serious about her liquor, evidenced by the fact that she was drinking from two glasses simultaneously.
Most 169 Bar denizens fit this description. (The part about being serious about their liquor, not the part about being hirsute females.) With its leopard-skin pool table, Chinese lanterns, red vinyl booths and palm fronds nestled in bottles of Patron, the place offers a terrific environment to be off your rocker.
The David Lynchian vibe is almost enough to make you forget that they filmed an episode of Flight of the Conchords here. After all, Bret and Jemaine’s music would have a hard time finding its way onto the speakers at this eighty year-old Chinatown haunt, as owner/ musical curator Charles Hanson tends towards big band, jazz, blues and funk when there isn’t a DJ or live rock band. The stage is right next to the front door, so you’re forced to listen to the music no matter how bad it sucks. Thankfully, each act plays only thirty minute sets, and there’s substantial down time between groups.
If you’re interested in performing here, keep in mind that Hanson, a former New Orleans punk player who took over the place in 2006, has redecorated and reorganized the booking process, and there are tons of rules for bands nowadays; they must use the house drum kit, bring in a certain amount of customers, etc. After sets, the musicians become part of the crowd and begin eating their own cashews, grooming their own mustaches, or whatever.
Dive Bar Rating
2A
25 Avenue A (at East 2nd Street) Transit: F, M to 2nd Ave-Houston
(212) 505-2466
2A is about as fancy as a bar can be and still qualify for this book. Still, its relative swank gets a pass because, as far as I know, it’s the only place in Manhattan where a poorly-dressed Pabst drinker can enjoy second-floor views through floor to ceiling windows.
The ground level is nice too, and full of its own sharp architectural touches, like the wall of stacked glass cubes and the trap door behind the bar that leads down to the basement. But it’s upstairs where you’ll feel like you’re living the good life. Benches butt up to the windows, which look out over the intersection of 2nd Street and Avenue A. You can get drinks up there as well, and the bartender’s station has a beautifully-crafted wooden bar. Printed tin plates run along the bottoms of the walls, and much of the seating is comprised of plush, curved booths. These details will make you wonder how you’re managing to drink cheaply here.
The bouncer is of the introspective variety, looking up from his mobile device not to see your ID, but to ask how you’re doing tonight. He’ll then wave you through if he deems it appropriate, and wish you well. If you’re with someone you shouldn’t be, go ahead and seat yourself in the almost-pitch black back corner of the first floor. Preferably, however, go upstairs and take in the views. It’s kind of like one of those restaurants on the top floors of hotels, except for cheap guys who want to impress their dates.
Dive Bar Rating
Alibi
242 Dekalb Ave (Clermont Ave and Vanderbilt Ave) Transit: G to Clinton-Washington; C toLafayette Ave
(718) 783-8519
Normally, I took notes for this book by sending myself text messages, as I stopped using pen and paper after the bartender/lap dancer at Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge ripped my notebook out of my hands and began reading my assessment of her dump aloud.
However, at Alibi I sort of lost my head. I’d heard that the venerable Fort Greene garden-level watering hole was a writer’s hangout, and therefore I didn’t think anyone would give me grief for jotting down notes in my Mead. And they probably wouldn’t have, either, if I hadn’t done it while peeing. “That’s what I call multitasking!” chided the gaunt guy with the cigarette behind his ear at the urinal next to me. He then proceeded to compare me to women who drive while applying make-up. “In America, we’ve got to cut that shit out!” he concluded. Walking out of the rest room, he proceeded to flirt with my friend Anna—a different Anna than my wife Anna, but still—and then, to top it all off, he bounced the cue ball off of a bumper and sent it directly into the corner pocket on the other side of the pool table. Damn.
But who cares? Alibi is the perfect dive bar, equally grungy and comfy. “It seems kinda borderline welcoming, almost,” said Anna’s husband Justin, nailing it. The tin ceiling hangs low, the fireplace props up 8 Ball trophies and is full of debris, and the unvarnished wooden tables have an eighth-grade girls’ school worth of gum under them. The bartender calls the Brooklyn Lager simply “Lager,” like they do with Yuengling in Philly; that might be because there’s not much else by way of selection. They’ve got a dozen bottles of Jameson behind the bar and seemingly little else, but my happy-hour serving of said Irish whiskey was only $3, so there’s that. And Anna’s Coke was free.
In conclusion, yes, Alibi is a writer’s bar, but don’t get cocky.
Dive Bar Rating
Antarctica
287 Hudson Street (Dominick Str and Spring St) Transit: C, E to Spring St; 1 to Houston
(212) 352-1666
Great gimmicks birth great bars, and Antarctica’s got a doozy: Each day a staffer writes down a random first name on the front board, and anyone who walks in with that name drinks free that night. Simple and pretty brilliant, although it requires some enforcement. “We absolutely demand I.D.,” the genial redheaded barkeep told me. “People try to scam me every day.”
Does she allow for spelling variations? For example, the day I was there the posted name was “Phillip.” Would “Philip” be okay? “It would depend on his attitude and the size of his group,” she went on. “If he brought a large, paying, posse I’d let it slide.” Most importantly, she didn’t have to add, remember that “free” does not include gratuity. “Real winners tip!” reads the board.
Even if you’re not named Phillip, or Elsa or Helena or Marley or Ishan or any of the other fairly-obscure winning monikers that pop up there, Antarctica is a low-key, spacious place to kick it between Canal and Houston. It’s the antithesis of nearby Nancy Whiskey Pub, which is crowded, inexpensive, intense and full of weirdos. At Antarctica, a Corona will cost you $6.50, but in return you get an airy, scrubbed facility to lounge in, one with exposed brick and pretty wood plank floors.
The place is considered something of a haven for pool players, if only because it provides sufficient elbow room to actually get off a shot. The extensive house rules state, in part: “Skip shots okay;” “Spotting 8-Ball after scratch okay;” “Peace, love and understanding.” I have no idea what any of that means, but the assembled sharks do. When I was there they were gay and had brought cues from home, carrying them inside leather cases that looked designed to hold shotguns. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion at least one of them was named Phillip.
Dive Bar Rating
B Side
204 Avenue B (12th & 13th Sts.) Transit: L to 1st Ave
(212) 475-4600
Some people call B Side a punk dive, but