I could buy like ten pairs of pants for the price of that beer! That remark wouldn’t be far from the truth in this here garment district, where very small immigrant ladies burn the candles at both ends to churn out service-industry-quality, highly-flammable pantaloons. Who do you think sewed all those lovely sequins on that celadon top? Probably the health-insurance-deprived spouse of the guy washing the dishes at Stitch. Damn them for taking those great American jobs! While they are toiling, we are drinking six dollar pints of yeasty water and enjoying the swanky expanse of this loungey bar. Mark this as yet another place at which I should have eaten, but didn’t. I watched as others gobbled appetizers and I talked with my hands and stood drinking some sort of brew from Holland or Ireland or Drunkland without so much as a morsel. A total jackass move, of course, and bound to get me in trouble either that night or in the morning when I have to explain mystery bruises and another tattoo to the old lady. I didn’t end up venturing far beyond the front of the bar, but the space looked pretty cool and conducive to mid-sized groups with its high ceiling and what I believe are several rooms beyond the front bar area. There are plenty of TV screens for your sports enjoyment and loud music for the hearing impaired. The place got pretty packed, but there was a playoff game going on at the time, so I can’t be sure if the after-work crowd is quite so robust on a typical weekday. There honestly aren’t a ton of bars in this ‘hood that don’t kowtow to Port Authority drunks and Union henchmen, so Stitch is definitely a cut above. Get it? That was a shmata business pun. Regardless, I’m not sure it’s somewhere I would have my wedding, which is a service they claim to offer on their website. The place did work well for groups and seemed to have a decent vibe for a Midtown after-work-type joint, so maybe I’ll give it another go–and remember to eat a damn quesadilla or something this time. [MF]
247 W 37th St.