Going to be in Buffalo anytime soon?
If so, check out Lost Taverns on the Forgotten Buffalo website. It’s a veritable treasure trove of classic neighborhood bars in Buffalo, most of which, for some reason, I’ve never been to. I plan on changing that next time I got home by starting with Forgotten Buffalo’s Irish Buffalo Pub tour.
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Soccer Tavern in the heart of Sunset Park’s Chinatown is to go-to spot for Guinness and playing the ponies
Somehow, despite having lived in Brooklyn for most of the eight years I’ve been living in New York City, and having been to Sunset Park’s Chinatown on countless occasions, I had never been in Soccer Tavern on 8th Avenue in Chinatown. Why that is, I’m not really sure since I’ve always been intrigued by this humble-looking watering hole that seemed wholly out of place in Brooklyn’s fast-growing Chinatown. That changed last Sunday, following a trip to Pacificana for some killer dim sum.
With my best friend from Buffalo visiting and in dire need of some libations following an hour of scarfing down semi-identifiable slimy, slippery, and fried foods, we wandered down 8th Avenue towards Soccer Tavern on a drizzly Sunday afternoon. I expected to see either a couple of ancient old-timers hunched over beers or some youngish Polish dudes with close-cropped hair and clad in sweatsuits trying to look imposing when we opened the door and stepped inside. I couldn’t have been further off in either respect.
About 15 Chinese men chattering away sat surrounded by dozens of empty Heineken bottles and tumblers of beer. Heineken being swilled aside, I’m guessing this is what an opium den might’ve looked like. Or an illicit card game in Beijing, perhaps.
Getting over our surprise, we wandered over and perched at the bar. The friendly bartender, an obviously Irishmen in his early 60s, poured Eric and I couple of perfect pints of Guinness, as we began to drink in the unusual ambiance at Soccer Tavern. As the patrons wandered over to the cooler to grab frosty mugs or to the make your own sandwich station set up against one of the back walls, Soccer Tavern felt like the most chilled out basement I’ve ever drank beers in. Throw in the the Paddy’s Day corned beef slowly simmering on the stove in the kitchen and this is the kind of bar I wish was across the street from my apartment.
“They’re lost without the racing,” the amiable bartender said to me and Eric as he leaned over the bar to chat with us. Seeing that we responded to his statement with quizzical looks, he went on to explain.
“They (the Chinese guys) come in here every Sunday to drink and bet on the horses but there’s no horse racing on Palm Sunday and Easter so they’re just hanging out drinking,” which elicited big “Oohs” of understanding and affirmative head nods from Eric and I. Seeing that we understood what he was talking about, he went on to further explain how this unassuming watering hole could be so hectic on a Sunday afternoon.
“This is the only bar around here. They’re usually about 30 of these guys here (there were about 10 or 12 dudes drinking there this Sunday). They start coming in at about 10:00 AM and stay all day. Buy 6 Heineken’s for $20 with cash. Nicest people I’ve ever served and never seen one of them get drunk,” he told us.
I asked how much Heineken they go through on a normal Sunday.
“’Bout 15-to-17 cases of Heineken. Distributors tells me we sell the most Heineken of any bar in Brooklyn.”
Judging by the empty bottles of Heineken everywhere and the guy who walked up to the bar and ordered six more, I’d be surprised if Soccer Tavern’s not selling the most Heineken outside of China.
Bring a friend, take $10 each and join in the Sunday afternoon fun at this affable classic Brooklyn watering hole.
Happy Hour: No happy hour per se but $10 for three Heinekens or $20 for six is as good a deal as there is to be had in the BK. Especially when you throw in the free sandwiches.
Cuento Cuesto: Expertly poured pints of Guinness run $5 while pints from the other pumps — Bud and Bud Light — will set you back $4. Not sure how much the hard stuff is but I’m certain it’s reasonable.
Split Lip Factor: You have a better chance of getting into a fight at a Quaker church than you do of getting into a scrap at Soccer Tavern. 0-of-5.
Huckle Factor: Similarly, you have a better chance of getting some ass just about, well, at any other bar in the City. 0-of-5.
If Soccer Tavern Were A Celebrity: None other than Tommy Smyth, soccer commentator-extraordinaire and Grand Marshall of the 2008 St. Patrick’s Day parade.
