Redbreast at the Chelsea
30/01/08 12:12 Filed in: Redbreast
| Chelsea
Hotel |
New York
City |
White
Horse Tavern | Sid Vicious
| Shakespeare
The Place: Chelsea Hotel, New York City
Space/Time: 3 a.m.
Redbreast is clearly among the elite Irish whiskeys, but that’s not what makes it great for drinking at 3 a.m. with the ghosts of the Chelsea. What makes it perfect is the looong finish that allows you to contemplate the New York streets in ways unknown to those staying in hotels without huge open windows and a nice breeze fluttering the surprisingly stained curtains.
We’re here to talk about long finishes. The Chelsea is under new management, with resulting controversy, but it doesn’t take The Donald to see that a funky 12-story Bohemian hotel in this location (222 W23rd St.) with Manhattan real estate being what it is … hell, lot track of the sentence because an overwhelming stench of Doom floated up from the keyboard like landing-zone smoke in Vietnam movies.
But fuck that. If it’s finished, it’s going to take a while because of people like whoever writing the “Living With Legends” blog – an example of what blogging should be and a slice of justification for Western Civilization, which is in shorter supply dignity in politics.
You know the Chelsea? I first went there to re-track the steps of poet-god Dylan Thomas, who drank himself to death at the not-so-nearby White Horse Tavern (and, other spots I’m sure, but that’s a signature bar) and died at the Chelsea. There are other ghosts – Sid Vicious and his girlfriend Nance Spungen (she was stabbed to death here in ’78) are reported in the hallways from time to time. The guy who wrote “Lost Weekend” killed himself here. Until recently it was operated by a family named “Bard,” – I’m thinking because “Shakespeare” was too on-the-nose.
Less fatal has been the creative energy. Just walking by the Chelsea on a spring day can increase you’re creative IQ by 22.5 points, some studies suggest. You want A-List Hollywood? Dennis Hopper and Uma Thurman and all the Warhol folks hung out here – okay, not so Hollywood. He even made a movie about the lives of his factory regulars. William S. Burroughs worked here, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits. Chelsea Clinton was indirectly named for the place – I’m told she’s named after the Joni Mitchell song Chelsea Morning.
So it’s cooler than most places, that’s all I’m saying, okay?
I’m pouring Redbreast into a favorite battered juice glass I brought for the purpose. We’ve been around the corner at a place called the Black Door for hours. I think there was dancing and a long story from somebody who met Bill Clinton that morning.
The Redbreast is of course up to the surroundings. It’s a ‘single’ triple distilled whiskey from a distillery in Cork that is actually run by 5th Century Celts who channel through unsuspecting human vessels. That’s why they insist on using the “pure pot still” method, the only Irish whiskey produced by that old-fashioned craftwork. The result is not just a Super Jameson, in the way you can argue that Gentleman Jack is a “Super Jack Daniels” but something … else.
They age the nectar in oak casks that formerly housed sherry or other goodies. I presume the casks are attended by ancient Druids wearing gauze robes. It’s the romantic in me.
So a long drink. Wondering what John Cage would make of the symphony of the street. Listening for footfalls. Three a.m. in Manhattan, and about 22 crotch-rocket bikes rip through the night going – wherethehell. And a toast and a prayer for those of you living at the Chelsea with the spirits of our culture – a toast to long, long finishes
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