Bridges was in character as Bad Blake from his Oscar-nominated turn in "Crazy Heart." Here are two of the photos that Peter van Agtmael took for the Sunday Times magazine at Sophie's...
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The Feed has learned that La Sirène’s chef-owner, Didier Pawlicki, is readying a new 38-seat spot in the East Village called Taureau (French for bull) that will specialize in pots of the molten cheese, along with meat dishes (including beef fondue). Pawlicki’s cassoulet — which we recently included as one of our top winter meals — and other La Sirene favorites will not be on the new location’s menu, but it will be BYO, just like its Soho sister.
Gambling on Wall Street, or at games of pure chance like roulette, holds no interest for Crist. People sometimes remark that the one thing he hasn’t done in the sport is own a racehorse, but “I own the horse I’m betting on for one minute and 12 seconds, and that’s good enough for me,” he says. “There is a strong feeling of success for your ego when you make a winning bet. When their horse crosses the finish line in front, horseplayers never say, ‘What a good horse!’ They go, ‘That was me—me, me, me!’ That’s part of the pleasure of horse racing, and why it’s so much more fun to pick your own horses than to bet somebody else’s picks. With a Wall Street stock, I can’t imagine the same feeling of satisfaction.”
After NYU, I had loans to pay off and rent to pay. It was all about raising funds, getting a roommate, and then getting your girlfriend to move in. It was three people in a small, converted two-bedroom in the East Village, but that's what we could afford.
We called 911 and summoned an ambulance. While waiting, we and several others that had gathered tried to piece together what happened.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you then?”
“Brooklyn.”
He asked several times for his bag…
What was in it, you ask?
His accordion.
“Oh, so you just came from a gig?”
“No, my parents’ place.”
Fletcher finds his groove in the '60s and '70s, with rock and disco, when the narrative bubbles along on outrageous anecdotes, aesthetic movements get charted with full prehistories, and minor players make basic and fascinating assertions. One comes to understand something about the way gay dancers at the Limelight gravitated toward melody over rhythm; and the lucky proximity, during New York’s bombed-out mid-'70s, of CBGB to dope dealers and Gem Spa. (You could show your face at the club, go fix up with heroin and egg cream, and return in time for the headlining band.)
The verdict: Motorino is good pizza, but it’s not the best pizza in the city.
Last night I ordered the broccoli and sausage pizza, and it was really salty. I know pizza is inherently salty, but this was an exceptionally salty pizza.
Then there is the crust, which had the exact texture and taste of Indian naan. It tasted fine, but for me the ideal crust is crispy.
Then there is the definition of “pizza,” which for me, because I come from a long line of trash-haulers and fish-mongers, means “slice.”
Sorry to all my haute pizza peeps, but if I’m at a table using a fork and knife, I’d rather be eating steak au poivre. Especially if my entree is over $12.