’t blame Bond. Were he a New Yorker, he’d be too hard-pressed to even find a real martini, making the choice of beer all the more obvious. I can attest to this, being a woman (of a certain age, but classic in my own right, thank you) known to enjoy the time-honored mix of spirit and aromatic wine; it’s not out there. No, what’s out there is a big bucket of vodka. (Or gin, if you’re a traditionalist. If you are, you’re going to be equally unhappy.)

Case in point. I arrange to meet a man at a certain trendy hotel bar located near a quaint private park in downtown Manhattan. I name my poison and turn my attention to my companion for the evening. My drink is served and moments later, I take my first sip. No vermouth. Not even a drop. He didn’t even wave the bottle over the glass. The addition of vermouth to a martini is what renders what would be a slap in the face into a soft caress on the cheek. Inquiries are made to the young man behind the bar about the missing fortified wine. His reply, “Of course there’s no vermouth in it. You asked for a martini.” This was served with a look that suggested “You imbecile, you.”  Were this the only occurrence of this conversation I would not remark on it. In many establishments, vermouth, that special blend of botanicals and roots infused in white wine which makes a martini a martini, is not even stocked behind the bar.

I’m far from belonging to the generation which tossed back that particular potable like today’s Cosmopolitans or Mojitos. But having worked a large part of my adult life as a bartender, I do know the recipe, and I realize that most people enjoy their vodka martinis on the dry side. But what currently passes for that beverage in Gotham is a serving of chilled vodka in a container that could satisfy a family of five.  The vial of Dorothy Parker’s era which provided about 2 ounces of liquid has turned into the fat urn of today in which one might actually bathe a newborn child.  In other words, 6 to 9 ounces of alcohol. Given my petite frame and the day’s light lunch, by the time I consumed the enormous offering provided by the aforementioned barkeep, I was spinning.

I negotiate the vermouth issue by ordering with an emphasis on the presence of Neuilly Prat or Martini & Rossi in my refreshment. I hate doing this because there is nothing that bartenders like less than a customer telling them how to do their job. Even so, the size of my drink is left to the establishment. I suppose it justifies paying seventeen dollars when one is served the equivalent of eight shots of booze. Historically, the before-dinner cocktail was intended to light fire to the appetite, not prevent one from being able to read the menu. Still, I could be wrong. In the freewheeling days of Prohibition when New York was lousy with speakeasies, Nora Charles strode into a joint to find her husband, Nick, involved in an in-depth session of wet libations. Telling her he’s about to embark on his sixth martini, she calls over the waiter and says “All right. Will you bring me five more martinis, Leo? And line them right up here.”

The only problem is, that happened one night in the 1934 movie, The Thin Man. Conversely, these days the New York State Liquor Authority does not allow for unlimited beverages to be ordered in a bar. I can only conclude that the super sized glassware of today makes up for this impingement on our drinking rights.  So enjoy those monster martinis with a heavyweight sirloin. And don’t forget to beg a few drops vermouth.

Turkey Day is the time to fly to small town America, where no matter how successful you’ve become in the big city, your family will find a way to ensure you haven’t gotten too big for your britches. For your own arsenal, offer to tend bar and use these cocktail recipes to soothe the beast in everyone. You may even learn to not regret having made the trip.

1. The Granny Slammer: Grandma’s been up since 5:30 a.m. with her hand up the backside of the turkey. Hence she’s already downed half a bottle of sherry.  If she’s going to go the distance, (i.e. finish cooking your dinner) she’ll need sustenance. Solution: One large glass of water with a shot of sausage gravy on the side.

2. NFL Win-Win: Dad’s getting his annual exercise, sitting in front of the TV screaming “Run, bastard, run” to the running back on the football field. Make sure to have a chilled pony keg of Labatt’s and an I.V. hookup. Serve with Swedish fish and Cheetos. With luck, by the second half, he’ll be pacified.

3. Mother’s Little Helper: Mom doesn’t drink, so serve her a Long Island Iced tea (1 oz. of tequila, vodka, rum, gin and triple sec, splashes of lemonade and Coke, shake well.) By the time she’s complained for the eleventh time about you not being married, she’ll change the subject to “that’s sure some good iced tea, hon.” Smile and nod, smile and nod.

