Trad Farfalle Westerns

Cue the Ennio Morricone sountrack, slam down a shot of Mezcal and fire up a Parodi with the strike of a sulfur-tip match. Through June 21st, the West Village Film Forum at 209 W Houston is running a Spaghetti Western Festival. Film director, Alex Cox (Repo Man, Sid & Nancy & his own Spaghetti Western, Straight to Hell) reviews lesser known titles running here.

Franco Nero in director Sergio Corbucci's, Django (1966)

The Old Man loved Spaghetti Westerns and I remember being heart broken when he told me real guns didn't sound at all like the 'Spee-Teez' Italian sound effect. Isn't that the point? Nothing is real in a Spaghetti Western. Not even Clint Eastwood. Check out, 'Mrs Eastwood and Company' if you don't believe me.

Film Forum from The Brooklyneer

I caught the 1PM showing of 'Fistful of Dollars' today but not before grabbing a Kimshi hot dog ($6) and a beer ($1 special with the dog) at The Brooklyneer just across the street. Beat the hell out of a flat Coke and popcorn. Cheaper too.

Lee Van Cleef in The Big Gundown directed by Sergio Sollima (1966)

I took a film class at the most progressive of my four high schools. "Film & the Liberal Arts" was taught by a bearded hipster named Bridgman. I liked him a lot. I'll always owe him for turning me onto the very odd and dark, "The Traveling Executioner" with Stacy Keach.

Franco Nero & Tony Musante in The Mercenary by Sergio Corbucci (1968)

Maybe that's where I get my odd taste in film? Anyway, I wrote a paper on Spaghetti Westerns for the class. He didn't think much of them and thought even less of Clint. I didn't think much of his favorite, "The Seventh Seal." But, the Italian Western will always share a place in my heart with my father.

Tony Villeri's, The Price of Power with Giuliano Gemma - Italian Trailer here

The sound effects of a gun shot or a punch. A popped cork of a straw covered bottle. The thin dime ring of a spur. Stubby fingers with bitten dirty nails wrapped around a pistol grip. That lone whistle over taken by Morriconne's horns, choir and drums as they swell to a moment...

Dad sits next to me in a theater. Neither of us saying a word. And for a couple hours -- We're getting along -- just fine.

Barolo Restaurant: The Garden

Late lunch. Food was good. Wine was a '93. Not too crowded. No one seemed in a hurry.

"If you know her name..."

"...postmodern, punk-inflected, Bach-Stravinsky-Coltrane-influenced string band." The New Yorker

Driving the Jersey Turnpike to NYC yesterday. A station wagon loaded with cheap chicken, cheap steaks, a 30 pack of Natty Lite with enough ass wipe and paper towels to last an eternity but will be history in a couple weeks.

Within range of WHYY, a Prairie Home Companion is live from Manhattan's Town Hall. I pray Mr Keillor does not sing. God ignores me but offers up Punch Brothers doing 'New York City' as recompense.

I'm doing 80 but the band is going faster. Crest the hill and look out at a billboard free stretch of trees turning the same mint green as some asshole's polo shirt in Swifty's. "New York City - Will you give her to me - I'll be yours forever."

Holy Week: R100

Ruff Hewn - 1987


An Object of Desire


Far from the Ramrod



Somewhere in Chelsea - back in '85 - six vintage BMW motorcycles in front of a bar on Tenth Avenue. Five black. One white. Stopped - dead in my tracks. I ask Herbst to hold up, "Geez, man. Look at these! They're beautiful!" Herbst whines, "Tinseth. Lets go." "Hold on. What's your rush?" I lean over a speedometer to check the miles. "Tin-seth! Come on!"

I'm thinking, "What's his fucking problem?" Another voice. Deeper -- Closer. "You like bikes?" I look up to see three men covered in black leather and - for the first time - I see the name on the bar. 'The Ramrod.' "Yeah, I like BMWs," I say and turn to see Herbst a quarter of a block away with a smirk on his face.

"Why don't you come on inside and join us?" The invitation grunted by a man with a ring in his nose, a braided beard and a tattooed head. He takes a swig from a long neck Miller and holds a cigarette between two fingers -- his thumb hooked on black leather chaps. I stand and walk, not too quickly, towards Herbst. "Thanks. I better catch up with my buddy." "He can come too," says the tall one... and they all laugh.

Herbst was a free lance archeologist (Have Trowel- Will Travel) working a dig for the NPS under the Main Immigration Building at Ellis Island. I was loaned to him during renovations at the Statue of Liberty and most days it was just the two of us digging through oysters and mud.

Ellis was a garbage dump for Indians living on Manhattan going back five or eight hundred years - give or take a few hundred - based on the carbon date of a femur we found. In addition to throwing away oyster shells and refuse on the island, the Indians also left their dead there.

