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| - Once the narrow street beared little more than overgrown lots and chain-link fences cordoning off the edge of urban oblivion, but now an ominously polished range of condominiums looms beyond Parkview, an augury for future gentrification. Let's hope it doesn't alter the aesthetic of this top notch corner haven. The PV is grand as it stands: a sacred dive if there ever was one. Curious drinkers scuttle up the few stone steps to slip through the weathered entryway. They're confronted at once by the jolly barkeep who pours shots of rye with practiced ease and who can hold forth for eons on the merits (and occasional irritations) of the good old Cavaliers. Juxtaposing lights both icy blue and sinfully crimson, Parkview feels, at first blush, more than a little noir-ish. One wouldn't be surprised at all to see Billy Bob Thorton's barber-that-wasn't-there brooding at the bar or dear departed Denis Johnson scribbling down the lamentations of a motley of demented Falstaffian raconteurs in back. There are red checkered tablecloths that lend a welcome air of joviality, however. Ditto, the Cheshire-grinning likenesses of old world celebs gracing the walls en masse. The other day a makeshift scullery had been erected for the timely prep of mammoth hoagies and chopped salads and so forth while the kitchen undergoes renovation. Behind the bar proper, nighthawk smokers, resurrected by hooch, patrol the cozy patio. Everyone knows the nobility of the dive, the wood-paneled wizardry. Make your way to Parkview while the magic remains and say a prayer that it might just stay this way forever.
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