Either someone’s setting me up for a no-brainer quip about New Rochelle’s crime issue, or they have a genuine question.

Dear Trainjotting,

is there overnight parking at the New Rochelle Amtrak Station? thanks.

mc

Can anyone help young mc?

It’s the second of three installments of “The Great Train Revelry,” the Metro-North pub-crawl feature that appeared in the Journal News mag INTown. Part I focused on the Harlem Line, and Part II on the New Haven Line. Extra added bonus: A drag queen sighting!

The New Haven Line

Unlike on the Harlem and Hudson train lines, the New Haven’s cars are ancient, dark, and more prone to breakdowns. But that’s more than made up for by some of the liveliest downtowns in Westchester, which will serve us well as we endeavor to reach the next four bars. Our spirits are further lifted as, heading out of the city, we’re treated to the spectacle of a full-grown, full-blown transvestite high-stepping into the car somewhere between Harlem and Fordham.

About 6-foot-6, he’s wearing a mesh dress and faux fur coat, a platinum blonde wig topping a massive latte face. The conductor tells us he’s “Paris” when glammed out and “Rocky” while wearing his guy duds—he apparently being a regular rider, too.

The train pulls into Pelham as Paris describes his fearsome footwear to a young female rider. From here, it’s a short walk down Fifth Avenue before the Publick House comes into view. The Publick smells like a bar should—eau de cheeseburgers and beer. There’s all sorts of sports memorabilia on the walls: an ancient pair of boxing gloves, a program from a high school football game back in 1957, the Daily News from when Joe Torre was named Mets manager—yes, he managed the Mets, all the way back in 1977. We order a round of Buds, the drink of choice at the Publick. After a game of pool and a few rounds of Big Buck Hunter, we’re back on Fifth Avenue with a hop to our step. The Stamford local ambles along, and three minutes later we’re in New Rochelle.

A couple of cops man the platform, a reminder of New Rochelle’s urban landscape. As we head up the staircase to Bridge Street, we pass a moving van unloading its wares at a brand new Avalon apartment, a reminder of the city’s growth. We pass Mason’s Pub and Mo’s New York Grill, owned by Yankee legend Mariano Rivera. Every time we visit the city, there’s something new and interesting. Sure enough, like Rivera closing out the opponent in the ninth, Main Street comes through once again. We happen upon a sleek storefront, artfully lit and looking, for all the world, like a tornado lifted it up from Chelsea and dropped it in the middle of New Roc.

How new is Gnarly Vine? So spankin’ that a woman is hanging a cardboard sign, “Gnarly Vine” written in marker, in the window. The menu’s got tapas and small plates, such as a bruschetta with white bean, shrimp, rosemary, and olive oil, plus an endless wine list, ranging from a $7 Bogle on up to a bottle of something called Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, which sells for a cool grand (uh, is that negotiable?).

Cursing my limited budget, I order the Bogle. There’s an open kitchen and an array of loungy couches. The house music plays Coldplay from before they got lame. We chat with Ray Schramm, who says he opened shop with co-owner William Leon just days before. He says he wants Gnarly Vine to grow via word of mouth—work out the kinks and build a local clientele before the press catches wind of it. The dark lighting, soothing tunes, and comfy couches beckon us to order a second Bogle, or even try that Domaine de la Romanée, and hope InTown doesn’t happen to notice the four-.gure tab. But there are bars to see, tipples to topple, and new memories to make—so we wish Schramm luck and hustle back to the station.

The train is late—get used to it, it’s the New Haven Line—which gives us a moment to ponder our mission. We’ve hit six of the 12 bars on our dance card; shouldn’t there be some sort of halftime show? I close my eyes, but no Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction is forthcoming, not even a crummy Aerosmith concert.

When we arrive in Larchmont, Globe Bar & Grill looks enticing, but since we’ve met our quota of upscale joints, we instead opt for the Cellar Bar next door. True to its name, Cellar Bar is a little hole in the ground; manager Gary says it looked old even when it was new. Built in an old warehouse, Cellar’s got a vaguely hip energy—there’s a guy in a vintage Miller High Life hat at the bar, explaining the code of hockey violence to a pal; there’s a giant parrot mural in the men’s room; and Dave Matthews fills the cozy space. We order up a round of Guinness. Matthews rips through a Hendrix-inspired version of “The Star Spangled Banner”; maybe it’s the booze talking, but we get a little choked up. Then we spy the “No Sniveling” sign behind the bar. It’s our cue to move on.