4. Aunt Margie’s Aneurysm:  Auntie’s been chattering incessantly about everything from her bunions to the neighbor’s thyroid, and if she doesn’t shut up soon, you’re going to drive up to Make Out Point and throw yourself off the cliff. Time to calm her down with a Bloody Brain. Make this in a travel cup with a lid. Using peach schnapps as the base, slowly pour Bailey’s Irish cream to curdle like a brain. Add a dripping of Grenedine or Tabasco for the blood. Your choice, but remember she did show you the oozing sore on her thigh.

5. Brother Joe’s Boogie Monster: Your brother hasn’t gotten off the couch since 1989. Mix one bottle Ginsing extract, one Monster energy drink, and 2 shots low quality bourbon. Serve with a smile and mention quietly that if he doesn’t rake the leaves by dinner time, you’ll blab about the blow up doll he’s got stashed under the bunk beds.

6 & 7. Nap Time Jello:  For Carter and Jackson, ages 5 and 7, who have pushed crayons in their every orifice and eaten all the wax fruit off the table centerpiece.  Make up a batch of Nyquil Jello. Serve in Dixie cups. Assume there are no ill side effects in conjunction with the turkey’s tryptophan. Watch them sleep til Saturday.

8. Uncle Mervin’s Monkey Gland: The only classic on the menu from the 1920s. Merv the Perv will enjoy the gin, O.J., grenadine and anisette concoction. Maybe tie him to the chair next to Aunt Margie. Serves him right. Then again, he has to live with her.

9. Yours Truly,  aka “I need a damn drink”:  You know very well the liquor stores in your home town only stock Frexinet and Korbel, not champagne. Buy a few bottles of each, add vodka and sit in a long, hot bath with Calgon. Dream of going home. Pass out. Repeat as needed.

10. After Dinner Digestif : Everyone gets a perky mélange of Pepto Bismal and dark rum. Just think, only 33 days ‘til Christmas! Happy Holidays.

Vai's Iberico ham with Brussels sprouts and piave cheese, courtesy of Vai Restaurant.

Vai stands out from the crowd on Amsterdam Avenue

The restaurant row of Amsterdam Avenue is dominated by the sort of Japanese fusion restaurant whose menu is dominated by eight pages of maki that feature mango, cream cheese, and tempura-fried everything. Their outdoor seating is a sea of blond ponytails and pink-and-purple-topped plates, and waves of clinking chopsticks and high-pitched laughter come rolling off like it’s high tide.

Between two of these sits a restaurant that looks from the outside like their plain older cousin. Vai’s (429 Amsterdam Ave., betw. 80th & 81st St., vairestaurant.com) awning is a neutral taupe, rather than striking black. Inside, the decor is limited to some spare arrangements in vases, rather than pebble-paved walls and lacquered cabinetry. Lighting comes from a wrought-iron chandelier and tabletop candles, not recessed neon. Despite (or perhaps, because of) this, it’s Vai that draws the diner, much as white space on a busy page draws the weary eye looking for a rest.

A rest can be found here. It’s an interesting room, designed in equal parts for drinking and dining in secret. It’s split down the middle by a low wall that backs a row of banquette seating; on one side is an enormously tall, curved bar flanked by a few convivial tables—the bartender can be seen handing drinks like the Pomegranate Gimlet over the top to those seated nearby. On the other are the tables shielded by that wall and a row of candlelit four-tops that hug the room’s brick wall. On that side, it’s as if the party were happening in a distant apartment as gracious staff pour wine and, in the case of one table recently, offer to cut unwieldy food for broken-armed patrons.
There are seats outside, of course, and right now they are the most popular seats in the house, so to speak. Large groups do well out there, where, unconfined by the two-party system that rules inside, they can be boisterous and merry directly next to a quiet table for two and neither will feel as if they’ve come to the wrong place.

The menu is divided into three times as many categories as needed, as is the norm nowadays, but each contains only two or three items, so the risk of option paralysis is low. In fact, the division makes it easier to build exactly the meal you want, rather than second-guessing yourself over and over again. Want to keep it light? Zero in on the Crudo, Vegetable and Sea sections. So hungry you could eat a horse? Head for the Pasta and Land sections, maybe with a stop in Warm Appetizers.

Nominally Mediterranean, Vai draws flavor profiles from around the world, with pickled ginger surrounding a tuna and hamachi crudo, jalapeno pesto supporting charred octopus and Spanish Iberico ham teaming up with piave cheese to surround roasted Brussels sprouts. The prevalence of cheese is decidedly Italian—every one of the vegetable dishes featured it, and then there was the burrata ravioli with parmigiano—and the antipasti that come to every table before ordering is an introduction to the lengthy, laid-back meals of Southern Europe.