Who Would Like Soccer Tavern: Chinese gamblers and alcoholics; Chinatown bus drivers on their day off; Heineken aficionados; Dim sum refugees; Norwegian-Americans; and people who’ve always wondered what it might’ve been like to have a Schlitz in Archie Bunker’s basement.
Sphere: Related Content
Help to make St. Patrick’s Day a national holiday by signing the Proposition 317 petition. If the folks at Guinness get a 1 million signatures by midnight on March 16th they will formally submit the petition to make St. Patrick’s Day a national holiday to Congress. Since Congress rarely does anything useful or important, I’m not sure the petition would get that far but this being an election year, you never know.
As for us at Dive In NYC, we’re kind of surprised since we always thought St. Patty’s Day was a holiday. We don’t work and we spend the day getting blotto so all the hubbub is news to us.
Sphere: Related ContentJust came across news on this place called Rusty Knot that’s going to be opening soon in the West Village and get this — it’s billing itself as a “velvet rope nautical themed dive bar.” Huh? Does anybody have any idea what that means or do you have to speak douchebagese to understand? I’m guessing that what Ken Friedman, the “brains” behind this operation, means is that Rusty Knot will be like Montero’s only filled overpaid white investment bankers rather than the real life working people who go to actual dive bars rather than preening, contrived facsimiles.
Obviously, the very definition of a dive bar precludes a velvet rope from being referenced unless it’s referring to how a patron killed another while arguing over who was supposed to pay for the shots of Early Times. Since most of Manhattan has become an urban theme park for the moneyed why not add a “dive” to the attractions?
In an interview with The Diners Journal, a Times blog about eating and drinking, Friedman — by the way, are all dudes with the last name Friedman self-important assholes or is just this guy and Tom from The Times? — makes it clear that he’s never actually been in a real, live dive bar when he says, “We want people to have great dive-bar food. We want them to say, ‘This is the best food I’ve ever had in a dive bar.’”
I don’t know where this clueless fuck does his drinking but someone should have told him 99% of dives don’t serve food for the simple reason that even the most desperate of boozehounds wouldn’t eat the grub at a place like Jackie’s 5th Amendment, Soccer Tavern, or Club 773 to name a few Brooklyn dives that I frequent. Those that do serve food, like Rudy’s or The Patriot are turning out hot dogs and sliders, which are meant to merely absorb enough liquor so that one can drink even more.
Apparently, Friedman thinks that the size of the food he’ serving and the way it’s presented are what qualifies Rusty Knot to be termed a dive since he also says, “(the food) It’ll be small things that you can eat in one hand while holding a drink in the other.” How divey! How revolutionary! How fucking challenging for the obnoxious trend-chasing set that will comprise 100% of Rusty Knot’s customers! Holding a drink in one hand while holding food in the other? Wow! How fucking quaint! It’s just like they’re doing at Mars Bar.
Incredibly enough, Friedman makes even more of an ass of himself when he added, “that much of the food would be served in plastic baskets.” Yippee! What could be diveier than that?
I don’t know Ken Friedman and I don’t know anybody that’s eaten at his over-hyped “gastro pub” Spotted Pig but I do know that Rusty Knot has as much in common with a real dive as White Castle does with Per Se. That being said, I don’t mind educating Mr. Friedman on what a dive bar actually is.
Here’s the deal. If someone out there knows Ken Friedman, let him know that I’ll be happy to treat him to a night of boozing it up at several of Brooklyn’s best dives like Timboos, Smith’s, Smolen, Rainbow Café, the Green Isle, and even Montero’s so he can see that real dives don’t have velvet ropes nor do they serve food to patrons who get off on the novelty of eating out of plastic baskets.
Sphere: Related ContentLet’s start by saying that the Bleecker Street Bar is in no way, shape, or form a dive. It doesn’t wreak of spilled booze and puke and the bathrooms are so nice that irritating corporate chicks use them in gaggles without screaming or commiserating about just how wretched and disgusting there are. When you have vaguely business chicks hanging out after work, you’re going to have the bland dweebs that love them on hand also. Or is it the other way around? Either way, the point is, no self-respecting drunkard should ever set foot in Bleecker Street Bar unless it’s out of desperation. And desperate were Whitesnake and I tonight.