We had time to talk - looking for dead Indians. Herbst had a thing for Jeremiah Johnson and early trappers. He told me they'd eat once a day but dinner was five pounds of buffalo. There was a moment of silence as trowels scraped. Exposed light bulbs strung above us cast a honey yellow light on the dark dig. Herbst broke the silence, "Jesus, Tinseth...just imagine the huge piles of petrified shit all over the West."

Herbst had a Tudor Submariner and admired my Rolex Sub until he discovered it wasn't a chronograph. I don't think he ever like me after that. Still, he invited me to the wildest Manhattan party. All apartments on one floor were opened up. Jazz band in one. Bar in another. Food in another and so on. Herbst introduced me to a numerologist. She was pushing 40 in tight Guess jeans and a silk blouse.

Necking on her sofa later that night, she breaks away and stares at me. "I'm sorry," I said. I think I've gone too ..." She stands up, takes me by the hand and pulls me to her bedroom. She cut through a lot of bs.

It rained the next morning and we stayed in bed until late that afternoon. I treat her to a cheap brunch of French Toast and Bloodies at J. Melons then make tracks back to her bedroom. Grateful, I thank Herbst the next day. He points his trowel at my head and berates me under the honey yellow light, "Tinseth, she's the older woman. Don't you get that? She's supposed to fucking pay not you." This pissed him off more than my watch.

I haven't talked to Herbst in 12 years but called yesterday to fact check and catch up. He told me he had laryngitis and couldn't talk long. I finished fact checking and he promised to call back. I doubt I'll hear from him again. That's okay. I'm amazed by the trip I went on with a motorcycle I never owned.

Update: So much for fact checking. The bar was the Rawhide ( 8th Ave bet. 20th & 21st) and not the Ramrod. Apologies for my lack of leather bar knowledge.

A Blind Step Away...

Richard Thompson, City Winery, NYC, 2/15/2012

A Blind Step Away (1987)

They bind his eyes with a silken scarf
And in his ear a friend explains
The one you catch is the one you kiss
How we all love party games

All the years that she has watched him
Is this the day, oh is this the day?
How she shakes as he approaches
A blind step away

He never knew how much she loved him
Standing there a step away
His eyes tied--blind man's bluff--
A blind step away

He was always reaching, reaching
Never knew where comfort lay
He never knew how much she loved him
A blind step away

Around he spins and around he spins
Darkness is his whole domain
Truth, dare, kiss, promise
Aren't you tired of party games?

He never knew how much she loved him
Standing there a step away
His eyes tied--blind man's bluff--
A blind step away

5th Avenue Lunch

Between 58th and 59th

Nice restrooms @ The Sherry Netherland just in case.

La Bonne Soupe

He sat alone in majestic simplicity on the balcony of La Bonne Soupe (the good life). He wore his hat. It didn't wear him. Somewhere in his 60s though hard to tell -- La Bonne Soupe is somewhere in the 50s between 5th and 6th, and while it has an address (48 W. 55th Street) it's also mysterious.

He was having the French onion soup and salad special which comes with dessert and a glass of wine or beer for $19.50. Very simple in presentation -- much like the man in the hat. His suit was simple. His shirt striped. I looked down to see if he was wearing socks. Of course he was. He was an adult after all.

Some of the charm of the old La Bonne is missing since the fire a few years ago. The mirrored ceiling on the 2nd floor is gone and everything looks a little too new. Still, the 2nd floor balcony is the seat to have despite the close quarters. He looked like a regular - which I hope to be someday. Content with his lunch and his life. No doubt he's had a fire or two himself.

Le Veau d'Or Wins James Beard Award

"You go from one place to the other and you bullshit." Robert Treboux


"It's not classic old - it's classic ancient at this point." Cathy Treboux




It's far from hip. Michael Williams of 'A Continuous Lean' thinks it's an 'old folk's home.' Maybe, but it has more heart than any restaurant in this city. I've taken a lot of people here and insisted a lot of people take me here. There's no place I feel more at home and I'm not from anywhere.

The first time I stepped down into the dark and, at the time, smoke filled room was in 1988 and it immediately spoke to the part of me that is always looking for... I don't know - It's hard to describe. It's: Wrigley not Comiskey - J. Press not J. Crew - Jumbo lump not Krab. It's not 'distressed.' Instead there's an honesty that's perfectly happy with itself. Know what I mean?

I've met authors here and magazine publishers, photographers, film makers, fashion designers, teachers, wine merchants and insurance salesmen. So far I haven't met anyone from the NFL or a reality show. They're all down the street eating in a place they read was cool. No, Veau d'Or is not cool and I suspect it never will be. For that alone Robert and Cathy Trebeaux deserve congratulations.

