PJ Clarke's, 55th & 3rd

Lunch today took me to PJ Clarke's, a Manhattan "Institution", a fine olde pub with a dark olde bar tended by an Irish guy and with bulbous urinals as tall as your shoulders which fairly catch you up in their come-to-Mama embrace. Which makes for some splatter.

At the height of the lunch hour, a variety of lunch-eating types came in, from young besuited banker boys to scraggle-faced francophone hipsters to women with heels and tan cleavage, and everything in between. In between these types of people, you sickos.

On the menu, classic bar fare, from crab cakes to burgers to steaks etc. There in the dining room with scarred up tables, and ambiance, I assumed it would take a few minutes to bring in the food. Wrong. All this dark wood and leather was but a thin disguise for a food production line of uncharacteristic efficiency. No sooner had we spoken than food arrived to our table. It was OK.

But I dig the joint.