By Ellen Carpenter March 31, It was my 24th birthday, and my then-boyfriend now husband of 14 years , Chris, had taken me there as a surprise after dinner at Lupa.
We walked up Seventh Avenue South and made a tiny turn onto Grove Street, and as soon as Chris opened the door, Sondheim came spilling out. Well, not literally. My eyes widened and my pulse quickened. I descended the stairs to the basement bar and there, before me, were dozens of strangers crowded around an upright piano, singing full-voice with huge smiles on their faces and half-drunk Manhattans in their hands. And like me, they knew all the words. A post shared by C.
Bigelow cobigelow on Mar 9, at am PDT. Before that, the space was a bohemian cafe and, apparently, back in the s, a den for prostitution. Every night, insanely talented musicians with an encyclopedic knowledge of the Great White Way take to the piano and play for tips for years now, my favorite has been the smiley, curly-haired Franca Vercelloni.
The waiters, too, are ringers, and they often take a pause from doling out martinis to flawlessly tackle a solo. I had my 26th birthday party there. And my 28th.
The Manhattans were stronger than I remembered! View this post on Instagram. A post shared by Artivore artivore. The crowd was different, but also the sameβsome good singers and some not, but all musical-theater fans.
