SALVATION ARMY

A cast of investors is pitching in millions to restore landmark pub P.J. Clarke's

By Zoë Wolff

Photograph by Bill Durgin
CLARKE WATCHERS Philip Scotti, left, and Timothy Hutton, pictured among pieces of historic P.J. Clarke's, plan to return the pub to glory.

Venerable Irish pub P.J. Clarke's has seen better days. Its regal two-story red-brick edifice still clings stubbornly to the corner of East 55th Street—an anachronistic 120-year-old monument to history amid gray modern skyscrapers. But the front is boarded with plywood, and the insides of the time-honored stomping ground have been carved out and laid to rest in a sprawling warehouse in Long Island City.

Don't start playing the death march, though. P.J.'s is not gone. It's just getting a transfusion. A motley crew of guardian angels—actor Timothy Hutton; restaurateur Philip A. Scotti (owner of Docs and Sarabeth's); Stephen Siegel, CEO of Insignia/ESG; and real-estate mogul Arnold Penner—are pouring heart and money into the bankrupt establishment, and with help from more than 20 other investors (including Yankees owner George Steinbrenner), they plan to reopen it in October. Their goal is a lofty—and expensive—one: to restore the place to its former glory.

"We're taking great pains to make sure it doesn't fall down and will stand for another 100 years," Scotti says. While design firm Jeffrey Beers International goes to work replacing wood beams with steel in the floors and ceilings, a dusty treasure trove of furniture and memorabilia awaits its new home. Hutton and Scotti open the doors to the warehouse to reveal P.J.'s celebrated men's room, a wooden shack whose ceiling is off somewhere receiving TLC from a stained- and leaded-glass restorer. To the side lies a heap of urinals in desperate need of a polish. On the warehouse's second floor, countless black-and-white photos of famous athletes and politicians (Hugh Carey, Joe Lewis, Jake La Motta, Ronald Reagan), and giant old tin signs painted with beer choices and bar menus have been separated into explicitly marked piles: SMOKING ROOM NORTH WALL, one reads. All this stuff will be hung exactly where it went before. In fact, each item's place was laser-measured and documented on film prior to its removal.

Hutton and Scotti have a profound respect for the gathering spot once considered the Bungalow 8 of its day. "P.J.'s was always the place to end the evening," recalls the actor, as he surveys the mahogany bar where Jackie O., Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra were all known to pull up a stool. But as with any takeover, there is reason to expect—or fear, if you're a P.J.'s diehard—change. The new guys are admittedly taking steps to lure a younger crowd. As Scotti puts it, "Sinatra's not gonna walk through the door. It's time for the next 100 years."

The reincarnated P.J.'s will have double the capacity of the original. "We want to quadruple the sales," Scotti announces. In effect, the place will become two restaurants. Downstairs will be the same old P.J.'s, save for a few logical upgrades. The grill area will now be a zinc-topped raw bar serving East Coast oysters and clams. A trapdoor to 55th Street where patrons snuck in beer during the Prohibition era will be reconfigured as a cubby selling cigarettes, gum and candy. The menu will see some revamping as well: Leek-and-potato soup will be updated with wilted spinach and truffle oil. Staples like steak tartare, chicken potpie and round-the-clock eggs Benedict will make a comeback, but don't expect to see grilled shrimp with bacon. P.J.'s has always been known for its eccentric pricing—$7.35 for a burger, a Caesar salad for $8.10—but alas, it's not immune to inflation, so expect the cost of food and drink to go up.

The grandest changes will take place on the second floor, formerly a messy storage space. It will debut in October as a swanky eatery called Sidecar. The 2,700-square-foot room will house three distinct hangout zones: an open kitchen with seating, a bar and a main dining area, all open from 11am to 4am. Where downstairs you'll find red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and a hurly-burly crowd, upstairs you'll be treated to white linens and highbrow fare, like $38 Jamison Farm's loin of lamb and grilled lobsters for $40 to $60, plus a 300-bottle wine list. Not that most of us will be able to eat here, mind you: Sidecar will essentially be a private club—moreover, you have to be invited to become a member. Along with being able to secure a table on short notice, the chosen ones (friends of the investors and other select movers and shakers) will receive key cards so the folks in charge can remember their favorite drinks and dishes.

Hutton and Scotti are expecting to attract the likes of Danny DeVito and Liam Neeson. But fear not: There will be no velvet ropes. "P.J.'s has always been an everyman's bar—from stockbrokers to Con Ed men," Scotti says. "We're determined to keep that spirit. We don't want anybody to feel unwelcome."