A New York Night at the Rusty Knot
You heard it on the coconut telegraph.
Steve Garbarino
March 26, 2008
Last night around 9 p.m., we enter the Rusty Knot—the new Jules Verne-meets-Islamorada-dive from the Spotted Pig boys—and it’s just simply love at first sight and taste. First, we’re a-digging that far-flung West Street (at West 11th) is becoming something more than where you go to don a pair of leather chaps. It’s outlaw territory, no man’s land, a blustery destination spot (and just close enough to that chile con queso bowl of cheese at Tortilla Flats to boot). When my friends and I went the week before, we simply didn’t take in the details (like, uh, the fish aquariums) due to a Waverly Inn bartender who would not let our wine glasses empty. See photos at A Continuous Lean—there’s just simply nothing NOT to like here.
Where else can you hear “Cheeseburger in Paradise” (and laugh to it) while eating a sublime liver and bacon sandwich (which tastes like a country salad-pate mix, and we mean that in the best of ways), and while clutching a half-coconut glass containing a not-too-sweet pina colada with a dark rum floater? Yes, we said “floater,” and no one laughed at us while ordering it. Where can you drink a Busch beer for $4? A Stella draft for $5? Everyone was drinking Mai-Tais without irony. They’re delicious here! Where do you see this many good-looking 20-and-30-something people who aren’t posing? The wood-paneled walls suggest a vintage heroin-chic Calvin Klein ad, or a room at the East Deck motel in Montauk. The mural behind the no-frills bar is just perfect. The nautical trappings don’t feel forced. They’re just there! The little booths and bamboo two-tops are comfy and you can see outside from every angle—like the fish bowl that it is.
The pool table scene is right out of Tom Waits in “Shore Leave” mode. (Thankfully, no midgets holding court nor cue.) We did not expect to know anybody really, but there was ex-Radar man Chris Tennant with Gawker’s Nick Denton. And our Cosmo pal Amri Leever and her fiancée Jason, who’s a great Aussie photographer. And Courtney, from Glamour mag. Some Ralph Lauren designers. A few band members.
The staff is so chill. The pretzel dogs are heaven. A bowl of razor clams are like $11. It’s just cheap, unpretentious fun. Crowded, but not too-too. And yes, we loathe Jimmy Buffett, but somehow hearing songs like “Margaritaville” and the Eagles’ “Hotel California” in these surroundings just feels like you died and went to your basement den, with windows, and no pot smoke. It’s the trappings of a University of South Florida frat house full of scene-it-all New Yorkers. This is one rare tuna. Waitress, we’ll have some more “boat drinks,” please. I wanna go where it’s warm.
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