Eau Dear: Sniffing Out the Big Apple's Smelliest Spots

Macchio needs little prompting. "It's woodsy," he says. "I'd put it on the level of a skunk smell -- which, you know something, I don't actually think is that bad unless you're right in it."

We drive a few blocks east to the 59th Street subway station at Lexington Avenue. Even when it's cool outside, the No. 4 train's platform, which is many flights below ground, will induce a grimace. The heat turns the place into an ordeal, and when it's sizzling, well, it's as if a new line of nauseating weapons is being secretly tested here by the military.

As we descend the lengthy second flight of steps to the 4, Lahme begins to sweat, then she stops.

"I'm getting claustrophobic," she gasps. She turns around and flees the station.

Macchio soldiers on and stands on the platform for half a minute. "Truly mildewy," he decides.

Truly mildewy? Look, an old pantry is "truly mildewy." This is like honeyed rot marinated in hummus, as odious as a wet kiss from a wino.

"Worn rubber, old shoes, people?" speculates one woman waiting for the train.

A woman in a business outfit brushes off the question. "This isn't one of the worst stations," she says. "Go to Spring Street. It's like someone dropped a bag of fish there, every day."

Back in the cab, Macchio is being quizzed about his years on the garbage truck. He says he crooned on the job from day one, to keep his mind off the trash. He sang loud and long enough to become a minor celebrity in the sanitation world, showing up in newspapers and on local TV. Now he sings at restaurants. Not that he's hired to sing at restaurants. He just does it when friends ask, which he claims is often.

As he talks, we are rumbling through the Lower East Side in search of Ridge Street. There is reportedly a live chicken store there, where Ridge meets Delancey Street, and a number of blogs about life in New York have cited the place for its killer bouquet. After some wrong turns, we arrive.

"Oh, my God," says Lahme, as she tiptoes toward the open front door of the place. "That is horrible."

It sure is! Vivero, as it says on the side of the building, is a shop piled high with chickens, and when you get near them, the smell is an unholy confection of fecal matter and offal. If migraines had an odor, they would smell like this. The temperature is now past 90, and the stink here forms an almost physical boundary, like a force field. Claire, Lahme's assistant, retreats into the cab.

Lahme stands her ground, but looks shaken. "I have to take it a little bit at a time," she says, backing up a few feet.

A security guard in a blue shirt sees us, walks over and looks confused. Four people from a British cab are sniffing and shaking their heads in wonder. He shoos away the photographer, who is trying to shoot a wall of chickens.

Macchio has been smoking a cigarette and mulling. Now he walks a few feet past the guard toward the chickens. He returns in less than five seconds, looking stunned.

"That is one of the worst smells I have ever encountered," he says, awe in his voice.

The highest praise, like four stars for a restaurant. Hats off, Vivero. We climb back into the cab, slightly sickened and a little giddy.