If you take the tour of the menu, a number of similarly sculptural dishes will make their way to your table. In the smaller dishes, elements are piled semi-neatly in a corner of the plate, a swipe of this sauce, a swoop of another and a sprinkling of microgreens covering the rest of the territory, and until you dig through, it may be hard to tell whether you’ve got the Brussels sprouts or the pear and speck salad in front of you. Meat and fish mains are more easily identifiable, primarily because they are all presented in all their carnivorous glory, an enormous, bone-in pork chop or whole branzino splayed across the plate.

Unexpectedly, these repetitions never feel cloying. In stark contrast to the overwhelming aesthetics next door, Vai has found a formula that presents food well without dwelling on the details, saving the effort for the flavor profiles and seasonal variations that make the menu unique. In a sea of false fusion, its eclecticism feels like a comfortable lifeboat.

Photo by thezartorialist.com. Photo courtesy of Flickr Commons.

By Paul Bisceglio

Andrew Rausa celebrated Independence Day on a brownstone stoop in Boerum Hill last Wednesday like countless other Brooklynites: with friends, a grill and a few beers. When an unmarked police car stopped in front of them, he told the New York Times, he thought they might be in trouble for the grill.

Instead, they were all issued summonses for drinking in public.

“We were all kind of stunned for a second,” Rausa said to the Times. “It happened over the gate. It was a very tangible physical divide — when [the police] said the words ‘public property,’ it just didn’t make any sense.”

Convinced that his friend’s stoop was in fact private property, Rausa, a rising third year Brooklyn Law student, pulled up New York’s administrative code on his smart phone and argued with one of the officers that no law was broken.

According to Rausa, the officer replied, “I don’t care what the law says, you’re getting a summons.”

Rausa and his friends decided to plead not guilty to the charge instead of paying its $25 fine. They follow another Brooklyn resident, Kimber VanRy, who received the same summons for drinking on his stoop in 2008. His case was dismissed on a technicality.

Stoop drinking remains a gray area in New York’s open-container law, so the outcome of Rausa’s case may set a new precedent for future court rulings.

Rausa’s court date is to be determined. “My issue is not some yuppie, I-think-I’m-above-the-law issue,” he told the Times. “It’s the fact that I brought to the attention of the police officer that he was not in the right and he was not receptive at all.”

The St. Patrick’s Day parade that takes over Fifth Avenue has been around longer than the United States itself; it began 251 years ago, when Irish soldiers serving in the English military marched through Lower Manhattan.

“The massive parades started after the Civil War,” said William Hurley, the library and archive curator at the American Irish Historical Society. “If you look at [the] period, that was really when the people who had been oppressed came to more power. The Irish became a cohesive voting bloc.” Political dissidents in Ireland like Daniel O’Connell, who fought for Irish independence from Great Britain in the early 19th century, also spurred increased interest in Irish heritage across the pond and made parades more popular in America.

While the grand parade is run by a Catholic organization, the Ancient Order of Hibernians, other elements of an American St. Patrick’s Day have evolved far beyond religious roots.

“There’s always been a battle between the religious and the secular. It is a saint’s day, but it’s become a much bigger thing, really,” said Ray O’Hanlon, editor of the Irish Echo. “By all means, have a party, but I think the basis of that holiday is spiritual in origin.”

And what of the daylong drinking fests that seem to engulf the city streets? Many Irish people shudder at the representation of their history in slurred speech and sloppy antics, and point out that it’s Americans who have infused the day with special alcoholic meaning.

“When I was growing up in Dublin, we had a day off school. If you were Catholic, you went to Mass. It was a very low-key day, in fact,” said O’Hanlon. “In a way, Ireland is oddly mimicking America now; the celebration has become much more American in that regard.”

Copious drinking and the promotion of concoctions like the “Irish car bomb” are largely generated by bars to make money and don’t really tie in to any Irish traditions. Car bombs, legend has it, were invented by a bartender in Connecticut in the 1970s who noticed that when he dropped a shot made up of half Jameson whiskey and half Bailey’s Irish Cream into a half-finished pint of Guinness, the result fizzed up like an IRA bomb. What started as a slightly dark joke took off as a favorite drink of frat boys, but many Irish take offense to the name that conjures images of sectarian violence in Northern Ireland.

Some, in fact, are opting to forgo drinking of any kind this year.

