TOOTS THIELEMANS, KENNY WERNER, OSCAR CASTRO-NEVES & AIRTO WEDS.-SUN., NOV. ...
MANS, KENNY WERNER, OSCAR CASTRO-NEVES & AIRTO
WEDS.-SUN., NOV. 24-28
FORGET THAT EVERY rawk jagoff vocalist, whenever they need to pretend they can play an instrument, chews, slobbers and slurps on an harmonica. This gross mistreatment of such a sophisticated, misunderstood instrument (when in the right, sober hands) should be equitable in its punishment.
Toots Thielemans could never abuse the harmonica. This once and present king of the chromatic harmonica breathes life into his instrument as if he were saving a young woman's life-with tender caution and devotion. His suave, soulful sound could very well come from the fact that the Brussels-born Thielemans started life first as an accordionist. But his dedication to Hot Jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt brought Thielemans to the post-Bop six-string world. Once there-after playing in bands for Benny Goodman and George Shearing-he landed a solo smash with "Bluesette." Along with its subtle gypsy sway, there's that whistle, his whistling, a sound as moody as any sax player's subtone, as crisp and sharp as a machete. Whistling. Django. Accordion. Subtones. Bop. All those elements combined led Thielemans to the jazz-monica he became famous for, somehow.
Jump back to Man Bites Harmonica of 1957. Though riddled with elegant tones and sub-moans, Toots toots mightily in hard-bop mode, getting all down and funky on "Struttin' with Some Barbeque." That same hard ardor is turned on its ear some 40 years later as Toots-the whistler and harmonicat-took on a sound he helped make familiar; the sandy pop samba. Along with his helping Quincy Jones to blame it on the bossa nova throughout the 60s, Thielemans' own heavenly subtoned Brasil Project albums came right before the rush of the avant-pop cognoscenti took on the sound of Brazilliana.
Now Toots takes to the shores of Ipanema with a touch-sensitive ensemble that includes veteran pianist Kenny Werner, Rio de Janeiro-born guitarist Oscar Castro-Neves (himself a legend of the bossa nova) and Airto-the god of palm-kissed percussion. This will be heaven on earth.
Blue Note, 131 W. 3rd St. (betw. MacDougal St. & 6th Ave.), 212-475-8592; 8 & 10:30, $20-$35.
A.D. AMOROSI
PAL JOEY WITH DJ TRU & DINESH
FRI., NOV. 26
DJ AND PRODUCER Joey Lewis, aka Pal Joey, grew up right alongside hiphop in the Bronx. He later fused the music's roots in disco and funk for his own jazzy house productions in the early and mid-90s. Most famous for Soho's "Hot Music" on his Loop D' Loop label, Joey has produced tracks for Dee-Lite, Boogie Down Productions and MC Lyte. These days he's making bouncy grooves for Francois K's Wave Music imprint.
Coming down from his tropical island in Harlem is DJ Tru, who spreads the percussive love on his weekly radio show for 90.3 FM and will bring the spicy Latin boogie in his crates. Dinesh, who runs the night, will set the decks on fire with his own deep and sexy set of broken beat and house records.
Table 50, 643 B'way (Bleecker St.), 212-560-0951; 10, $10, $5 adv.
DAN MARTINO
THE NEW DEAL
FRI., NOV. 26
CALLING THE NEW DEAL a jam band is an insult. At least, it sounds insulting to me. Because the connotation of the word "jam" followed by the word "band" doesn't just bring about dreary dreams of drearier hours of arterial-clotted rhythms and oodles of noodling glissando guitar- bending à la the dead Garcia, à la the dead Duane Allman à la several other dead guys knowingly responsible for wasting your time with an unnecessarily elongated esthetic. (Unless your name is Pharoah Saunders or Sonny Rollins, do not keep playing that solo for more than 79 seconds.)
Oh, so many doggone unfriendly images behind those two little words.
Yet, no sooner than you can say "Holy Ozric Tentacles," the New Deal came along with their cheery housed-up prog-rave-tronica, a music that sounded like Green Velvet teamed with Steve Howe. Sorta. Bassist Dan Kurtz, drummer/beatboxer Darren Shearer and sampler/keyboardist Jamie Shields keep their sound to a heartbreaking break-beating pace without the drum machines and turntables. They don't wallow in the live jazz-funk symmetry of Medeski, Martin and Wood. They stretch their tracks to remix length, but with a purpose, a vibe that must be maintained, an elegant electronic opera of rubbery rhythm and fluid musicality that doesn't waste a drop of their artistry or a blip of your time.