Being the dingbats we are, the widely forecasted torrential downpour that blanketed the five boroughs tonight somehow escaped our attention and we found ourselves waterlogged and wandering NoHo in search of a drink. Wisely — one of the few teams you’ll see that adverb deployed in this blog — we ducked into Astor Wines for their Friday night tasting. Couple Heavy Water vodkas and French and Italian vinos later and we had, against all odds, forgotten entirely about the monsoon again until we stepped outside Astor Place and got drenched for the second time in a space of an hour.
Desperate to keep on drinking and, oh yeah, stay dry, we made a beeline down Lafayette towards Great Jones and checked out Acme, which was, unsurprisingly, packed. With no other options, we reluctantly trudged down to Bleecker Street Bar and strode in to the post-college frat party taking place.
As lame as this place is, the happy hour special, $4.00 24-oz Yuenglings, is fucking killer. Two of those and Whitesnake was already convinced that every would-be and wanna-be Connecticut housewife in the bar was checking him out, which is usually my cue to call it a night, which I did.
Cuento Cuesto: Not horrendous for the ‘hood but NoHo isn’t known for it’s cheap drink spots. Expect to pay $5.50 to $6 a beer.
Happy Hour: The only reason to go to this gathering spot of future Joisey and Long Island homeowners. The 24-oz Yuenglings are as good a deal as there is to be had in the 212.
Split Lip Factor: Between the corporate types who get to the gym too much and the knuckleheads that are way into mixed martial arts, there are enough idiots here to make any experienced boozehound nervous. 3-of-5.
Huckle Factor: Depends on whether you want to make the trip up to the UES with the possibility of a nightcap on frat boy row or not. 2-of-5.
If This Bar Were A Celebrity: Ryan Seacrest.
Who Would Like This Bar: Dudes who think the flick Old School was a blueprint for how to live life; Arena football fans; Chicks who’s idea of edgy is Banana Republic; and corporate dweebs who just don’t know any better.
Sphere: Related ContentLeaving the Knitting Factory in Tribeca this past Saturday night after seeing the always-rocking hardcore bands Strike Anywhere and Paint It Black, I realized that the four PBRs I had downed during the show at the Knit had done little other than wet my whistle. Being that I wasn’t in the mood for to drink with the vastly overpaid Caucasians that call Tribeca home, I figured that hitting a few of the neighborhoods remaining dives would be the way to play it. A loop that included stops at Mudville, The Patriot, Raccoon Lodge, a refueling stop at Pakistani Tea House, and then a final round or two at Nancy Whiskey Pub would be the way to play it.
Like just about every neighborhood below 96th Street in Manhattan, the dives that remain in Tribeca are relics from an era when working people could afford to live in the 212. It ain’t been that way in Tribeca ever since Robert DeNiro decided he liked the ‘hood and developers rushed to build as many luxury lofts as possible but the dives remain, mostly serving a blue collar clientele that’s building those lofts, as well as the government employees who work in the area. Tribeca residents themselves are known to stop by joints like the Nancy and The Patriot when they don’t feel like blowing $12 a cocktail at charmless watering holes like Mocca, or The Bubble Lounge.
Having never been to Mudvilles I thought I’d make it my first stop. Turns out it was more a pit stop, as I walked in, saw the place was light up like a hospital cafeteria, resembled an Applebees, and that beers were about $6 a pop. Needless to say, I was out of that overpriced contrived-roadhouse quicker than one can down scarf down a White Castle burger after a night of boozing it up. Being that The Patriot, a watering hole that I’ve spent some time in, was but steps away, I didn’t have to go long before quenching my thirst.
The Patriot is probably the last real dive in Tribeca, which is ironic since it’s also one of the newest. It’s the younger sibling of the dearly departed Village Idiot and shares many of the same traits. Vomit is always in the air; the bartenders are cute and, usually, trashy like Christina Applegate circa Married With Children; country music blaring; and, most importantly, booze is cheap. A pitcher of PBR or Bud Ice will set you back a mere $6 or $7 quid while shots are usually $3 or so a pop. There are other selections on the pumps here but when you’re at a dive, you shouldn’t be drinking Stella or Guinness.