“What we’re doing is introducing a whole new event for St. Patrick’s Day that really focuses on the culture and heritage and not the alcoholic element,” said Maura Kelly, one of the organizers of the first annual Sober St. Patrick’s Day on the Upper East Side. They’re selling $12 tickets to a day of food, music, dancing and visits by Irish celebs and dignitaries.

“We’re presenting it both ways. It’s for the recovery community, for people who have abandoned the holiday,” said Kelly. “I like a glass of wine, but for me it was sort of more about combating the negative stereotype of the day, the public drunkenness. I know there’s more than that.”

“There’s no cultural aspect to it that demands that you have to drink on St. Patrick’s Day at all,” said O’Hanlon. He said he continually runs stories in the Echo debunking the harmful stereotypes of the drunken Irish and calling out retailers like Urban Outfitters who sell cheeky T-shirts with slogans like “Irish I Were Drunk.”

“Irish Americans who take their holiday seriously and believe it’s a holiday for everybody tend to sort of get their hackles raised—and rightly so, because you’re parading and pushing a stereotype for profit,” O’Hanlon said.

Jeff Cleary, the executive director of the Irish American Heritage Museum in Albany, said he has sensed a shift in recent years away from the inebriated revelry and toward a keener interest in Irish heritage.

“People want to learn more about their heritage and they want to celebrate more,” Cleary said. “You’re seeing less and les of the old crappy plastic bowler caps and the ‘Kiss me I’m Irish’ shirts.”

Cleary said he hopes New Yorkers will use the day to remember and celebrate the contributions of Irish Americans to the city and taking advantage of events like parades, lunches and ceremonies honoring Irish heritage.

“There’s so much more than just sitting in the Irish bar and listening to ‘Danny Boy,’” he said.

“I said, ‘Drilling for gas, are you kidding me?’” DiPrima recalled.

But as an Upper West Sider, her concern also centered on potential damage to the city’s drinking water.

The Marcellus shale, a rock formation that stretches from Ohio into New York’s southern tier, has more than 100 trillion feet of natural gas, according to the state environmental department. The shale covers the city’s watershed in the Hudson Valley region, and opponents say the state Department of Environmental Conservation’s rules for drilling natural gas there are not strict enough. The rules, which are only a draft at this point, propose buffer zones around the watershed but do not ban drilling near the city’s drinking water supply.

Environmentalists are concerned about mining natural gas using a method called hydraulic fracturing, in which a mix of water, sand and chemicals is injected at a high pressure to crack the shale. Doing this near the city’s main water supply raises concerns about contamination.

“When you’re talking about the New York City watershed, you’re talking about a resource that a zero-risk approach needs to be adopted,” said Kate Sinding, a senior attorney for the Natural Resources Defense Council’s New York Urban Program. “We have no faith that this is an activity that will be safely permitted and regulated in the state.”

DiPrima, who is commissioner of the West Side Soccer League, is working to organize Manhattan residents to speak out at public hearings on natural gas drilling and to write letters to the state environmental agency. She has teamed up with Borough President Scott Stringer, who launched a “kill the drill” campaign, and the Natural Resources Defense Council. The campaign has generated 1,454 letters and a Facebook group with nearly 1,000 supporters.

“Everyone who drinks the water or showers in the water should stand up and say their piece,” DiPrima said.

On Dec. 3, DiPrima corralled about 60 friends, family members and neighbors at the Culture Center on Columbus Avenue for an informational meeting on natural gas drilling. Stringer, the Natural Resources Defense Council and the group Catskill Mountainkeeper also attended.

State Sen. Tom Duane and other
environmental advocates have pushed for a meeting in New York City to discuss the potential impact of drilling on drinking water. Though the public meetings on natural gas drilling are over, the public comment period has been extended to Dec. 31. Drilling opponents are urging people to continue writing letters and emails in support of a ban.

“We have only a limited time to encourage New York State to be a leader in one of the most pressing environmental issues facing New York City,” Stringer said in a statement.

When the comment period ends, the state Department of Environmental Conservation will consider the public’s response to the draft rules and finalize drilling regulations. The department will also respond to specific concerns in a “responsiveness summary,” and then decide on possible changes to regulation.

A spokesperson for the department declined to give a statement addressing drilling concerns until the public
comment period has ended.

With only two weeks left until that deadline, DiPrima is trying to increase awareness that drilling near the city’s drinking water supply may be imminent.

“It’s not just up to Natural Resources Defense Council and not just up to environmental groups to solve this problem,” DiPrima said. “It’s up to everybody.”