Touring with the Brit

Photograph: Shani Bar On

His tour:
When I first meet Tommy Anarchic (“That’s my name, baby!”), at 2pm, he’s very hungover. The British musician and self-described “ghetto kid” has never been to New York before, and he’s game for anything. Whether our city is ready for this unholy rocker remains to be seen.

First, Tommy needs some hair-of-the-dog action, so he takes me to the nearest place: Red Lobster (5 Times Sq, Seventh Ave at 41st St; 212-730-6706). We down Bloody Marys and oysters, and Tommy loudly regales me with stories of his escapades (his shark-tooth earring, he says, was given to him by a fisherman he rescued from a shipwreck off the coast of Honduras). At one point, the waitress asks Tommy who he is—the other patrons think he’s famous.

Afterward, during the two-hour Circle Line cruise (212-563-3200, circleline42.com), the drone of the tour guide drives us to the outer deck. Even in the drizzle, the view of downtown at dusk makes Tommy “feel patriotic toward America,” and he pulls out his camera to photograph the Statue of Liberty. Impressive, given that he scoffs at how tourism turns even suave professionals into rubes with backpacks, but he’s definitely enjoying NYC. Within days of his arrival here, he’s comfortable enough to hop a train to Williamsburg on his own, but his outfits and outbursts (not to mention his attempt to pay for a dirty-water dog with a $100 bill) immediately peg him as a visitor.

Yet the attitude is all New York. We pick up the CitySights coach (citysightsny.com) at 46th Street and Broadway. Ten minutes into the ride, Tommy’s already regretting it. It’s the night tour, so there are no stops for us to make an escape. “It’s like getting the bus in London and sitting in traffic,” complains Tommy before bounding up the aisle, hollering, “Stop the bus! My mate’s gonna vomit!” We’re promptly let off.

Mexican Radio (19 Cleveland Pl between Kenmare and Spring Sts, 212-343-0140) is right there; it’d be rude not to have a margarita. Then we stumble into the Slipper Room (167 Orchard St at Stanton St, 212-253-7246), and, lastly, are turned away from Cielo. “Looks pretentious in there anyway,” sniffs Tommy.

TONY’s tour:
Tommy’s feeling a bit delicate from being “out on the razzle” last night, but he still looks sharp in a tweed blazer, porkpie hat and snakeskin boots with the snake heads still attached.

We’re too hungover to wait in line, so we hit Petite Abeille (44 W 17th St between Fifth and Sixth Aves, 212-727-2989) for mimosas and croque-madame. At the Chelsea Flea Market (Sixth Ave at 17th St), Tommy considers buying a blue fox pelt. At the other Chelsea Market (75 Ninth Ave at 15th St), he’s confounded by the wall made of safe-deposit boxes: “Was they on acid when they designed this place?” We happen upon a piano sale, and Tommy singles out a $33,570 chestnut-brown Steinway & Sons grand. “Goes with my hat!” he says, then starts playing.

We stop for drinks at Hotel Gansevoort’s rooftop bar, Plunge (18 Ninth Ave at 13th St, 212-660-6736), where the glittering skyline makes him philosophical: “The people here are friendly.…They like me boots!” Last up is the Fatty Crab (643 Hudson St at Gansevoort St, 212-352-3590), for Dungeness. “You’d have to have an above-average shag for it to be better than this meal!” says Tommy, yanking up his shirt, belting out Rod Stewart’s “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?,” and ending the night with a victory lap around the table. If this was some Williamsburg hipster, I’d be sick, but he isn’t and I’m not. Maybe more of us should speak with a British accent.

—Allison Williams

Factoid: 1,228,000 Brits will visit NYC this year