In reality then, the New Deal makes efficiently jamming band-tronica that fits snugly into your time frame and widely onto the dance floor.
Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111; 8:30, $20.
A.D. AMOROSI
LUNA
SAT., NOV. 27
PRETTY SOON, YOU won't have Luna to kick around anymore. Why? Because leader Dean Wareham is a fickle fickle man, that's why, impervious to the squeals ushered forth from fans who just can't get enough of his mercurial lyrics, his paint-drying pace or his Valium-soaked monotone rasp. For instance: Remember how much you loved Galaxie 500? The harshly minimalist arrangements, the taciturn Lou-lite vocals-you liked Galaxie. Which could be why Wareham broke 'em up-in order to form the perfectly melodic, aggressive union (once second guitarist Sean Eden joined for Bewitched) of Luna.
And when I say aggressive, I mean aggressive around the sound of Wareham's concise, laconic singing style. As if in the eye of a just-stirring storm, Wareham and his cast of characters lollygag in their theatrical settings waiting for the winds to blow. But the winds started to blow a bit wilder when bassist Brita Phillips joined up. The proof came with L'Avventura, as produced by Bowiemate Tony Visconti. Thankfully, rather than make Rendezvous, their seventh and final record, an elegiac also-ran, Luna's last album has the worn, winded tones that Wareham's hero, Lou Reed, had on "Coney Island Baby." Songs like "Malibu Love Nest" and "Cindy Tastes of Barbecue" simply ache through their sun-strewn images, but it's the tangled guitars and diamond-cutting rhythms nestling behind Wareham's twitch of a voice that make you suddenly miss them before they're gone. Damn you, Wareham.
Irving Plaza, 17 Irving Pl. (15th St.), 212-777-6800; 8, $20, $18.75 adv.
A.D. AMOROSI
3 INCHES OF BLOOD
SAT., NOV. 27
THERE IS NOTHING to like about 3 Inches of Blood. And I mean that in a good way. No-a great way. How could you not lovehate a wicked-fast medieval metal act that manages to make pirate music? Yeah, avast ye matie stuff, G. Having nothing to do with Pirates of the Caribbean or Johnny Depp, 3 Inches of Blood have a rich history to both their sound and image. Sure, they themselves are bunch of guys from Vancouver with weird moustaches and almond-shaped beards. So, there's two strikes and one ball against these guys. But their second CD is produced by Neil Kernon (of Judas Priest and Queensryche fame) with one of those strange Viking paintings you'd expect to see on the side of a van, courtesy Ed Repka (he who has done doth the same for Megadeth). No one with those pedigrees would work with any old Canuck.
Then there's the cross-cutting, quickly jutting guitars of Justin Hagberg and Shane Clark. Think about listening to Molly Hatchet. Driving through the hard rain. Chewing up all the dark, amber crystal meth, the stuff you could only get from a South Jersey biker gang. Now go faster. The guitars will follow-real high-pitched jack-hammering stuff, the speed-clicking "Deadly Sinners," the flash fire of "Dominion of Deceit." That's fine. Now add the twin-towering lead vocals of Jamie Hooper and (no, I'm not making this up) Cam Pipes. The same glass-shattering pile-driving chattering whine that applies to 3 Inches' six-stringed attack goes double for its vocalists. But nothing beats the dubloon-blues lyricism that infiltrates "The Phantom of the Crimson Cloak" and "Swordmaster."
Pirate metal rules.
Continental, 25 3rd Ave. (St. Marks Pl.), 212-529-6924; 7, $10.
A.D. AMOROSI
TONY JOE WHITE
TONY JOE WHITE is mostly forgotten in the places he defines. Even the most suburban Southerner could relate to the songwriter's "Homemade Ice Cream" and "Rainy Night In Georgia"-although his "Polk Salad Annie" remains a novelty on the level of Jerry Reed's "Amos Moses." Of course, Tom Jones and Elvis Presley both found it to be a novelty song worth covering. There was a time when White was positioned as a similar chest-hair-sporting stud during his heyday as the Louisiana Swamp Fox. Instead, White's endured as a backwoods funky bluesman. He's out on tour promoting his duet-heavy The Heroines, which features guests such as Lucinda Williams and Jessi Colter. He's reaching out to the kids by opening for the Blues Explosion at Irving Plaza, before headlining at Joe's Pub in December.
Was The Heroines inspired by the long history of women who've covered your songs? Actually, the idea came across when my son Jody-he works with me, managing and booking and doing the website-came up to me about a year ago and asked me if I'd thought about doing duets. I said, "Not really," but he suggested that I think about some of the women who'd recorded my songs in the past. We were lucky with the girls on the album. No one had to go through any trouble to hook up. They'd just be coming through Tennessee and go at it. We're not doing any of those songs live unless we're in town and one of the girls is, too. There's really no planned thing with swamp music.
The Blues Explosion certainly isn't the first rock act that's cited you as an influence. I've always had a lot of women and men interested in covering my songs, because they don't have a time limit. They're just written for the goodness of the songs. It's a cool feeling to have some 17-year-old playing guitar come up and tell me they've been doing my songs. But that's part of the luck of getting to write songs. I've got four or five right now that I haven't had time to sit down with because I've been on the road. I'll go to the river, get a campfire, have a few beers. It goes that way.
How does it feel to look back to when the record companies tried to package you as a rock star? There were times right through there when it was really interfering with my writing. Doing what I was doing back then took up a lot of time. I pulled back right after "Polk Salad Annie" came out. I moved to the Ozark Mountains, bought some land, raised horses with my wife and two kids. I wrote a lot of songs on that porch. I got back into my rhythm and groove. I didn't mind them thinking I could be a rock star, but it was messing with the writing. I learned to finally balance it out, so that's cool. It's worked.
Tues. at Irving Plaza, 17 Irving Pl. (15th St.), 212-777-6800; 8, $20, $18.50 adv.; Thurs. at Joe's Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 9:30, $25, 8.
J.R. TAYLOR
DR. DOUG CHANGES YOUR MIND!
WEDS., NOV. 24
THE PHENOMENON OF the celebrity psychiatrist is one of the saddest aspects of our contemporary culture. Good thing there're folks like Doug Moe to handle the lampooning. A rising star in the Upright Citizens Brigade community, Moe (The Mosaic) stars this month in a one-man show, Dr. Doug Changes Your Mind!, a parody of Dr. Phil and his PowerPoint/acronym-loving ilk.
Dr. Doug, a wiry Al Gore look-alike clad in a bad suit with a bolo tie, is full of bullet-point advice, much of it meaningless metaphors and clichés that make little sense ("If you're going to sell a car, you should wash it first"). He sheepishly admits his goal of having his own syndicated talk show one day, the Holy Grail for all baby-boomer psychiatrists. I'm reminded of Chris Farley's Matt Foley character, only Moe's Dr. Doug-a self-described "licensed life-ologist"-is eerily more believable and more lifelike. The show is directed by Seth Morris.
Opening is Mark Sarian, whose My Bride Is Hot! presents an earnest and honest monologue of the storyteller's recent knot-tying to his wife, Donna. Sarian (whose face will be familiar from Wendy's commercials) plays himself-an i-banker-looking thirtysomething who's married up. Like Dr. Doug, he dishes cliché-riddled advice ("Always play gay music at your wedding. Gay's the new black"), only his is not a parody. He agonizes over the mounting costs of wedding planning-$33,000 for the party, $375 for doing up Donna's hair-and runs down the ridiculousness of wedding-planning minutiae. Unfortunately, heartfelt as Sarian's story is (at one point, he even recites his groom's toast), as Steve Martin's Parenthood movies prove, heartfelt doesn't translate into funny.
Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre, 307 W. 26th St. (8th Ave.), 212-366-9176; 8, $5.
LIONEL BEEHNER
THE GOD OF HELL
THROUGH SUN., NOV. 28
ONE CAN BE thankful that Lars Von Trier didn't direct The God of Hell. As it is, the nature of the material is so painfully graphic one can hardly sit through it. Nor is it as sustaining as satire or even a black comedy. Nonetheless, Sam Shepard's newest play is explicit in its political allegory, so contemporary that one would imagine he wrote it yesterday.