The station is all of about 50 feet from the Cellar; one could very easily take the pub-crawl concept literally, but fortunately we’re not at that stage yet. We make liberal use of the cash machine on the platform and hop on board.

Next stop is Mamaroneck, and we can see the Town House II from the station—bar number eight is within spitting distance! Unfortunately, upon closer inspection, the dusty old joint is about as inviting as last week’s sushi. The evening isn’t too cold, and a walk down Mamaroneck Avenue will surely get the blood pumping, so we venture onward.

Next we stumble across the bar that time forgot—a perfectly preserved German brauhaus, with stained glass in the windows and an ornamental gnome lugging a keg on the door. Unfortunately, it’s locked, and looks as though it’s been that way since Friends ruled Thursday nights. Some locals tell us it’s the Hofbrau, and it’s indeed shuttered. Zum Donnerwetter!

Mamaroneck is making things difficult on our tiring gang, but the notion of doing what no Westchesterite has done propels us forward. We head toward the harbor, past Sal’s Pizza and its new gelato offspring next door, and our perseverance is rewarded as the Duck Inn comes into view. The room is done up in, yup, ducks: hunting decoys, stuffed animals, ceramic ducks, rubber ducks. We order a round of lager, and I endeavor to count the ducks.

It’s a bad idea. First count, I come up with 112. Second count, it’s 131. I ask my friends to give it a try but they know better. I give up and gaze out the window, where the boats sway with the waves. Mercifully, there are no more ducks.

Eight bars down, four to go.

PUBLICK HOUSE Pelham

ORDER A Bud by the bottle—the preferred potable here (139 Fifth Ave.; Pelham).

GNARLY VINE New Rochelle

ORDER A Glass of the Gnarly Head Zin from Sonoma, in keeping with the wine bar’s

gnarly theme.

PUB GRUB Try the gorgonzola, caramelized fig, and balsamic vinegar bruschetta or the shrimp, octopus, and baby clams in Mediterranean vinaigrette (501 Main St.; New Rochelle; 355-2541; thegnarlyvine.com).

CELLAR BAR Larchmont

ORDER A Pint of Guinness. “Freshest Guinness in town,” promises manager Gary.

PUB GRUB No food, but the bartender will order pizza if you ask nicely (8 Railroad Way; Larchmont; 834-8723).

DUCK INN Mamaroneck

ORDER A “Fluffy Duck”—pink grapefruit juice and vodka. (Regulars call it “Duck Juice.”)

PUB GRUB Freebie shepherd’s pie during happy hour (128 W. Boston Post Rd.; Mamaroneck; 835-8791). 

After months of brainstorming sessions, focus groups and input from multiple branding firms, the City of New Rochelle unveiled its new motto on the steps of City Hall today. The tagline reads “Our Crime Problem Isn’t as Bad as Yonkers’.”

Addressing reporters and citizens on a gray morning, Mayor Noam Bramson said New Rochelle’s issues with crime frequently overshadow the city’s many plusses, including its waterfront, lively downtown (including the New Roc City entertainment complex), its easy access to Manhattan via Metro-North and its luxury residential development (Donald Trump of course erected a 39-floor Trump Plaza skyscraper here).

“Everyone talks about the crime in New Rochelle when in fact I’d venture to say it’s twice as bad over in Yonkers,” Bramson told the crowd. “We want people to realize we don’t, in fact, have the worst crime in Westchester. New Rochelle is a vibrant and diverse community, and we’re very much open for business.”

Prompted as to why the city of 72,000 would choose to include “crime” in its slogan, instead of more favorable aspects of New Rochelle, Bramson replied, “It seems like some kid is getting stabbed just about every day over in Yonkers. It’s more like once a week over here.”

[New Roc photo courtesy of Iona.edu]

A first-time reader/first-time commenter took Trainjotting to task for what they deemed to be an egregiously unfair and woefully inaccurate portrayal of New Rochelle in a post about The Missus and Little G missing their New Ro train stop on Amtrak last summer.

