![]() But the truth is my early drinking was always for other people. I have never been much of a drinker, and unlikely as it might seem reading this, I’m still not much of one. It was when I began frequenting Angel’s Share in its first incarnation that I realized I loved a cocktail. I settled in and I cracked the spine of a book because, despite having room for sixty-five – every spot filled, here, I could feel like there was little between me and the page, except for a drink that blurred the outside and sharpened the words. I sipped this precursor to autumn in a delicate stemmed coupe glass. I scanned the day’s menu for gin cocktails and, after some deliberation with a patient mixologist, selected the Harvest Roku gin mixed with wine cordial, yogurt and honey, all garnished with a lavender sprig and served up perfectly chilled. The discrete second-floor bar on Stuyvesant Street opened in 1993 and shuttered nearly thirty years later only to find this West Village reincarnation under the auspices of Tony’s daughter Erina, because only family could carefully carry the legacy of no standing, no reservations, no parties greater than four and drinks crafted with the utmost care. If this image isn’t familiar, it’s the mural that was painted for Tony Yoshida and which, for three decades, presided over the restaurateur’s beloved East Village craft cocktail bar. Angel’s Share (the bar’s namesake) refers to the alcohol lost to evaporation when a spirit is poured into oak barrels, an undefinable sliver – just enough to get a cherub high. He was wearing a blue velveteen robe, his eyes cast down towards the almost cloudless sky, towards ringleted cherubs, towards the bar from which he was likely inhaling the angel’s share. A few minutes later, I was seated on a tall chair in the center of a long wood counter, so cozy I could wrap my arms around it, looking up at a plump angel with the tiniest devil’s horns peeking out from his sleek black mop. I remembered the drill – just as many people as there were seats, my kind of bar. Inside, a hostess with a bright smile and kind eyes (that urban rarity) asked me a wait just a couple minutes till a seat cleared. On a recent Sunday night, I walked down a short flight of steps on Grove Street in Manhattan’s West Village and through a door marked with a compass, as if to indicate I was in the right place.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |