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The ghost of Johnny Cash floats through Murray Hill's own roadhouse, blessing every last drop of amber whiskey with his immortal baritone. Hold on tight and drink hard while toasting a long-dead Texas that has nothing to do with George W. Nightly no-cover music books yawlternative up and comers. Better for drinking than eating, although definitely stay away from the sugary, gritty, disastrous margaritas.
So what if Coltrane never pissed in the urinal like some of the more rarified downtown spots? Still toe-tappingly legit. Huge space, sleek, decked with red leather benches. Like most big-name jazz ... read more
Live Nation strikes again! Swallowing up an old movie theater space as a Fillmore satellite. Midsized concert hall, grab a balcony seat while you wait for Macy Gray to finally drag her crazy ass ou... read more
If Willy Wonka had gone into shoes instead of candy, Melissa's plas...
Iron Chef Alex Stupak, late of pastry duties at Alinea and wd~50, c...
Neapolitan pie dream team. Kesté's Roberto Caporuscio joins ...
Not inspired by an action hero accountant, more like "super pretty,...
Craft beer meets Korean-American fusion at Washington Heights gastr...