According to this week's Page Six Magazine, "stars are forgoing getting trashed at clubs —- and seeking a far trashier scene." Like bars WE like to go to! And so the magazine features six such places where you don't have to pay $12 for a bottle of beer: "Pull up a stool to New York’s greatest, and grubbiest, dive bars." (Their words, not mine.)
Here's their report on Joe's on East Sixth Street:
Alphabet City Dive-y-est Element: Gunk-covered floor and bathrooms tinier than airplane stalls — all presided over by the toothless but friendly day-shift bartender, Tommy.
Celebrity Customers: While the former speakeasy hasn’t changed — or perhaps been mopped — since owners Joe and Dot (who refuse to give their last names) took over in the ’60s, stars have made Joe’s their dirty little secret. “Drew Barrymore comes here and so does Matt Dillion,” reports barfly Magda. “Keanu Reeves was just in last month, playing pool,” she adds. “Celebs are sick of getting their covers blown and want a taste of reality,” says Tracy Westmoreland, owner of legendary but now-closed dive Siberia. That “shipwrecks” like Joe’s are more popular than ever signals “the new golden age for dive bars,” he adds.
As we've discussed here before, "dive bar" is a tired, meaningless term that should be retired. But! For the sake of a pointless Friday conversation... here are the nearby bars that made the top-50 list.
The Post has a feature today titled "Gimme dive! NYC’s seedy saloons are holding on — with a twist." Not quite sure of the point here. Perhaps the lead can explain: "World class museums. Four-star restaurants. Broadway,Divebars. All very important New York institutions. But with some classic dives — such as Max fish and Mars — in danger of extingtion, we take a look at some seedy watering holes with secret weapons that will hopefully keep them afloat."
And why, for example, is Mason Dixon down on Essex Street on the list? To the listicle!
This is the only Lower East Side saloon with a mechanical bull to get your “Urban Cowboy” on. While a fine bourbon collection and $9.95 barbecue pork dogs may have purists calling this place more a kitschy honky-tonk than traditional dive, we’re giving it the nod because patrons routinely end up on the floor without being thrown out of the bar.
Per a Post commenter: "This is probably the worst article about dive bars in the history of articles [on?] dive bars."
Last week, I posted this charming little bit of graffiti that was quickly removed from the men's room wall at Sophie's...
In looking at the comments from that post, I see where readers spotted this same message on the walls at Blue & Gold and 7B. Oh, an insidious plot, Red Sox fans. We'll be watching for your handiwork at Lucy's, the Blarney Cove, Joe's...
With its clean taps, friendly service and young, attractive patrons, Superdive is in many ways the anti-dive. Where's the bearded tranny? The surly, toothless barmaid? The non-functioning alcoholic cashing his SSI check for another round? Sure, it's teeming with college students looking to get wasted, but where's the dank?
Unlike New York's classic old-man bars, Superdive is neither moody in decor (it has large front windows and light pinewood accents) nor spirit (its patrons are prone to high-fives and huzzahs). "People are coming to celebrate," says manager Keith Okada. "Not to get dark and down in a hole."
And!
[M]aybe Superdive's no-frills, keg-centric vibe is just what the Type A alcoholics of tomorrow are looking for. "In a world where everything is so designed and chichi, we just wanted a nice place where people can sit, relax and not feel pressured to spend mega amounts of money," says Okada.
And you have to agree, it sure beats $20 mixed drinks.
And!
And if the list of more than 700 beers -- from a $180 sixtel (one-sixth of a keg) of UFO Hefeweizen to a $360 half-keg of Coors Light -- proves too overwhelming, "keg master" Matt Breinich will help you navigate the list.
Breinich's duties don't end there: "I haven't seen any beer pong disputes, but if there was one I would certainly be there to help resolve it."
In addition to Ping-Pong balls, the bar also keeps cards, dice and poker chips on hand for impromptu drinking games. (Keg stands, however, are officially frowned upon.) Meanwhile, the piano underneath the perpetually lit "Applause" sign in back of the bar may be the site of future "Hair Metal Karaoke" nights. And instigating the party some weekends is mini-metal head Nick Reddy, who's been known to jump on the bar and dole out Jager shots to ecstatic college kids.
With its emphasis on drunken comradery, the frat bar has a direct lineage to the dive bar -- even if it does stem from a love for competitive drinking and Dave Matthews. If dive-bar habitues are self-loathing outsiders, then their frat-bar brethren are the cool kids at the party, explaining why Superdive initially comes off as exuding typical jock one-upmanship.
"You hear the concept and it sounds like it could be too much of a frat party or too whatever, but it hasn't been. The people who come in are excited about the concept, they want to come back," says Breinich.
And!
It may not smell like stale beer -- yet -- but Superdive does smell like a winner: It's currently booked almost a month out on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights -- so if your name isn't on the guest list, good luck getting past the front door. "We're working on those hiccups," says Okada. But try telling that to the dejected- looking guys outside.
Dear Concierge, I’m looking for a good dive bar. In Manhattan, dive bars are either too div-y (bikers, professional boozers) or too sporty (yellers, Buckhunters). I live downtown, but I’ll go anywhere a Metrocard can get me. Things I’d like: interesting beers on draft, low-key/friendly crowd, passable pub grub, not too crowded/discovered and a general feeling of authenticity. Thank you!