I comfortably settled into a seat towards the end of the bar and ordered a pitcher of Bud Ice and took in the scene. It was pretty simple really; people were getting smashed to my right and even drunker to my left. Dudes to my left were busy devouring some wings and, inexplicably, ordering beers even though they had full pitchers. Nice. Then things got, as they sometimes do, weird and tense.
The two guys to the left were getting smashed with some drunk guy wearing this crazy-ass fake leather skeleton jacket. All the guy in the jacket kept saying was that he didn’t speak English. Didn’t stop him from pounding shots nor did it stop one of the guys from turning to me and complaining about “having to speak Spanish in this country.” What was weird was that the guy was probably in his mid-20s and, judging by the way he was dressed — stripey button-down shirt and khakis — seemingly doing okay for himself. Not the kind of guy you’d think would be aggravated about immigration. Yet he was.
As the Spanish-speaking guy passed out at the bar and had to be helped out after a solid 20 minutes or so of lying in his drool, the young Lou Dobbs clone continued his rant.
“They should get in line!” he kept on thundering to both nobody in particular but to me in general because I was the closest person to him.
Being a bit more sober, I decided to egg him because, aside from masturbating to Rihanna and watching soccer, goading xenophobes is one of my favorite things to do. Unfortunately, it turns out that goading a slobbering and drunker than an Irishmen — i.e. me — in a whiskey distillery twenty-something year old xenophobe isn’t that much fun. In fact, in this case it turned out to be a big mistake on my part, as the guy began ranting about being quoted “everywhere. Even in the New York Times,” although he never stated what exactly it was he was being quoted about.
Wanting the blubbering wingnut blathering to end, I sensed an opportunity and apologized for not realizing who he was, which served to not only to shut him up but to offer to me to buy me a shot to cement the apology. I pounded my Jameson, polished off the rest of the pitcher and bid Justin and The Patriot goodnight, as I walked down to Murray Street to check out Raccoon Lodge.
Unfortunately, between the pitcher and shot at Patriot, the four beers at the show, and the pre-game boozing I had done at home, I wasn’t so sober by the time I got to Raccoon Lodge. After a Yuengling pint ($3.50) and shot of Jameson ($5.00), I called it a night and headed toward Pakistani Tea House. Because, after all, how would my girlfriend know I’d been out drinking if I didn’t come home smelling like Pakistani food?
Cuento Cuesto: The Patriot’s as cheap as it gets in the 212. Just about anybody with some spare change and a few bottles to recycle can drink there. The Raccoon isn’t as cheap but its very reasonable.
Happy Hour: There’s a bartender with huge fake boobs named Catalina at The Patriot and she’s more than happy to show them off. That’s happy hour.
Split Lip Factor: I’m sure there are fights at both spots but folks seem too fucking busy getting hammered at both The Patriot and Raccoon Lodge to think about fighting. 2-of-5.
Huckle Factor: 0-of-5. Girls don’t sleep with guys they meet at these places unless it’s to get cash for rent money or score some coke.
If The Patriot Were A Celebrity: Dennis Rodman. He grew up in rural Oklahoma, didn’t you know?
If Raccoon Lodge Were A Celebrity: Ted Nugent.
Who Would Like The Patriot: Lou Dobbs; Tom Tancredo; Millard Fillmore; Boss Hogg; fans of NASCAR; Ted Nugent; and people who think the point of drinking is to get so loaded you puke.
Who Would Like The Raccoon Lodge: Sam Elliot’s character in Roadhouse; Teamsters; longshoreman; and folks that need a bit of upstate in their NYC lives.
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Check out Flickr for more from our Friday night out in Hell’s Kitchen.
Google Map of the Dive In NYC Hells Kitchen Dive Bar Tour
Even the drunkest and most hardcore of drunks have one of those nights. You know, the kind of night were things happened in succession up until a point where they became a blur and then a, well, complete void in the time-space continuum until you woke up at some point the following day or, in the most extreme case, the day after the day after, and realized you were in your bed, somewhat undressed but with no recollection of how you got there. This past Friday night was one of those nights for me.
I remember the email from Whitesnake as clear as I do the first beer of the day, which for me, I actually had at legendary South Street Seaport dive Jeremy’s Ale House during my lunch. After all, what better way to wash down a veggie burger on a wintry Friday than a scrumptious 32-oz Styrofoam cup of Keegan Ales Mothers Milk stout? Certainly, water or diet Coke just won’t do in such a situation.
