I went to Foley's on Wednesday after work with my friends Anthony and Veronica. We were there to watch the Penguins-Capitols game.
Foley's is one of those rare old spaces in New York that seems immune to modernization. When you walk in, take a look at the bar. Under the sports memorabilia is an elaborately carved wooden frontispiece, the kind you just can't find anymore. If anyone remembers the Cedar Tavern, that's the kind of bar I'm talking about. I still wonder what happened to the wonderful old Cedar Tavern bar.
The walls of Foley's are covered with sports stuff, but underneath all of that (I'm told it's worth in excess of 4 million dollars), you can see that the space has good bones. One can imagine Boss Tweed and Stanford White smoking cigars and eating steaks here, dropping ashes onto the same tiles where you spill your Budweiser.
All that aside, in its current incarnation, Foley's has the feeling of a good New York Irish pub that isn't trying to be anything more or less than that. The barstaff is friendly, the crowd is unassuming, the food is hearty and unpretentious (try the Backwards Burger, with the bacon and cheese cooked in thw middle of the burger patty, served with a side of superb, perfectly crispy home fries) and the lights are bright. Fabulous it is not.
Most of all, it feels like it's been there forever.
We were sitting at the first table by the front door. I had my back to the door, so I could see the television. Near the end of the game, I felt someone poke me in the middle of my back, between my shoulderblades. Three pokes, like someone pokes you with an index finger.
I stopped Roni in the middle of what she was saying, with a hand on her forearm.
"Tell me, is there someone standing behind me?"
She looked over my shoulder.
"No."
"I was just poked. Like this." I leaned over and demonstrated on her. She leaned back in her seat but didn't look surprised at all.
"I could tell this place was haunted as soon as I walked in the door," was all she said. Then she ate a french fry from my plate.
It makes me want to know more.
2 comments:
I got stranded there in a blizzard once--I think it was called something else then--and these tough Irishmen were sitting around the bar talking about fighters, and they started arguing about Ali (that's how long ago this was), and then one of them says, suddenly, to me: "Whadda YOU think, kid?" I know zip about sports but by complete dumb luck I'd just seen one of those long Ali retrospectives with fight footage the very night before, and whatever I said made them all sort of give me a tough-guy-nod of agreement.
My mom's going to NY soon, I should tell her about this place. She's 82 and likely friends with lots of ghosts by now.
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