Newspapers continue discovering East Village streets

Yesterday, The Wall Street Journal reported on East Third Street, noting that the area is becoming a nightlife destination, which doesn't always make some longtime locals happy.

Meanwhile, The Real Estate Section in the Times checks in with a piece on Seventh Street titled "Musty Old, Clever Young East Seventh Street."

This is a stretch of the East Village that has enchanted local publications for centuries. For instance, Time Out featured Seventh Street last February.

Anyway!



Unfortunately, I didn't make it past the fourth paragraph of the Times article ... with the scene described at Abraço...

"A lanky Italian with one leg of his corduroys tucked into an argyle sock leaned against a tall, skinny wooden table on the sidewalk, sipping from a demitasse and reading The Financial Times. Inside, a rumpled young man lingered in the open window, wearing homesickness for Brazil on his comely face. At his elbow, a middle-aged woman in matte red lipstick and a hand-knit snood was eyeing the cured olive cookies and chatting about the charms of her East Village neighborhood.

Behind the small counter, one of the proprietors, Jamie McCormick, worked his La Marzocco machine and called greetings to his regulars. “Where you been?” Mr. McCormick said to a reedy young man in a motorcycle jacket with a striped scarf tossed loosely around his neck. “You been on tour?”

Whoa! This is a dangerous level of adjectives. Let's toss a few of them into Wordle!



Oops. I don't think I put them back correctly.

"A hand-knit Italian with one leg of his corduroys tucked into a wooden sock leaned against a skinny argyle table on the sidewalk, sipping from a demitasse and reading olive cookies. Inside, a rumpled scarf lingered in the open window, wearing homesickness for Brazil on his middle-aged face. At his elbow, a comely woman in striped red lipstick and a lanky snood was eyeing the reedy Financial Times and chatting about the charms of her tall neighborhood.

Behind the young counter, one of the proprietors, Jamie McCormick, worked his La Marzocco machine and called greetings to his regulars. “Where you been?” Mr. McCormick said to a cured young man in a motorcycle jacket with a matte small man tossed loosely around his neck. “You been on tour?”