Digression aside, Whitesnake and I were trying to figure out where to imbibe on Friday since a planned dinner party at my pad fell through. Many ideas were kicked around until Whitesnake mentioned that on his way back from the backwoods of PA the past weekend a bar near Port Authority called Port 41 had caught his eye. Being that I knew Whitesnake had never had the pleasure of drinking at revered Hell’s Kitchen dive Rudy’s nor Holland Bar, conveniently located at the ass end of Port Authority, I thought that a tour of the few remaining Hells Kitchen dives would be an ideal way to kill a Friday evening.
In my eight years in New York City, I’ve done two stretches in Hells Kitchen. The first was from September 2000 through June 2001 and the second was from May 2002 through October 2003. During both stints I spent a lot of time at Holland Bar, Rudy’s, and the dearly departed Bellvue and Siberia. So I thought I knew my Hells Kitchen dives and this past Friday night would consist of little more than me showing Whitesnake around the ‘hood and explaining how it was before we both got on the train and headed back to the BK. Was I ever wrong.
The night started inauspiciously enough, as we drank a $7 pitcher of Rudy’s Red at my former eponymous haunt Rudy’s.
It was during the second pitcher that things started getting a tad strange. A local hustler, who’s name I can’t recall but had rebuffed many times in the past, rolled into Rudy’s, spotted me and Whitesnake and plopped down in our booth and said.
“What’s up, man, been a while,” hustler clad in the tangerine-colored leather jacker with shoulder pads said.
“Sure has, how you been?” I replied.
“Cool. Cool. I been looking all over for you,” he inexplicably responded.
Funny I thought since we’d spoken all of about three times, all of which where at Rudy’s, and all of which involved him peddling a sob story to try and weasel some cash of me. I hadn’t bought before and I wasn’t going to start tonight.
“Dude, I know it’s been a while but me and buddy are getting out of here,” I told him.
He mumbled something about just having gotten out of prison and needing some cash when I downed my pint and cut him off.
“I’m really sorry but you should probably talk to Joe. He’s the man with the connections around here.”
Joe, for those who don’t hang at Rudy’s, is a legendary habitué of said bar. A brother in his 60s with a steel reserve and an acumen that’s sharper than a samurai sword, Joe doesn’t countenance fools. Sending the hustler his way would not only get him out of my hair but, after Joe had some words with him, likely keep dude out of Rudy’s for a while. Regardless, Whitesnake and I weren’t sticking around to see and we headed off to the Bull Moose Saloon on West 43rd between 9th and 8t.
Unlike Rudy’s, the Bull Moose is not one of the best dives or bars in Hells Kitchen. I rarely went there in the past and I doubt I’ll ever return. It’s a watering hole that exists only to serve those who don’t know that there are any better places to drink in the nabe. Given trends in the area, it could be that folks in Hell’s Kitchen will have very few, if any, better places to drink in the future. Since Whitesnake and I did have better places to go, we pounded our beers and rolled on to…
Port 41, which is where, to quote my good friends Sublime, things got out of control.
Words don’t exist to explain, a.) what happened next nor, b.) what boozing it up at Port 41 is like. Let’s deal with the latter first.
Between the game of Big Buck Hunter with middle-aged drunken derelict John to the dude who started doing push-ups on the peep show booth-sticky and filthy floor of Port 41 during some Metallica song, Port 41 defies any rationale explanation. The vaguely-tweaker bartenders are clad in bikinis but do little that could be termed titillating unless you happen to have a fetish for chicks stomping garbage with their kicks. To the, surprisingly diverse crowd of drinkers credit, they seem to be there more for the cheapness of the booze and genuine oddness of Port 41 than they are there for the chicks in bikinis.
And then there was Al.
In the shocker of the year, I’m going to admit that I do drugs. However, it’s a snowy fucking day in San Diego that I buy drugs. For the most part, I’m one of those dudes who gets high on other people’s dime and does other shit — shrooms, ecstasy, coke — with about the same frequency that no-hitters are thrown. Meaning, perhaps once a year. Seems like there’s going to be a no-hitter this year since I found myself doing lines of coke with Al in the bathrooms of Holland Bar, Why Not, and Port 41 Friday night.
