Leaving 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.

It’s always beer season at The Patriot

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.

Looks like a dive to me

Cute-n-trashy — I hope! — bartender at Patriot

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.

Masked man and drunk at Patriot

This is how a dive’s bathroom should look

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.

Passed out at The Patriot

“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?

Waylon and Willie chilling at The Patriot

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.

Monday 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

Boozing it up at Zombie Hut

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