Soccer Tavern

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 8^th 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 8^th 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.

The Lief Bar and Grill

One of the cool things about living in Sunset Park is that on any given night should want to booze it up, you have, literally, a zillion options. The yuppified watering holes of Park Slope are but 10 or 15 minutes away with the guido and Irish haunts of Bay Ridge even closer. That’s not even mentioning the handful of dives in Sunset Park, each of which will be visited and blogged about at some point. Throw in the fact that the National Supermarket on 47^th and 4^th sells sixers of Dogfish 60-Minute IPA for the absurdly low price of $8.99 and four-packs of 90-minute IPA for the even more absurd $5.99 and I can’t complain about my drinking options.

Last night, a friend who lives in Bay Ridge and I were going to meet at The Lief Bar and Grill — not sure why Grill is in the name. Never seen anybody cook there and I doubt one would eat the swill even if they did cook — on 5^th Avenue and Senator in the Ridge. During a previous stint of living in Sunset Park some six years ago, I spent quite a few nights and, since I was unemployed for several months following September 11^th, even afternoons. I never had a bad time. The crowd was always somewhat eccentric, with older barflies of both sexes holding court, and a hodgepodge of everybody else that lives in the neighborhood. Have things ever changed at The Lief. And not for the better.

Popped in last night around 10:30 and felt like I had stumbled into a really, really bad frat party. The meathead quotient was off the charts, as buzz cuts and Abercrombie and Fitch gear seemed to be The Lief’s official uniform with Coors or Bud Light cans the official drink. It wouldn’t have surprised me if most of the dudes drinking there last night had come straight from seeing the new Rambo flick. Making things worse was the fact the Golf Channel was on the most of the tv’s, which is always a bad sign. A good dive, or bar for that matter, should, under no circumstances, show the Golf Channel. Especially not on a Friday night.

As I settled in to down my Bud — an imperial pint for $4 — I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation the four shorthairs next to me where having. That’s when The Lief went from being merely a crappy bar to a complete waste of space. Imagine my surprise when the lead douchebag decided to entertain the other three with a litany of N-word jokes. Barely able to contain my rage and tongue, I tried to down my Bud as quickly as I could before I smashed my glass upside lead douchebag’s head, thereby earning a weekend in Brooklyn lock-up and, in all likelihood, some time at Rikers.

Fortunately, my pal GGW wandered in, took a look around said, “Finish your beer and let’s bail on this shithole.” Which is exactly what we did.

Since people were smoking at The Lief, I called New York City’s 311 today and reported them. That’s what happens when you provide a haven for racist cocksuckers. Enjoy your fucking fine…

Happy Hour: Ain’t nothing about this shithole.

Who Would Like It: Confederate sympathizers, steroid users, David Duke, Brendan McGuirk, assholes.

Prices: Who gives a shit?

Huckle Factor: Zilch

Split Lip Factor: 5 of 5.

If This Bar Was A Celebrity: Bill O’Reilly.