Poppy’s is a hidden classic. It’s the type of old school spot that reminds me of pre-Giuliani New York; it looks as if he forgot to send his gentrification goons to this gritty block. I get giddy when I find places this hot. A signed photo of Steve Buscemi looks down from its place nestled in amongst the sports memorabilia on the wall, while blue-collar workers from the surrounding area sit around and talk about how it’s so cold outside that they can’t find their dicks. Come nighttime, the place fills up with freaks, weirdoes, club kids, and lost souls; the types who are born to gravitate towards 24-hour joints in oddly empty parts of Manhattan. Sure part of what attracts the patrons, day and night, is the cheap chicken wings, burgers, gyros and beer. But the other part of it, whether they realize it or not, is that it reminds them of a place they used to know. It’s like looking at a photo of a friend that was taken back before they got that nose job that now makes them look so pretty.
Poppy’s Terminal Restaurant
329 10th Ave. @ W 29th St.