It was the beginning of a hot weekend in May and the night of a big fight. Though the fight itself was in Las Vegas, New York had a cacodaemonic whiff. The screens and the bars and the fans were on edge. Sin City had come to Manhattan and taken possession of its public spaces. The sophisticated, the refined and the people with small children were staying indoors.
It was a good start. The quest a few weeks earlier in London had been where to rififi. Rififi is the French slang for macho tough-guy posturing. The word was made famous by a 1955 film noir about a jewellery heist gone wrong, Du rififi chez les hommes by Jules Dassin, based on a novel of the same name by Auguste Le Breton. Five years ago, Dassin explained that the word comes from the North African tribe, the Rifs, who were always fighting: “so it’s all about m?l?es and conflicts”.
The man on the phone at reception said he could get a table in a bar with pay TV for $3,000 with drinks on top. Or you could turn left out of the hotel and walk five minutes down Broadway to a sports bar and bribe the security guy. The security guy would let you in for $40. You should get there two hours early otherwise you would be so far from the screen you might as well be in the street.
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All Europeans of a certain age must occasionally tire of effete old civilisations and their medieval cobwebs. That is when we need to fly to the city of reckless prodigality for a boost. Of the four great supercities New York, London, Paris and Tokyo, only New York these days can claim to be the world capital of rififi. That is very little to do with the Mayweather title fight. It has everything to do with the streets of Manhattan.
True, Manhattan is calmer these days. Despite the fact that shootings in the city have been rising again ? there were 98 deaths by gunfire the month I was there, up from 69 in May 2014 ? New York claims to be the safest city in America. But the flavours are just as strong as ever: mustard and tabasco sauce. And it’s still the finest three-day town on Earth.
“Whoyousaygonnawin?” The words came out in one rising note, a shriek, like that of the great horned owl, accompanied by a crushing embrace. The source was a man who must have been seven foot tall. His name was Dwyane like the basketball player Dwyane Wade (aka D-Wade). We were at the front row of a bar with eight screens on the wall. For the 90 minutes of the undercard and the duration of the big fight Dwyane was a brother, a soul-mate, a personal screech owl and boa constrictor.
But when it was clear in round 11 that Floyd Mayweather would beat Manny Pacquiao it seemed a good idea to leave. Testosterone filled the glutinous night like gelignite. Rarely had anything felt so good as to turn into the soothing embrace of The Viceroy New York ? the perfect base for adventure, plumb in the centre of midtown on West 57th between 6th and 7th Avenues, and less than 10 minutes’ walk from Central Park, the Carnegie Hall, the Lincoln Center and about a zillion shops, bars and restaurants.
The lift was crowded. It was a bunch of people on their way to the rooftop bar. Being New Yorkers they said come and join us. They said it was the best view in Manhattan, even at night. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. Reader, the spirit won. And the view was amazing.