In my experience, cokeheads differentiate themselves from most habitually users of drugs by refusing to do the drug on their own. For some reason, they only like to do coke if others are doing it with them. Take Al, for example. When I wouldn’t buy coke from him, he offered to share it so long as we bought him some beers at Holland Bar. Let’s see. Coke for a couple of beers at one of the last remaining dives in Hells Kitchen? Who could turn that deal down?
I certainly couldn’t and that’s when the Friday dive tour of Hell’s Kitchen became a Friday night of what the hell are we doing and where the hell are we!?!?
Thanks to the miracle of an angry and nerve-wracked girlfriend I know that I got home at 5:00 AM. Judging by the smell of my clothes, I made a pit stop at legendary Ditmas Park Pakistani Shandar before coming home. And, judging by the fact that I couldn’t get out of bed until 4:00 PM on Saturday, the Hell’s Kitchen dive bar tour has to be considered, well, not really a success but a reminder that Manhattan is not a monolith.
Hell’s Kitchen may be an astronomically expensive place to live these days and becoming yet another yuppie outpost in Manhattan but our adventure Friday night is a reminder that even in those swaths of Manhattan that have been overrun with the moneyed elite, that it’s still possible to find dingy corners where sordidness and lubricity rule the day. Rudy’s, Port 41, and Holland Bar are such places. Enjoy them while you can.
Happy Hour: No happy hours needed at Rudy’s, Port 41, or Holland Bar since the prices are cheaper than a blowjob was during the days of the Westies in Hell’s Kitchen and our man Al might just be around to get you coked up.
Cuento Cuesto: The combo of free hot dogs and$7 pitchers at Rudy’s is impossible to beat. Supposedly Port 41 has dogs too but I wouldn’t eat there if Alain Ducasse himself were preparing the dogs. Still, $3 16oz PBRs in that gentrification heavy nabe is a good deal. Can’t remember prices at Holland Bar but I’m sure they’re cheap.
Huckle Factor: Don’t know if that’s free dogs, the cheap booze, or the comfy, duct-taped booths but Rudy’s seems to be the go-to dive bar for cute chicks. I should know. My Buffalo homie Eric once spent his New Years Day evening fingering some hot actress chick at a booth in the back a couple years ago. The same can’t be said of Port 41 and Holland Bar.
Split Lip Factor: Surprisingly low. I’ve never seen a fight at Rudy’s or Holland Bar and despite the blaring death metal and general skeeviness at Port 41, folks seemed too happy to throw fists. Get sauced without impunity, my friends.
If Rudy’s Were A Celebrity: Iggy Pop.
If Bull Moose Were A Celebrity: Pick an extra. Any extra.
If Port 41 Were A Celebrity: Ron Jeremy.
If Holland Bar Were A Celebirty: Abe Vigoda or Sam Waterston.
Who Would Like These Bars: Charles Bukowski, Cokeheads, former death metal roadies, tweakers, transients, and dudes who like doing push-ups.
I’ve always believed the real way to distinguish a true dive from wanna-be dives is the bathroom. The bathroom in a dive should be in an absolute state of disrepair. Graffiti, broken toilets, leaking sinks, and a stench that causes one to question whether the bathroom is actually an open sewer are good signs that you’re boozing it up at a dive. Even better if dudes piss in a trough and chicks, well, don’t use the bathroom because it’s too disgusting.
When I used to live in Ocean Beach some eight or so years ago, one of the dives I frequented was the beloved late Arizona Café — the AZ to those in the know — which was on Bacon Street in OB. Never made it their during the day but made it their plenty of nights when I should’ve quit drinking hours before I rolled into the AZ. What made the AZ the diviest of the countless dives in OB and San Diego were the bathrooms, which did little that actual bathrooms do and was so foul as to cause most people to step in and quickly back out without doing their bizness. Ah, the AZ…
Of course, no mention of dive bar bathrooms is complete without saying an RIP to CBGB’s legendary bathroom. If you never got a chance to enjoy the facilities this is what you’ve missed:
Speaking of dive bar bathrooms, following our two rounds at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge Friday night, Whitesnake and I ambled on over to Cheap Shots, a raucous watering hole that usually reeks of spilled beer and puke. Always a good sign in my book.
