Please Don't Tell

Yesterday, Heather and I spent the entire day in the East Village. The main purpose of the trip was to attend a pig butchering demonstration and bluegrass music at Jimmy's No. 43 on 7th st. It ended at 4:00 and we were kind of left to our own devices for the rest of the evening. This, it seemed, was the perfect opportunity to try an establishment that I've wanted to try for a while. PDT.

PDT stands for Please Don't Tell. It's one of New York's many not-so-well-kept secrets. You go inside a hog dog place called Crif's Dogs and walk into a phone booth. Once inside, you pick up the phone and wait for the hostess to answer. She will then open the secret door in the back of the booth to let you in. It might sound a little cheesy but I like little touches like that in a bar. A little something unique that sets it apart from other places. Plus, who doesn't want to feel like they're in an episode of Get Smart.

The place isn't that big, so generally you need reservations to get in. Like many of the other places we like to go, they won't let more people in than they can handle. There's nothing worse than having people eye my bar stool while I'm trying to enjoy my drink. But we arrived just as it opened, so we were in luck.

Heather has been there once before but I haven't so this was all very new and exciting. The place is very dimly lit and adorned with animal heads on the wall. Theres a bear wearing a hat on one side of the bar and a rabbit with antlers and sunglasses on the other. We sat at the bar itself--I prefer to look back there and see what's going on. Behind the bar, there's a little monitor that looks into the phone booth. It was kind of cool watching people enter the phone booth on this little black and white TV. It reinforced the illusion that we were doing something we weren't supposed to be doing.

After much deliberation and soul searching, I decided to order a Bobby Burns cocktail--a drink combining Benromach 12 year scotch, Dolin sweet vermouth and Benedictine--while Heather went with a Black Jack--Pierre Ferrand Ambre Cognac, Clear Creek Kirsch and 9th Street Coffee Concentrate. My drink was very well put together and was garnished with a bit of lemon peel. It had a nice sweetness to it that went well with the smokiness of the scotch. Heather's was sweet as well with a heavy coffee flavor and was garnished with a few brandied cherries; right up Heather's alley. She had to pace herself, the drink tasted like a coffee candy and threatened to go down way too quickly.

Also behind the bar, there is a little window through which food from Crif's Dogs--the front for this secretive establishment--could be slid. Crif's Dogs is known for it's deep fried dogs with a variety of unusual toppings, Heather was both disgusted and excited to read about dogs with cream cheese and scallions and a bacon wrapped dog with avocados and sour cream. We had just eaten so we did not order any food, but it's nice to know we could have. There's something charming about a really fancy drink and food that not just could, but probably will kill you.

There's a little kid part of me that wanted there to be secret doors all over the place, like a puzzle you have to figure out. I wanted there to be a lever that you have to pull while standing on a certain spot that releases a trap door in the floor to bring you to the bathroom. I wanted a false floor tile to reveal a secret staircase that leads to gangsters playing dice or craps. I wanted to pull a candlestick and have a bookshelf rotate to reveal a secret bar-within-a-bar where you could get really crazy drinks made with stuff like snake venom or bald eagle eggs. I'd like to think that that stuff could be there at PDT and I just haven't discovered it yet. Sigh. Someday.

We only stayed for one round partly because we had other stuff to do and partly because the cocktails were fourteen dollars a piece. Dutch Kills is much more reasonable at ten. Instead of spending another $28, I played a round of Double Dragon in Crif's Dogs. It was fun but it reminded me how bad I am at Double Dragon. We then headed over to Desnuda to enjoy dollar oyster night.

Dutch Kills

We Finally got around to visiting Dutch Kills last week. Dutch Kills is a bar that just opened fairly recently and takes its name from the archaic title of the area it inhabits (It encompassed most of what is now Long Island City.) It has a very old-timey theme—think early twentieth century, Gangs of New York—a couple of the bartenders have handlebar mustaches (see: last week’s blog) and it has a piano area in the back where I imagine patrons relaxing, sipping libations, and enjoying a peppy rag by new sensation Scott Joplin.

One of the most appealing things to me is that this bar models itself on prohibition speakeasies. First off, we had a little trouble finding the place because of its unassuming exterior. The whole area looks rather industrial [auto repair, wholesale carpet stores, etc.] so we were looking for some sort of giant sign. It’s a good thing we had the address handy because when we got there, there was only a modest placard that bore little more than the name of the establishment. There was no menu outside, no window sign, no posted happy hour specials. I was expecting them slide open a little eyehole and ask me for a password or a secret handshake. As I was coming up with likely passwords, Heather opened the door and walked inside.

As the hostess asked us how many were in our party, I started blurting out words that I would use as a password if I ran a speakeasy. “Rhubarb…President Warren G. Harding…Pantaloons…” The hostess looked at me funny and then frowned and then showed us to a table. Honestly I would think that this kind of thing happens all the time; it is a speakeasy after all. What's a speakeasy without a secret password? Once our eyes adjusted to the darkened room, we looked over the drink menu. Aside from a few beers and specialty drinks, the menu was pretty sparse. I suppose they figure if we’re savvy enough to find the place, we’re competent enough to order a drink.

I ordered the Queen’s Park Swizzle (see: last weeks blog) and it tasted remarkably similar to the one I made myself; at least I know I’m doing it right. Heather’s first round was a Separatist, a cocktail of bourbon, amaro ciociaro (a bittersweet digestif liqueur,) lemon juice, sugar and blood orange served in a highball glass. The result was a dark, fruity, rich cocktail that was right up her alley—right up to the moment she dropped the drink and the glass shattered on the table. As the great poet William Carlos Williams once remarked, “Condensation is indeed a cruel mistress.” He may not have said that, but he might have if he ever awkwardly dropped a spirited beverage. Think about it.

Fortunately for us, the staff cleaned it up in a timely fashion and brought her another one at no extra charge—score one for service. She apologized as the new one was brought out and the bartender said, “No problem, just don’t throw this one across the room.”—Score one for sarcasm. I must say, the staff was very accommodating, the bathrooms were nice (a stack of cloth hand towels; what am I, the Pope?) and the drinks were reasonably priced (nine bucks a pop, not bad for New York.)

For our next round, Heather got a Buccaneer’s Daisy, a blend of spiced rum, grand marnier, lemon juice and orange juice served in a cocktail glass. I, being the adventurous sort, challenged the bartender to surprise me. I am not the type of person who goes into bars and does that, but it was advertised on the menu so I figured it was a point of pride and not one of annoyance. I don’t know what the drink was called but I was told it was a daiquiri served neat and modified with apricot liqueur. It was sweet and chill and Heather actually preferred it to her own drink so we traded off. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. I capped the night with an IPA on tap (three drinks in one night, and it’s not even my birthday.) We live only one subway stop away so the ride home is a breeze.

I believe I am a fan of the modern day speakeasy. You get all the fun of sneaking drinks in a darkened room with old-timey and eccentric surroundings while not running the risk of a raid or having your drink fortified with varnish. If you want varnish in your drink, you have to go home and do it yourself.* I will say this though: We are experiencing a resurgence of an extreme economic depression and a renewed popularity of speakeasies. If history is any indicator we can look forward to the escalation of a global war and a robot that can smoke a cigarette. Drink up young people. It's going to be one hell of a ride.

*I probably don’t need to say this but we live in a very litigious society. Do not drink varnish. It is poison and will kill you. Besides, turpentine is where it’s at.**

**Also a joke.