“Hide The Vacuum, Jamie’s Overcaffeinated!”

Bite

I really do not like or need coffee as a rule – I am one of those genetically peculiar people who do not need any additional stimulation to start the morning other than the buzz of my alarm clock. A cup of coffee has about the same effect on me as a line of cocaine, to the endless amusement of my coworkers when I’ve resorted to a morning cup in desperation after staying out somewhere well past closing time the night before. (“Why is Jamie vacuuming?” “She had coffee this morning.” “Ohhh.”) Also, the coffee in New York is generally an overboiled, horrible business unless you’re willing to pay through the nose, and even then I can’t really tell the difference – it all tastes like the movie Office Space in liquid form to me.

What a pleasant surprise to discover the coffee at Bite. This tiny little kiosk on the corner of Lafayette and Bleecker Street greets you with all sorts of delectable-looking baked goodies artfully arranged on the counter, smiling countermen who ask about your day, and freshly made coffee that gets re-percolated every few minutes. I have mine with skim milk, and it’s divine – mildly flavored and the perfect temperature. The caffeine kick isn’t even that severe; I might be inclined to organize my files, but not take them all out and wash down the cabinets. Bite also carries a surprising variety of salads and sandwiches, appetizers and a Nutella and banana ciabatta that has saved many a coworker from a beating (although they don’t know that). If your carb count for the week allows, grab the four-pack of fresh-baked toffee shortbread (wrapped in cellophane and tied with darling blue ribbons) to go with your coffee, and enjoy the lovely, dopey sensation of well-being that comes with a morning begun with sugar and caffeine, just the way God intended.

Bite, 335 Lafayette Street at Bleecker (take the 6 to Bleecker Street)

Don’t Pass Out Here or the Waitress Will Write Obscenities on Your Neck

The Duplex Piano Bar and Cabaret

Every weekend night at the Duplex, a legendary piano bar and cabaret in the West Village, there is at least one table of foreigners who have absolutely NO idea how they got there. It’s actually quite cute. They seem mystified by the piano in the corner of the room and sort of stare at whoever’s playing/singing like they are at the museum, or perhaps the zoo. Once the drinks kick in, however, they are invariably the life of the party, and stumble out several hours later warbling the chorus to Sweet Caroline or American Pie in nearly unintelligible drunk-foreignerese. This has been going on since I began coming to the Duplex in 1994, and my guess is many years prior. The Duplex: Bringing nations together through treacly singer-songwriter ballads and LOTS of hooch.

When you go to the Duplex, be prepared to laugh your ass off and consume massive amounts of alcohol. The staff of piano players and singers are ferociously talented and have a super-stiff pour, God bless ‘em. I am partial to Wednesday and Sunday nights, where the brilliant Brian Nash, Kate Pazakis and Poppi Kramer dazzle with their songs, patter and snarky irreverence. Brian has a propensity for singing all the parts of a song in a musical – it’s really quite astounding to witness. In addition, the Duplex has an upstairs cabaret showcasing some of the most amazing undiscovered talent in New York City. When the weather gets warmer, they open the outside tables, and you can lounge for hours sipping pina coladas or whatever tickles your palate, and watch the spectacle that is our fair city when people no longer have to cover up with coats and proudly display their (often horrifying) fashion sense to the world.

I also love the Duplex because it brings together so many different kinds of people. Because of its location smack-dab in the center of Greenwich Village (and because it’s a piano bar/cabaret, really), its clientele is mostly gay, but peppered with a fair number of JAPS who get overly handsy when drunk, noisy, happy fratboys, and middle-aged couples who just want a pleasant old-school evening. And of course, the inevitable delusional and/or obliteratedly drunk patron who gets up to the mike and proceeds to butcher some poor unsuspecting song….or so I’ve witnessed (ahem).

Mosey down there some night – it’s always a good time. And get someone benefiting from the ridiculously crappy dollar to buy you a pint while you’re at it.

The Duplex, 61 Christopher Street @ 7^th Avenue, www.theduplex.com (take the 1 to Christopher Street)

“Oh Crap, We Missed the Movie. More Tapas Please!”

East of Eighth

When we first stumbled upon East of Eighth (and I use the word literally – I almost broke their glass door) we were blown away by their $16 prix-fixe special. And that was in 2002. Six years later, they have only raised the base price by $2 and the food has gotten even better. The startlingly diverse menu items also include tapas, pizza, burgers and full entrees. I had a martini at their sexy hammered-bronze bar last night while I was waiting for my friend Bari and chatted up the bartender, one of a rotating crop of delightfully engaging and practiced drink-slingers the place has on staff. EOE attracts an extremely diverse crowd of regulars, tourists, gays and straights alike. You can eat in the bar, in their lovely enclosed garden or upstairs in the main dining room.

For $18 we each had cumin-lemon marinated salmon to start, accompanied by spiced cucumbers and toast points. I went with the pecan-crusted salmon with corn relish, mashed potatoes and sautéed vegetables for my entree, and Bari got the cranberry pork chops, also with veggies and potatoes. The portions are HUGE, and the flavors are bright and contemporary, but still evoke good home cooking, which was what we both wanted (it had been a long day and not the time or place for head-scratching experimental cuisine). We relaxed, enjoyed a couple of glasses of Pinot Grigio and took our time – the tourists next to us had had a few too many mojitos and were WHOOPING it up, but no one minded. For dessert – pumpkin bread pudding for me, flourless chocolate espresso cake for her. The bill was an extremely respectable $62 and we had doggie bags for the trip home (Bari’s may have actually made it home – mine generally do not).

East of Eighth will probably never get any Michelin stars, but it is truly a tucked-away treasure in the heart of Chelsea. I have met the owner many times, and he has been a longtime supporter of my non-profit organization SWiSH (Straight Women in Support of Homos). He has hit upon a really winning formula, and the clientele is fiercely loyal. In the summertime they have a $20 all-you-can-eat barbecue, and they also do theme nights (Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, etc.) as well as discount coupons on birthdays. It’s a total neighborhood spot, the last of a dying breed, and I hope it sticks around forever.

East of Eighth, 254 West 23^rd Street between 7^th and 8^th Avenue; www.eastofeighth.com (take the C or E to 23^rd and 8^th, the 1 to 23^rd and 7^th, or the R, W, B, D to 23^rd and 6^th)