Our pitcher of Yuengling was a mere $7 and we able to hole up near the window facing 1st Street so we could check out the chicks and East Village characters as we drank our beer. The best thing about Cheap Shots is, first of all, that the only place cheaper to get loaded is at home with a case of Powermaster. A close second is its bathroom, which has reached legendary status for being a complete shithole both literally and figuratively.
The AZ may be gone but it’s stinking fetid spirit lives on in the restroom at Cheap Shots.
Address: 140 1st Avenue, Manhattan
Happy Hour: It always seems to be happy hour at Cheap Shots, mostly because the patrons are busy throwing down booze so as to completely dull the senses and make the trip to the bathroom unmemorable.
Cuento Cuesto: There’s a reason it’s called Cheap Shots. Go on your birthday when you can drink for free.
Huckle Factor: It’s all about location when it comes to scaring up some action at Cheap Shots. Perfectly situated to catch the action from EV pub-crawls, everybody ends up at Cheap Shots at some point in their NYC lives. 3 out of 5.
Split Lip Factor: Whenever I’ve been there, folks are happily getting smashed so it’s tough to envision a Roadhouse-worthy brawl breaking out but, with booze this cheap, I’m sure some knuckleheads have thrown fists a few times here. 3 out of 5
If Cheap Shots were a celebrity: Chris Farley (RIP)
Who Would Like It: People with abnormally large bladders; fetishes for the smell of vomit; celebrating their birthdays; and anybody that finds some spare change under the couch cushions and is looking for a way to spend it.
Sphere: Related ContentMonday night Kuntry Karaoke at Hank’s:
Let me begin by saying my love for Hank’s is, to quote John Kennedy Toole’s epic Confederacy of Dunces, platonically intense. Don’t know whether it’s the worn, pressed tin ceiling, the cheap booze, the free meat, the live music seven nights a week, or it’s location on a relatively ungentrified stretch of Atlantic Avenue in Boerum Hill that helps it attract all types of characters, or all of the above but the fact is I love Hank’s.
Kind of a slow Saturday for me yesterday. After having stayed up too late drinking Elijah Craig bourbon while I watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High from beginning to end, I had a lazy day. Sure, I made it to the Prospect Park Y to sweat out said bourbon and Steve’s C-Town on 9th Avenue to get some mussels to make for dinner but otherwise there wasn’t too much going on for me yesterday.
Then a friend, recently relocated to the BK from Bethlehem, PA, called and said he was taking his wife down to Hank’s to show it to her and would I like to tag along. Quicker than you could say “Jameson,” I was out there the door and on my way down. Got to Hank’s just as they were getting started on PBR round numero dos. Wouldn’t you know, I jumped in, cut up, and probably passed them around PBR round numero siete. Gotta say the cheap PBR’s, decent tunes — not sure who the band was but they covered The Seeker by The Who and played some other dirty 60s/70s songs — and all-around Hank’s vibe made for a pretty good Saturday night.
Like many dives in New York City, the night shift at Hank’s skews heavily toward the college-educated white folks in their 20s and 30s, which doesn’t necessarily detract from the drinking experience since Hank’s is all bout the rollicking country roadhouse atmosphere.
For the same experience but with a more diverse and less well-heeled crowd, check out Hank’s during the day and early evening. That’s when the old-timey boozehounds and barflies do their drinking at Hank’s. I’ve been there a few times and always enjoyed listening to the regular day-shifters at Hank’s shoot the shit. The buyback policy is usually more generous at the time of the day too.
Happy Hour: Whenever they’re cooking up free meat!
Cuento Cuesto: PBR’s are $3, which ain’t the cheapest price in town but it’s cheap enough. Beers on the pumps and cocktails run about $5.
Who Would Like It: Cowboys and girls; old west gunslingers; ranch hands; oil field roustabouts; traveling troubadours; hipsters who like to western gear; and people who find the bathrooms on the Chinatown bus to be clean and comfortable.
Split Lip Factor: Never seen a fight at Hank’s and unless something pretty wild goes down at Kuntry Karaoke, I doubt I will. 1-of-5.