Frank, played by Randy Quaid, a supersized version of himself, is a dairy farmer in Wisconsin. He's putting up an old buddy, Haynes, played by Frank Wood in another one of his very strange character roles. The one he portrays here sets off a radioactive buzz every time someone touches him. That's why Haynes is visiting, to get away from it all-namely the government work he's been doing in some Midwest outpost.
More shocking even than Haynes is J. Smith-Cameron as Frank's wife, Emma. The actress known to animate any role appears lifeless here. Not so Tim Roth as Welch, a traveling American flag salesman, or Haynes' bounty hunter, a gyrating, grinning, white-bread Bojangles. Welch's gift to Frank, a briefcase filled with money, makes an obvious reference to the Republican promise of tax cuts and the kind of men who choose them over all else. The price they pay is the torture we see here: their heads covered with black hoods as they march like cows into the hands of this government agent, the self-justifying Welsh, whose rationale is, "we're dealing with ruthless diabolical force."
But it's the torture itself that consumes the greatest attention as, of course, it has throughout the media, flashing images of Iraqi prisoners subjugated by American soldiers. Still, watching Haynes with an electric cord wrapped around his penis while Welch freely operates the switch box is more than one should endure. So is the play's message that reveals at best, the vigilance of the playwright preaching to the choir.
Actors Studio Drama School Theatre at Westbeth, 151 Bank St. (Washington St.), 212-279-4200; Mon., Thurs.-Sat. 8, Sun. 3 & 7, $60, $15 st.
ISA GOLDBERG
FIVE BY TENN
THROUGH SUN., DEC. 19
WHEN AN OVER-THE-TOP drag queen begs for the kindness of a certain stranger, we know we're in for an obviously camp routine. Blanche DuBois in one of her hissy fits is hardly the new thing on the block. But in this newly discovered one-act by Tennessee Williams, And Tell Sad Stories of the Deaths of Queens, set in the New Orleans' French Quarter apartment of an aging 35-year-old drag queen, an encounter with a rough-hewn sailor leads to disturbing brutality. Written in 1958, it expresses the freshness and innocence of the great American playwright whose A Streetcar Named Desire had opened on Broadway 11 years earlier.
The Deaths of Queens is one of five in the evening "Five by Tenn," strung together by the narrator, played by Jeremy Lawrence, whose delightful likeness to Williams carries through his Southern drawl as he recites the author's comments, including, "I've read things that said Blanche was a drag queen... If I want to write a female character, I'll write a female character."
Characteristically, it's loneliness and the inability to touch another person's soul that resonates thematically throughout this evening, especially in the final one-act, I Can't Imagine Tomorrow, written in 1970 by an older and more esoteric Williams. In this Beckett-like piece, an elderly, pained woman, brilliantly played by Kathleen Chalfant, greets her nightly visitor, portrayed by David Rashce, for their ritual card game. Miming their get-together, she describes to the audience what will occur while reciting graphic and poetic metaphors about death to her guest, who she's determined at last, to drive away. Fortunately, his inability to leave her transforms them each as it does their ominous refrain, I Can't Imagine Tomorrow. As the present fills with one another, it dispels their fear of the future.
The other one-acts of the evening demonstrate a less mature writer whose characters are not as complex and whose plots are somewhat sentimental, as in Summer at the Lake, about a sensitive young man and his overbearing mother who drives him to suicide. Similarly, the acting in these one-acts appears imitative and histrionic while the same actors are exacting in more demanding roles, especially Cameron Folmar as the drag queen, coming out in her blond wig and lavender negligee. But when her manly voice pokes out unexpectedly, we recognize a depth to this character that makes her vulnerability and her tragedy so real that it's painful to see.
Michael Kahn's direction may be uneven, but this production at the Manhattan Theatre Club is exceptional in illuminating these rarely seen works by Tennessee Williams.
City Center, Stage II, 131 W. 55th St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-581-1212; Tues.-Sun. 7:30, Sat. & Sun. 2:30, $48, $25 st.
