I have an almost religious relationship with this bar. Founded in 1892 and located just off Union Square, Old Town is a historic and venerated institution, yet to my surprise, it still manages to float a little under the radar. It boasts a majestic old world grandeur: there’s a marble and mahogany bar, stained glass windows, metal cash registers,... See more

The Negroni went down easily, momentarily chasing away the heat of summer. There was nothing like it in Czechoslovakia. Presumably, not even in Russia. Over there, you drank strong, tasteless stuff. You drank to dull the senses, to forget, to punish yourself. It was solitary drinking, even when in company. In Italy, on the other hand, you drank to

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half rye, half bourbon,” he said. When he said rye, he meant the Van Winkle rye. And when he said bourbon, he meant Pappy. The bar was on the wall near the grill. He poured from feel; he didn’t need jiggers. “Carpano Antica vermouth,” he said. He spooned in juice from a jar of Luxardo cherries. “How much?” “About two teaspoons,” he said. “Just kind

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