PHOTOS: GINNY DIXON
Liberty Tax Service in West Palm Beach also has a rare and antiquarian bookstore.
At CityPlace, "I strolled the arcades of what appeared to be a small Italian town that had mysteriously been filled with American businesses."
My
visit to the Palm Beaches had begun quietly that afternoon across the bridge at CityPlace, where I strolled the arcades of what appeared to be a small Italian town that had mysteriously been filled with American businesses – shops, restaurants, a movie theater – and dotted with English-speaking visitors. There was even a church (now a theater) on a piazza (outfitted for concerts). Upstairs at Barnes & Noble hung a montage of vintage postcards, including one of the Luzianna Café, with exotic Moorish arches, at 220 Clematis Street. Clematis appeared a few blocks north of the mixed-use facility, providing an almost seamless transition from new planned town to organic main street. I drank an iced tea in the café of Habatat Galleries, reading the newspapers scattered on the coffee table and then gazing at the glass art in the front room. A few doors down I peeked into O’Shea’s Irish Pub – like Irish pubs everywhere, dark and beer-scented – and admired the surfing décor at LongBoards. East of the railroad tracks the street turned historic: J.C. Harris Co., est. 1913 (“the oldest independent men’s clothing store in the state of Florida,” said Robert K. Harris, shortening a pair of slacks), Michael’s Jewelers, Meyer’s Luggage, where Richard Meyer, seated just inside the door, announced: “I’m the one who brought Louis Vuitton to this country – in 1959.” Across the street, Liberty Tax Service came with a rare and antiquarian bookstore. Continuing east, I smelled food. There were a few august, unscented establishments – Pioneer Linens (celebrating its centennial this year), the Don & Ann Brown Theatre – but they were outnumbered by restaurants and watering holes: Duffy’s, Feelgoods,
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Fuku, Don Ramon (selling Cuban coffee to passers-by, Little Havana style), Rocco’s Tacos, which looked to have taken the place of the Luzianna Café (minus the tiled arches). Grease Burger Bar had a statue of a cow on its awning and one of a well-tailored, mustachioed man inside. “Is that Henry Flagler?” I asked a man sitting at the bar. “It’s Jack Daniels,” he said. Leo was an investor in the restaurant, and lived within walking distance. “It’s like old town America,” he said of Clematis.
Two
miles north of downtown, streets planted with trees and pretty lampposts ran west off Dixie Highway. Lowslung buildings in yellow, ochre, purple, and green housed galleries, boutiques, antique shops, cafes. Banners hanging on the lampposts proclaimed: “Northwood Village – Historically Hip.” Outside the French bakery Bistro Bistro I ran into a trio heading for pizza at Café Centro. The lone male, an artist by the name of Sam Perry, said that Northwood had the potential to become “a little Wynwood.” He pointed across the street to Harold’s, a “coffee lounge” that regularly hosts evenings of music and poetry. He told me about the Art & Wine Promenades, held the last Friday of every month. One of the women, gallery owner Dee Carnelli, mentioned the owner of the Thai restaurant Malakor who goes out in the middle of the night and paints old buildings. “He did the post office,” she said, pointing to the white building with blue trim a few doors up. This was news to Sam. “It’s the opposite of graffiti,” he said admiringly. “That’s hilarious. That’s like conceptual art.”