Gitty Grunwald fled the Hasidic world her mother had fled to and returned to the lox-and-bagel Jewry of her grandparents. But the Satmars kept her baby. A Jewish-American tragedy spanning generations.
On the Cover: Gitty and her daughter. Photograph by Clémence de Limburg for New York Magazine.
Where else could a red-meat, right-wing congressman like Joe Scarborough reinvent himself as the liberal’s favorite talk-show host?
They’d just be too hard to imitate. But who cares? An appreciation of New York’s most insightful party band.
Though the lights are dimming on funky, fetid Coney Island, there’s still time to learn the age-old secrets of the sideshow. Sword swallowing, anyone?
He’s running her same campaign. And she lost.
The commentariat Russert leaves behind has never been larger, or louder. But is it really any more powerful?
Headed to the Bronx, after a trip to Milan.
They won’t be left in the dark.
It’s all about love, mogul says.
Now a primary concern.
To be a fish or a bull?
Bubble bear goes bust.
Jesse Jackson’s accidental admission that he’d like to emasculate Barack Obama was hardly the week’s only awkward idle chatter.
Does A-Rod even know the extent to which he’s being used, and does it even matter?
It matters to Madge, who once again has found an ingenious way to stay in our heads.
Liquid containers that don’t get tossed (as well as a few other water-related items).
I needed a bikini that was functional (as in, I could swim in it) yet cute (for poolside lounging).
"My wife mainly wears her own designs."
Scott Conant brings his uptown cooking downtown.
If snap peas are the definition of gustatory ease, favas are their polar opposite.
Week of July 21, 2008: Tabla Street Cart, Delicatessen, and Peaches.
Clearly, Jean-Georges Vongerichten is betting our town’s noodleheads will be moved by Matsugen.
Lemon prices have risen 35 percent over the past year, necessitating new insights for sidewalk-stand proprietors.
Yankees tickets, please. Or a facial. Better (local) ways to cash in credit-card points.
Inspired by the cricket-heavy novel Netherland, two dozen friends discover the pleasure of a really slow game.
The school wants to expand—and says it’ll be a better neighbor. Good luck, guys.
No one was more ambivalent about his own legend than Hunter Thompson.
Inning after inning, Damn Yankees swings and misses.
Jeff Koons typifies event art. He also transcends it.
And shadowy detectives run amok across the cable dial.
Jim Holt, author of Stop Me If You’ve Heard This, admits that analyzing humor is inherently unfunny.
They don’t make superhero franchises much darker than this.
With fall’s quality-culture rush not far off, the curve is a great leveler.
When word got out that Meryl Streep was starring in Mamma Mia!, some people wondered whether she was being paid in euros or something.
Our deliberately oversimplified guide to who falls where on our taste hierarchies.
Ice cream has a sweet history, too.
Tudor City’s solitary destination restaurant, L’Impero, has been reborn as Convivio.
Readers sound off on Clay Felker, gentrification in Harlem, and more.
Findings from the streets, files, and hard drives of New York.
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