The comfort of drinking at Lucy’s

I once said when it closes, it’ll be time to leave New York. That was seventeen years ago.

Since I became a Republican, it seems my friends only want to drink at private clubs overlooking Central Park, where men are required to wear jackets and something called “slacks,” and the fur-clad old ladies have hairdos best described as architectural. I’ve never felt comfortable in these places and prefer the company of another old lady, the dowager …