ISA GOLDBERG
WALLPAPER 01.01.04
THROUGH MON., DEC. 20
UTILIZING A DRAWING technique that's elegant in its precision and simplicity, seductive when at a vista's safe remove, then packed with emotional wallop at close range, artist/graphic designer Analia Segal's installation "Wallpaper 01.01.04" makes for a fascinating polarization of space: at once cool, lean and wholly unsettling. Selected corners of white paper panels are sparely festooned in a persistent, redundant accumulation of faint, half-loop pencil dips. Arrayed on three walls, the activated corners stand alone or meet and juncture into new shapes, creating subtle architectural/rhythmic structure on walls and into corners. And those patterns become all the more canny once one peers near and gets a startling, voyeuristic jolt, confronted as if by the fine hairs of a nape or elbow crook or crotch, body parts as strange on one's self or a lover as when on an actual stranger.
A selection of Segal's drawings on Plus Ultra's fourth wall emphasize her pursuit of sensual intervention in mysterious seclusions and enclosures. The same simple, obsessive use of white space and curly-cue trimmings generates spatial parameters in an eerie realm of sensation, like the digs of a seldom-met neighbor who dreams loudly during your own white night. Segal's focused drawings reflect the "Wallpaper" installation's wildly varied impact: At a distance, these evocations of architectural space enliven, intrigue, lure, then up close her elemental approach leaps into focus and makes the skin crawl. Profoundly, even disconcertingly personal, and as utterly, bald-facedly universal as the lint and pubes magnetizing behind the door or below the desk.
Segal's previous Plus Ultra installation was neat and bare with this same mightily evocative daring: rare wall protuberances, delicate and packing the impact of bodily features: lobes, labia, pinnae, nubs. Her ceramic-tile installation, "W.C. (water closet-white cube)" with corners that distend in subtle and unexpected places, won first prize in London's "100% Design" contest. With an '04 NYFA prize for architectural and environmental structures and a Pollock/Krasner grant, Segal is having "a banner year," Ed Winkleman of Plus Ultra Gallery said on the phone. "The syncopation of the 'Wallpaper' panels forms new shapes that suggest there's something behind the wall. The attraction of Analia's work is like an emotional push-pull, with the push-away overwhelmed by intrigue."
Plus Ultra Gallery, 235 S.1st St. (betw. Roebling & Havemeyer Sts.), Williamsburg, 718-387-3844, Fri.-Mon. 12-6, free.
ALAN LOCKWOOD
KATHARINA FRITSCH
THROUGH FRI., DEC. 24
KATHARINA FRITSCH, a German sculptor in her late 40s, is one of my favorites. This is an interesting show, because for me, it was disappointing-not what I expected. Interesting, because visual artists should change and develop new ideas over the course of their careers. Yet audiences, myself included, still demand the old familiar art.
Fritsch shows primarily in Europe. Her greatest hits include polyester sculptures of towering black rats. Another features a human-sized black mouse sitting atop a sleeping white man. And a piece titled Dealer, done entirely in red, depicts a life-sized man dressed in a suit with one shoe on and the other off, revealing his foot is a hoof. The earlier works clearly express Fritsch's derision and distrust of authority.
But this show is unlike anything I've seen her do before. Pretty and light-hearted, it is a kitschy look at Paris, à la Hollywood. Circling the white walls of the enormous gallery are Fritsch's 12 silk-screened images taken from cliché travel postcards. Armoire-sized, each is printed in a single Technicolored hue. We see the Eiffel Tower, cafes along the Champs Elysées and other tourist sites. In the center of the room there's a life-size sculpted mock-up of a dime-store souvenir. It's a pink lady walking her white dog and is made entirely out of seashells. Above, 64 open umbrellas, also done in bright colors, are suspended from the ceiling. The only thing missing is Gene Kelly and the dancing girls.
Is this an ironic send-off, comparing Paris the fantasy to Paris the reality? Perhaps the work is a critique of America's limited view of France as "old Europe"-our quaint romantic playground? Or is this just a cheerful installation of happy art, a nostalgic movie set? It's hard to believe that Fritsch would do a musical.
Matthew Marks Gallery, 522 W. 22nd St. (betw. 10th & 11th Aves.), 212-243-0200; 11-6, free.
JULIA MORTON
TANTRA DRAWINGS
THROUGH SAT., JAN. 22
RICHARD TUTTLE
THROUGH SAT., FEB. 26
WHERE DO YOU draw the line between art and non-art? Exploring that question, the Drawing Room offers a show of non-art that passes as art, while across the street the Drawing Center presents art that passes as non-art.