Orgasm for .20 cents - Orgies for $8

Prosperity Dumplings located at 46 Eldridge Street in Chinatown

Five dumplings for a dollar

Confusing but worth it

Also confusing

Out of Pork Fried Buns but Sesame Pancake was surprise hit

And I'm not a vegetable guy

Dining in the middle of the street

50 for $8

The Orgy

That menu looks like something out of 1965 but it's not even the best part of Prosperity Dumplings. Not easy to get to. Not easy to order. No place to sit. But once you put one of these things in your mouth...Cue the fireworks.

I had pork & chive pot stickers while we waited for vegetable. Burned the inside of my mouth on the first one. Still, the pork was earthy while the chives kept it clean and fresh. Next was the sesame pancake with vegetables. A first.

Burned my mouth again but it was so new and different I didn't mind the skin hanging off the roof of my mouth. If the pot sticker is an explosion of slippery wet fun then the pancake is the warm towel for clean up. A nutty softness with scallions and I don't know what all.

After the pancake, I order a bag of 50 dumplings and am told my order of vegetable pot stickers is ready. $11 all in. The Golf Foxtrot and I head out to finish the vegetable pot stickers because I can no longer stand the close confines of the dining room and the constant in and out of at least 30 customers in 10 minutes.

We find a place to sit in the middle of traffic. NYC will put benches anywhere. Probably because they were just made, the vegetable pot stickers will have you holding onto the headboard. Amazing taste with the dumpling wrap a perfect al dente. Can you say that about a dumpling? I just did.

Prosperity is one of those NYC places people love to talk about. It's a mischianza of taste, place, wonder, confusion and it don't cost much. Just like sex.

Lunch with Aaron Levine of Jack Spade

Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop, 174 5th Ave., @ E. 23rd St.

Trad Time Group 0702-2011- 1343 Local

2 x Diet Cream Sodas
1 x Lime Ricky
Split Pea Soup
Turkey Club
Pastrami Reuben
$28.85

Funny. Genuine. Humble. Admired by peers and can arch a mean eyebrow. Interview tape being transcribed by magazine.

Stay Warm

Haven't been out of the Bean Boots all weekend. Wear cotton socks at your own peril. A Cashmere and wool mix keep the feet warm. The Blue Ribbon Bakery does the same for the soul. Despite the weather, or because of it, it's been a beautiful weekend. Inside and out.

A NYC Discovery: Bar Carrera

Something said to look inside

Manzanilla Sherry was the give away

Not sure what the pinball machine is all about

Never tell a woman from Brooklyn you love bullfights

A convert to Mazanilla

The order form

The picks

The favorite - Egg in a Blanket

Wine list

He really liked the Manzanilla

Cava rose with dinner

I could live off this picture

Luisa & Manzanilla

I'm told this is a fashion blog

Caught putting this under my jacket on the way out

I discovered Bar Carrera on 2nd Avenue. No NY foodie turned me onto it. No NY Times review. Nada. I found it and I'll tell you how. It is a rare thing to see Manzanilla Sherry on a restaurant menu. I'm not sure why. It's perfect with olives, warmed almonds and white anchovies. And it's cheap. Trad isn't cheap but Trad is a good value and Carrera is that.

Everywhere in NYC there are adorable restaurants, usually in midtown, with charming bistro tables, beautiful facades and they almost all suck. Not only do they suck but they're overpriced. What an insult. Now, I was thrown by the pinball machine but hang with me for a minute. Which is about how long it took to get our starters.

We were early. 5:30PM or so. It was empty. Not much cooking with nuts, olives and anchovies but that's the beauty of Spanish Tapas. White anchovies with Manzanilla Sherry is like having sex on a beach. A little messy but you'll never forget it. Munching warmed Marcona almonds is like drying off afterwards. Soft and salty and rich. I love olives but Carrera seemed to have procured theirs from my father's bar.

Tables are shared - at least the best ones - and while I'm usually not a fan of shared tables or wandering musicians - our neighbors had just returned from 12 days in Spain. Wonderful people. I turned him onto the Manzanilla and told her I loved bullfights. One and outta two ain't bad.

The Foxtrot ordered the egg in a blanket and, quite frankly, I haven't come up with a sex act to compare it to. It was that amazing. Serrano ham, Manchego cheese and an egg drizzled in truffle oil and baked in a brioche. It was the best thing on the menu...

Followed by the Jamon and Mozzarella combination plate. Crusty bread is included but I think it gets in the way. The pork belly was good but fat is lost at Carerra when everything else is so clean and bright. The $40 Cava was a steal but the $8 a glass Manzinilla adds up fast. I lost count and I think our waitress Luisa did as well.

Luisa suggests you come early. Things start 'happening' here around 9PM and when things get 'happening' - it's time for me to leave and find a beach. Check Carerra out for yourself. 175 Second Avenue. Across the street from the loudest squeaking door in New York.