Oyster Bar Saloon
Now and then I like to go to the Saloon at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station. It feels like a secret, even though it's far from it. There's an entrance off one of the station's passageways, but I prefer to cut through the Oyster Bar restaurant--to walk through the fish-smell and under the vaulted ceiling's century-old Guastavino tiles...
...past the case of beige and brown, old-timey desserts, all custardy and moussey on their plates, sweets too dull, too 20th-century to be found in trendier locales...
...past the white U-shaped rear counters, the one in back reserved for staff, who, in white uniforms, sit on white swivel stools eating their own meals during breaktime...
...and through the swinging saloon doors into a dark-wood tavern that looks like a place where advertising men used to knock back martinis before hopping on the 7:16 train back to Westport. Indeed, it is commuters, mostly, who fill the room today. They lend a strange suburban feeling to the atmosphere as they talk about making money, golfing, and that new wine fridge they just had installed.
The tablecloths are red-and-white checkerboards. The chairs are all trimmed with rustic brass nail heads. The walls are covered with nautical paintings, mounted fish, and model ships in plexiglass vitrines. At the winding wooden bar you sit on a padded stool and munch oyster crackers with your cocktails.
You can get food at the bar, including oysters, and the knowledgeable bartender will tell you what each one is and where it came from. When someone orders an icy platter full of them, the bartender says that one is called The Naked Cowboy Oyster. Who knew that an oyster had been named after the guy who plays guitar in Times Square in his underwear?
Even weirder (maybe) are the chairs in the co-ed restroom lounge--a baseball glove and a pair of lips in leather. As you enter under the mounted tarpon, teenagers sit lounging, one in each strange seat, legs dangling, chatting before it's time to ride the train and head home to Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, Ossining.
E.B. White said that "Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness." Those words seem right, especially at the oceanic Oyster Bar Saloon.
...past the case of beige and brown, old-timey desserts, all custardy and moussey on their plates, sweets too dull, too 20th-century to be found in trendier locales...
...past the white U-shaped rear counters, the one in back reserved for staff, who, in white uniforms, sit on white swivel stools eating their own meals during breaktime...
...and through the swinging saloon doors into a dark-wood tavern that looks like a place where advertising men used to knock back martinis before hopping on the 7:16 train back to Westport. Indeed, it is commuters, mostly, who fill the room today. They lend a strange suburban feeling to the atmosphere as they talk about making money, golfing, and that new wine fridge they just had installed.
The tablecloths are red-and-white checkerboards. The chairs are all trimmed with rustic brass nail heads. The walls are covered with nautical paintings, mounted fish, and model ships in plexiglass vitrines. At the winding wooden bar you sit on a padded stool and munch oyster crackers with your cocktails.
You can get food at the bar, including oysters, and the knowledgeable bartender will tell you what each one is and where it came from. When someone orders an icy platter full of them, the bartender says that one is called The Naked Cowboy Oyster. Who knew that an oyster had been named after the guy who plays guitar in Times Square in his underwear?
Even weirder (maybe) are the chairs in the co-ed restroom lounge--a baseball glove and a pair of lips in leather. As you enter under the mounted tarpon, teenagers sit lounging, one in each strange seat, legs dangling, chatting before it's time to ride the train and head home to Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, Ossining.
E.B. White said that "Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness." Those words seem right, especially at the oceanic Oyster Bar Saloon.
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