Last Call at The Cowgirl Hall of Fame
South Street Seaport, New York City. It’s an unusually warm early April afternoon, 58 degrees and sunny. Normally, on a day like this, the Seaport would be packed with tourists and locals. I counted a dozen walkers and joggers along the East River. They were so few of them, they were fairly easy to avoid.
In the main hub of the old Seaport where the Fulton Fish Market used to be (before it got shoved up to the Bronx), I walked past the now shuttered, shops, eateries, cafés and bars. I only encountered one other person. He was doing what I was doing, taking pictures of the thriving Seaport, now a ghost land.
It seemed to happen overnight.
I fell in love with the South Street Seaport in the ’80s when the fish market was still there. The smell of rotting fish was a small price to pay for realness. Real fisherman worked and drank there. Real people worked and slept on boats there. I got honorary admission to the social ranks of the “boat people” because I bartended on a faux Mississippi riverboat that docked in the Seaport. After work, we’d join tugboat captains, volunteers from the historical ship Wavertree, permanently docked in the Seaport, fish mongers and deck hands. The New Pier 17 mall had gone up but was an abomination to us. We opted for the Irish pub McDuffy’s, where a pint of Guinness and a whiskey was the drink of choice. I ordered a glass of wine at McDuffy’s once and snickers arose along the entire bar. The bottle must have been there a long time. It tasted like ass.
McDuffy’s was a great late-afternoon spot, but the most happening happy hour in the Seaport was at Carmine’s between 7 and 8 a.m. The bartenders who snagged that early morning shift had the most lucrative job in the port. Our pal Matty raked in five hundred bucks a shift pulling taps for the fishermen ending their overnight haul.
An eat-while-you-watch movie theater moved in after the fish market moved to the Bronx. Don’t get me wrong; it’s fun to eat sliders while watching a movie, but give me the fish stink and the fisherman any day.
I live walking distance from the Seaport. It’s a long walk, but no matter. I walk to the East River from my apartment in the East Village, then down along the water to the Seaport. Round trip, it’s about 9 miles. Some days, when I’m feeling energetic, I walk around the horn (as we say), and come up the West Side through Battery Park. The last time I went around the horn was early March. A month ago. A lifetime ago. It was another gorgeous day. Sunny like today, but a bit colder, about 50 degrees. I made a plan to meet up with my pal Shari in front of the Staten Island Ferry and walk through Battery Park.
Shari is an old-school New Yorker like I am. Neither one of us were born here. Shari came from Buffalo. I came from the Jersey Shore. My hometown is only an hour and fifteen minute train ride from Manhattan, but it might as well be another country. The rough and tumble New York City I met in 1981 couldn’t have been more different than my quaint Jersey town near the sea. My first apartment was in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, which in 1981 was not for the faint of heart. You could get mugged in broad daylight, and nobody would say a word.
While in Brooklyn, I dreamed of moving to the mystical land of Manhattan and finally did, shortly after my 18th birthday. My first Manhattan pad was an apartment in the George Washington Hotel on 23rd and Lexington. My room was about the size my bathroom is now, but it was mine, and that was all I needed.
After the GW, I moved in with my buddy Wolf and his evil cat Eric on 61st and 2nd. Evil Eric would attack me for no reason at all. I’m talking full on rabid cat attack. I’d look up, and fangs would be in the air coming toward me. I walked around the apartment with pillows as PPE.
I took what was left of my skin and moved into a six-floor walkup in the West Village. There were still a few beatniks living in the West Village then. Poets would spend the day at cafés, scribbling away. That was before we had computers. We did this thing called writing. If I sipped my café at the Patisserie Lanciani long enough, I felt certain Jack Kerouac’s ghost would show up. It didn’t, but Allen Ginsberg lived just a short walk past the drunks on the Bowery.
I moved to Chelsea when the first footfalls of the gay community tiptoeing in could be heard, but the Latin community hadn’t been priced out yet. Chelsea had a great Chino-Latino diner that looked like a train car. You could feast there for about four bucks.
I found my truest home in the East Village, where I’ve been ever since. I felt comfortable with what was left of the punk rockers, graffiti artists and renegades. By the ’90s, it was cleaning up fast. I blinked, and New York City become a safer place. That was cool. I didn’t mind not having to carry mace everywhere I went. I also didn’t mind the pooper scooper laws. Used to be, walking on a sidewalk was an Olympic sport, requiring grace and agility to avoid dog excrement. Please tell me it was dog excrement.
Might have been nice if the old-school New Yorkers who paid for NYC life in blood, sometimes literally, and pioneered the way for the rest of us, got to enjoy the swank, cleaned up city, but they couldn’t afford it. With the lack of crime came money. Glass skyscrapers shot up. Mom and pops closed. Sex got pushed out. Chains and superstores pulled in. The same torn up vintage rock and roll T-shirts I bought from crackheads on the sidewalk for 10 cents sold for 200 bucks in Japanese designer vintage shops. New York City was the edge capital of the universe, but it sold its edge for the price of a bike lane and a pedestrian mall.
There are some places that with their loss, comes a pain not unlike the loss of a loved one or a beloved pet. I mourn the loss of the Cottonwood Café in the West Village, where you could get chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and crispy fried okra. I hated okra my entire life, but not at the Cottonwood. Maybe it was all those margaritas.