By chance I came across your ‘trainjotting’  comments when looking through a selection of  interesting articles covering the impressive architecture of New Rochelles public schools. I am not sure how I ended up on posting, but certainly regret wasting a full minute of my time reading it. [Editor’s Note: We assume you also regret wasting a few more minutes commenting on our error-filled “rant.”]

Just bringing some clarity to the skewed picture ‘vision’ you laid out.

As we approach the one-year anniversary of the Easter Sunday Riot (not a vital chapter in Ireland’s fight for freedom but a case of wilding youths at New Rochelle entertainment complex New Roc City), we pose the question: Is New Rochelle’s long-awaited “renaissance” here, or is it something that the Journal News and New Ro residents simply will continue to talk about for the next few decades?

Had a new entry into my all-time Top 5 Amtrak lowlights this past weekend. (#1: 1990. Loudspeaker announces we’ll have 20 minutes to kill in New Haven. We go outside. Train leaves five minutes later with our luggage. Travel companion tells customer service, “Your commercials say ’something about a train is magic,’ but the only magic I’m seeing is the disappearing act you did with my bags.”)

I was picking up the Missus and Little G in New Rochelle, under strict orders not to be late due to the challenge of removing Little G and large suitcase from the train. Unfortunately, Amtrak didn’t get that memo; the Missus called and said it was due in 15 minutes late.

That gave us a little time to poke around the New Rochelle train station. New Ro is an interesting case study. They’ve built a couple Avalon high-rises next to the station, and Trump/Cappelli are joining forces to erect some 45-odd-story residence nearby. As the skell chatting with the coffee lady at the New Ro station–site of the infamous New Roc City riot four months previous–wondered Saturday, “Who the hell’s gonna pay $700K for a 1-bedroom in New Rochelle?”

Indeed. For all we hear about the resurgence of New Rochelle–30 minute commute, lively downtown, diverse–it hasn’t really happened. We did a reverse commute to New Ro for three months back in the wacky dot-com days, and despite all the reports about its renaissance, it looks exactly the same, only with two and a half giant apartment buildings now. Think of it as a tiny version of Detroit: gorgeous suburbs surrounding a dodgy downtown.

Anyway, back to the Amtrak debacle. The train pulled in, people got off, the conductors signaled to each other, and it took off. Where were the Missus and Little G?

“This is the Amtrak heading south, due in at 12:15…” I confirmed with a lady next to me. Indeed it was. I told her I couldn’t seem to locate my wife and baby.

“Maybe you’ll feel better if you call them,” she said. So I did. (Honestly, I was thinking of that even before she suggested it.)

I got the Missus on the second ring.

“WE MISSED THE STOP!” she yelled.

Turns out, they were in the back of the train. When it stopped, the Missus saw nothing but dark tunnel and figured they were pausing before approaching the station. Then, the train took off, and the conductor bellowed, “Next stop, Penn Station New York.”

Ever the dutiful husband and father, it was on to Gotham for me and my trusty chariot…er, minivan.

The Missus says there was no announcement for New Rochelle. I, however, suspect it was the free booze they’re giving out.

GRAND CENTRAL VERMINAL \GRAANND sent rull VERR minn ull\ noun: The large masses of fresh-faced, chattering teens on vacation, mostly in the summer and Christmas season, that assemble in Grand Central Terminal.

Usage: I was running late for the 5:17 to New Rochelle, and would’ve made it–if not for the Grand Central Verminal blocking the entrance to the platform.

Westchester Magazine reports on an interesting development: Upscale to-go meals delivered to you when you step off the train after a tough day in the city. Dinner in Hand is the company, and the food is prepared in a commercial kitchen in New Rochelle. Order by 10 p.m. the night before, and your chicken stuffed with wild mushrooms and organic baby spinach, for one, is waiting for you when you hit the platform.

The service is available in New Rochelle, Larchmont, Mamaroneck, Scarsdale and Bronxville, with White Plains, Rye and Harrison to come.

It’d be nice if they added Hawthorne to the list.

Actually, we’d settle for a freakin’ coffee cart in Hawthorne.