In Memory of The Astor Bar

I’m going tonight to what used to be called The Astor Bar to celebrate the birthday of a very good friend of mine. She sent me the address of the joint, I did a little MapQuest thing, and realized that I was going to the same intersection … only now the bar has a new name. I had no idea. I had a moment of wistfulness when I realized that The Astor Bar is no more.

My relationship with The Astor Bar goes way back. In a strange way, it’s connected in my mind with Sept. 11, because I spent a raucous and memorable evening there on the 9th. I wrote about it (and Astor Bar) in this post.

The atmosphere of the place was fantastic. If you’re gonna hang out in a bar, then you might as well get the feeling that anything can happen while you’re there. Astor Bar had it. It was lively, the downstairs was dark and romantic, with curling old ceilings, and deep dark booths. The Astor Bar has always been a reminder of my Sept. 10 world. My night there on Sept. 9, 2001 was my last evening out in this city before it came crumbling down and everything changed. And so whenever I walked by old Astor Bar, all kinds of things would go through my mind: the good times I had had there, the meetings with siblings, cousins, the times with Allison, with Rebecca … all of these things though are like relics. Archaeological relics from a time now gone.

I’ll miss knowing that the Astor Bar will always be the Astor Bar.

I hope they didn’t change anything. Even the chipped and curling-paint ceiling in the basement bar.