There really was a “Crossing Delancey” style Lower East Side that was chock-full of Jewish eateries. One of its institutions was Ratner’s, a giant kosher dairy place on Delancey. Ratner’s had the oldest and rudest waiters ever to exist. They would plop a plate with a slab of smoked sable in front of you with an expression that read, “Don’t even try to ask for anything else,” then trot off in their white waiter coats. It was an honor to be snubbed by them.
I mourn the loss of the 2nd Avenue Deli when it really was on 2nd Avenue, not the new one that’s in the 30s. The new one has the pastrami, but not the magic. The original deli had an 80-year-old waitress with a beehive hairdo who told horrible jokes that you just had to laugh at while you dove into a pile of the best pastrami in the free world. The old 2nd Avenue site is a goddamn Chase now. Seems like a crime against humanity.
I kept my pastrami and half sour pickle life balanced by ordering dragon bowls at Angelica, the simple, old-fashioned, hippy-dippy vegan restaurant in the East Village. Angelica was serving farm-to-table food decades before it was labeled the IT thing. They just weren’t conceited about it. Angelica lasted 40 years but couldn’t survive lease negotiations.
There’s not enough time in the day to lament the loss of CBGB! Not to mention the loss of punk rock in New York City. New York gave birth to punk, not &^%@*(@()* London! We had the Ramones before they had the Sex Pistols. The Ramones, Blondie, Talking Heads, Patti Smith, Television, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, Beastie Boys (Yes, the Beastie Boys! They were punks at their soul.), The Dead Boys. CBGB should have been saved!
There are a few places that remain from when Manhattan had a soul. They grow fewer every day. I cling to those places like my heart is stapled to them, because I think maybe it is. The Cowgirl Hall of Fame is one of those places. I had my 29th birthday party at the Cowgirl more years ago than I care to mention. I had one of the best kisses of my life at the Cowgirl by the downstairs payphone, back when there were payphones. The Cowgirl is a real honky tonk joint. Not many places offer Frito Pie. That’s an open bag of Fritos topped with brisket chili. Frito pie is haute cuisine in my book. Best of all, the Cowgirl pays homage to real cowgirls. Ya gotta love that.
A month ago, when the first hints of Coronavirus started creeping into town, I joined my buddy Shari in front of the Staten Island Ferry, and we walked to Battery Park. It was a glorious day. A bit colder than it is now, but plenty warm for early March. My pal Laura texted. Meet us for impromptu Prosecco at the City Vineyard top deck? Why not? The sun was out. That was cause for celebration, wasn’t it? Shari and I walked through Battery Park, past the baby strollers, joggers and a few very cute gay boys sun bathing (Really, boys?! It’s 50 degrees, not 80!) and up to the winery. The outdoor deck at the winery was packed.
Looking back, we realize how risky that was. We were already forgoing hugs in favor of elbow bumps. Why on earth did we think going to an outdoor deck with a hundred other people was a good idea? But this is now and that was then. We were innocent, and mostly, it felt so damn good.
Laura, Lonny, Dee and Jo were waiting for us with Prosecco and extra glasses. We fell right into rounds of laughter and lots of bubbly. It was one of those kismet afternoons. It couldn’t have happened if it were planned. Dee and Jo were new people for Shari and me but almost immediately it became clear why they’d made Laura and Lonny’s inner circle. I laughed so hard, I started to get a headache. Might have been drinking Prosecco in the sun on an empty stomach. After the bottle ran dry, we headed out to forage for food. We passed the trendy, packed joints and found a quiet easy brunch spot in the far West Village. I honestly can’t recall what I ate. Was it eggs or a burger? It doesn’t matter what we ate. The conversation flowed easily. We lingered around that large table for hours, sharing stories of our lives. Jo had been a flight attendant before she retired. Dee and Lonny were musicians, Laura an editor, Shari and me, former bartenders turned caterers. Shari is also an actor. I’m also a writer. Downright fascinating bunch, if you ask me.
When we finally made our way to the street, the sky had begun to turn gray as it edged toward night. It had gotten colder. We bundled up. The Cowgirl was only 10 blocks away, and I felt her pulling me. Shari, always up for a party, wanted to go as well. The rest of our group felt home pulling a lot harder than the Cowgirl. How much joy can you take in one day, anyway? We gave our elbow-bump goodbyes.
As we walked away, I looked back at Laura and waved. She and Lonny left town shortly after. I haven’t seen her since.
When friends ask, I don’t have to stretch too far to remember my last public drink. It was that early evening with Shari at The Cowgirl Hall of Fame. We grabbed a high boy near the bar. Shari ordered a spicy margarita with salt. I made a cardinal Cowgirl mistake. I passed on the margaritas, whiskey, tequila and beer and ordered an Aperol spritzer. That’s like ordering a glass of sauvignon blanc at McDuffy’s. Twenty-five years later, and I haven’t learned from my mistakes. It tasted like bubbly Kool-Aid. If I’d known it would be my last public drink, I woulda dumped the Kool-Aid and ordered a Cuervo margarita on the rocks. No matter. Once Patsy Cline started playing, it didn’t matter what I was drinking. I was lost in the moment.
Shortly after, the Cowgirl, like all restaurants and bars in New York City, closed. I walked by, the day they were shutting down. They were having an impromptu party for the staff, giving them all the food they had in the fridges and a whole hell of a lotta drinks. You could hear laughter from a block down the street. There was a lot of love flowing in the Cowgirl that day, and a few tears, too. I couldn’t help pressing my face to the window. That’s one party I would have loved to crash, but I’m happy they kept their last day just for themselves.
I’m happy, too, that if my last drink was gonna be somewhere it was at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame.