The 30 geometric Tantra drawings on display at the Drawing Room look like early 20th-century abstracts. In fact, many of these small gouache paintings were created within the East, but the symbols themselves predate the invention of Western modernism by at least 300 years. Anonymously created by the followers of Tantrism to aid meditation, these designs were passed down over generations. Where we see art in these enchanting abstracts, devotees see functional objects that portray their gods and religious goals.
Some of the Tantra symbols are universally recognizable; for example, the dark square covered with white arrows pointing in all directions clearly refers to life's many choices. Another painting, featuring a circle with a bright spiral swirling inward, suggests a journey of self-reflection. Though spiritual, the paintings have an earthy side as well, like the dark triangle pointing at a red circle. The statement tells us the triangle represents the god Shiva and would normally be pointing down, but fascinated by the circle, a female, his symbol is pointing up instead. Or the picture of a dark oval shape: An ancient phallic symbol, it's painted brown, denoting earth and a turd, which are meant to suggest that life on Earth is-you guessed it-shit.
Across the street, the Drawing Center presents Richard Tuttle. A well-established artist, Tuttle came of artistic age in the quieter pre-post-modern era. His small abstract drawings are all about seeing emotions, no analyzing required. Displaying five distinct series titled Village I through Village V, the mixed-medium drawings and sculptures made of plywood, pencil, watercolor, glitter, string, sawdust and Styrofoam are best thought of as visual poems. In using non-art materials and practices, Tuttle tries to push the edge of what's accepted as art. Some pieces succeed and some don't.
Yet in risking failure, Tuttle engages our inner critic as he opens the creative hit-and-miss process to public inspection.
"Tan" means "stretch" and "tra" means "beyond all boundaries," and these two shows do both. Further, they give us a chance to compare and contrast the artistic powers of two distinct forms of authentic expression.
"Field of Color: Tantra Drawings from India," Drawing Room, 40 Wooster St. (betw. Grand & Broome Sts.), 212-966-2166; 10-6, free.
"Richard Tuttle: It's a Room for 3 People," Drawing Center, 35 Wooster St. (betw. Grand & Broome Sts.), 212-966-2166; 10-6, $3 sugg. don.
JULIA MORTON
HAVE YOU EATEN YET?
THROUGH THURS.,
JUNE 30, 2005
USING FOOD AS a means to depict the difficulties and strides Chinese immigrants faced in America, the Museum of Chinese in the Americas mounted a masterful display of memorabilia, music, photography and video, creating a thoroughly entertaining and informative exhibition.
"Have you eaten yet?" is a greeting more commonly used than "hello" in China, where feeding the large population is a constant struggle. Throughout the small gallery, inventive wall plaques, quotes, menus and murals add context to the objects displayed. Narrating the history of the Chinese, the show describes how their journey from abused laborers to respected citizens also changed the character of American culture along the way.
The first Chinese restaurant opened in San Francisco in 1849. Back then, most Americans reviled Chinese food and, based on reports from missionaries, believed the Chinese ate rats, worms and snakes. The exhibit features derogative cartoons from the mid-1900s, as well as early menus and personal effects.
After the 1882 Exclusion Act, which deported thousands and refused entry to all new Chinese, the population dwindled. Chinese food developed a reputation as exotic as it was cheap; eating Chinese meals was referred to as "slumming." Chefs printed notes on their menus explaining to the patrons the traditional dishes and the "family style" dining experience. Non-Chinese meals quickly emerged to satisfy America tastes, such as the gravy-laden chop suey.
Over time the names of restaurants changed to suit the era's stereotypes, and photos show the emergence of expensive, elaborately decorated dinning rooms. By the early 1970s, the Chinese population had grown significantly. Reflecting the popularity of Chinese food, the exhibit contains children's games such as Parker Brother's Sweet and Sour where players using chopsticks drop beads into the mouth of a plastic "China man."
Near the exit you are invited to sit on rice-bag cushions and add your own Chinese food experiences to a journal already filled with amusing anecdotes.
Museum of the Chinese in the Americas, 70 Mulberry St., 2nd Fl. (Bayard St.), 212-619-4785; 12-6, $3 sugg. don.
JULIA MORTON