Huckle Factor: Surprisingly decent. All those single girls from the Midwest and south who live in Brooklyn have to do their drinking at some place that reminds them of back home every now and then. 3-of-5.
If Hank’s Were A Celebrity: It’d be Merle Haggard
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Let me begin by saying Zombie Hut in Brooklyn’s uber-gentrified Cobble Hill nabe is by no means a dive in any way, shape, or form. It’s a kitschy hangout for white Brooklynites who have cash to burn on Polynesian-inspired drinks while luxuriating in over the top tiki bar surroundings. Know what? I fucking like it.
Whether it’s the being able to play Barrel of Monkeys with one of the Amazon bartenders or the cheaper than crack prices for booze — $5 for a booze-laden tiki cocktail or $2 for a PBR — or the generous buyback policy, Zombie Hut’s almost always a good stop. Throw in free goldfish and a killer backyard and dare I call it one of the best bars in the Borough of Kings? Yes, I do.
So it’s no wonder that Whitesnake and I went there both before and after taking in the Coen brothers’ latest piece of film genius No Country for Old Men at the Cobble Hill fiveplex on Court Street. What was and remains a wonder is how Whitesnake so antagonized the unemployed key grip casually spilling his Stella Artois — the PBR of Belgium — all over the bar to such a point that dude asked him to step outside.
Of all the bars in Brooklyn, the chilled out Zombie Hut comfortably located on hyper-literate Caucasian restaurant/bar row of Smith Street is as unlikely a spot for fisticuffs to nearly break out as is BAM. Leave it to Whitesnake I guess.
Through the haze of Wild Turkey shots and Planter’s Punch cocktails, I remember a few milestones in Whitesnake’s near-throwdown at the Zombie Hut. I remember him telling me that the dude seemed “bitter.” I remember that dude was such a downer that his girlfriend chose to sit there reading the Scrabble dictionary rather than converse with him. And then I remember this:
Bitter unemployed key grip to Whitesnake: “That’s it! You offended my girlfriend. You want to step outside and settle this?”
A bewildered Whitesnake to offended girlfriend: “Did I offend you?”
Offended girlfriend looking up from Scrabble dictionary seeming distinctly non-plussed: “No.”
Bitter unemployed key grip: “I asked to step outside. Are you going to or not?”
Whitesnake: “Ok. Let’s go.”
Bitter unemployed key grip walks out. The rest of us, Whitesnake and girlfriend of said key grip included, sit there laughing at the turn of events. Girlfriend apologizes to Whitesnake and says boyfriends “being an ass.” About seven or eight minutes pass and said key grip is still outside. He walks back in and informs the entire bar that “he’s outside.”
Amazon bartender: “We know you were outside.”
Everybody at bar starts laughing. Bitter unemployed key grip doesn’t get joke and walks up and taps Whitesnake on the back with a degree of force.
“Are you going to step outside,” he asks.
“Sure. Just wait for me,” Whitesnake replies.
Still not getting the absurdity of the situation, bitter unemployed key grip gathers up his shit and leaves. Girlfriend reluctantly puts down dictionary, apologizes again, and leaves.
The Wild Turkey flows again and we all have a laugh. Things are back to normal at Zombie Hut.
Happy Hour: Used to be a buck off for the Tiki cocktails until 7 PM but that seems to be caput.
Cuento Cuesto: About as cheap as getting loaded can be outside of buying a bottle of Everclear, mixing it with Montezuma tequila, and getting smashed at home. $2 PBRs, $5 cocktails, and a generous buyback policy. You can pay rent and have a coke and hookers night and still afford to drink at Zombie Hut.
Who Would Like It: Clearly not bitter unemployed key grips but other folks should enjoy the kitschy ambience, free goldfish — crackers not actual fish — and board games. Dudes with giantess or Wonder Woman fetishes will like the bartenders.
Huckle Factor: Just south of a swingers’ party. Whether it’s the booze, the games, the goldfish, or the gong, the fact is that folks of both genders can definitely get some pookie-pookie here if that’s what they’re after.
Split Lip Factor: Surprisingly high when bitter unemployed key grips are in the house and having trouble holding down their Stella. Other than that and you have a better chance of getting in a scrap at a Quaker prayer meeting.
If This Bar Was A Celebrity: Sammy Hagar
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