Among the input provided:
Eric Asimov, The Pour columnist for the Dining section and a connoisseur of spirits high and low, weighed in with his favorites: East Village Tavern on Avenue C — a year-old craft-beer place that updates its cask and tap lists daily on its Web site — and Rattle ‘N’ Hum, another new craft-beer spot a pint’s throw from Madison Square Garden that serves food like Rattle ‘N’ Hummus.
Anyway. The usual suspects are trotted out.
The Brooklyn Icehouse, 318 Van Brunt Street, Brooklyn; (718) 222-1865. The Brooklyn Inn, 148 Hoyt Street, Brooklyn; (718) 625-9741. Daddy’s, 435 Graham Avenue, Brooklyn; (718) 609-6388. East River Bar, 97 South 6th Street, Brooklyn; (718) 302-0511. East Village Tavern, 158 Avenue C; (212) 253-8400. Freddy’s Bar & Backroom, 485 Dean Street, Brooklyn; (718) 622-7035. Hank’s Saloon, 46 Third Avenue, Brooklyn; (718) 625-8003. Mars Bar, 25 East 1st Street; (212) 473-9842. Mona’s, 224 Avenue B; (212) 353-3780. Nancy Whiskey Pub, 1 Lispenard Street; (212) 226-9943. Rattle n Hum, 14-16 East 33rd Street; (212) 481-1586. Russian Vodka Room, 265 West 52nd Street; (212) 307-5835. The Scratcher, 209 East 5th Street; (212) 477-0030. Spuyten Duyvil, 359 Metropolitan Avenue, (718) 963-4140. St. Dymphna’s, 118 St. Mark’s Place; (212) 254-6636.
Damn...I missed this. Just read over at Esquared's that Deno's Bikini Bar on Seventh Avenue (at 10th Street) has closed.
Need to get back to their main spot on Eighth Avenue (at 30th Street)... a fine place...Maybe throw back a few beers and zip upstairs for a colonic. (Uh, clarification — there's a Colon Hydrotherapy spa on the second floor of this building...per the sign above "bikini bar"...)
An $8.75 billion plan to build another train tunnel between New Jersey and Manhattan may wipe out a dozen Manhattan properties that can be seized through eminent domain, the Port Authority said.
And what could be lost?
That means Sunglass Hut, Payless Shoes, Duane Reade, Foot Action and several other businesses -- including 40-year-old neighborhood favorites Blarney Rock pub and Hickey's bar -- are in the way.
PA Executive Director Chris Ward added that the agency is hoping to work with the businesses to relocate them and is "in fact going beyond" in negotiations with shop owners.
But Blarney Rock owner Tom Dwyer -- who has been in his 33rd Street location since he and his immigrant dad opened the pub in 1969 -- is worried he will not find an alternate location he can afford close to Madison Square Garden.
"This is devastating," said Dwyer, who hopes to pass on the business to his daughter. "We worked hard all these years, just to have our place turned into a fan plant. It doesn't seem right."
So when I saw the dumpster there in front of Lucy's yesterday afternoon...I couldn't help but think the worst. And I'm not alone in this thinking...and she has floated retirement rumors in the past.
Not to worry, though! I took a stroll by the place after its usual 6 p.m. opening time yesterday...Lucy's is still alive and well, the neon bar signs out front as inviting as ever...
Thank God that dingy little corners of New York City still exist that house the likes of Port 41.
To hear some people describe Port 41, you'd think they had been hanging out upstairs with Dean Stockwell and Dennis Hopper at This Is It in Blue Velvet. Hardly. C'mon, the place has a Web site and flat-screen TVs showing sports, mind you. But! Depending on what time of day (they open at 10 a.m.!) you hit Port 41, conveniently located underneath the Port Authority bus ramp on the north side of 41st Street near Ninth Avenue, you may sense a menacing undercurrent. Which I find comforting. Anyway, any place located 100 feet from Port Authority will attract a variety of interesting characters. Like the hustlers with some great "I-just-got-out-of-prison-can-you-loan-me-$50-I'll-pay-you-back-next-week" stories. Or the people who wander in and stay a suspiciously long time in the men's room.
So there are plenty of attractions here. The beer is mostly reasonable. And, like Rudy's, there are free hot dogs. Which I've never actually tried. Not to mention the bartenders wear bikinis. (Yes, yes -- a few other places in Manhattan have bikini-clad bartenders...)
Has the place has been spruced up a little bit? There are now three 42-inch flat-screen TVs strategically placed around the bar. And weren't there more pool tables in that huge back room? And has there always been a neon coat check sign? (Usually not in a bar-reviewing mode when I'm here.) That's OK. Despite the newish additions, Port 41 still looks on the, uh, rundown side. Which I also find comforting. I'm sticking to one of the booths, by the way. The stuffed hippopotamus is still mounted on the wall. And hey, where did that MP3 juke come from? Ohh! Van Halen! Slayer! Perfect! Now if I could only see.
I hesitated writing about Port 41, which took over the space that once housed Tobacco Road and Savoy Road. But I want to appreciate this place while it's around. In any event, given my most frequent visits, it's hardly a secret. The after-work crowd was split between construction workers and back-slapping chuckleheads in shirts and ties. (And several women in office attire.) Everyone got along just fine, too.
Oh, there's this. My failed attempt at capturing a little slice of the evening, and the people singing along to Van Halen's "Unchained."
[The bikini photos are via Dive In New York City. It was too dark for my shots. Of the bartender]
Bonus! Reviews of Port 41 by the always entertaining yelpers at Yelp:
I think I have officially found the shadiest bar in New York.. Death Metal blaring, the waitress looked like a meth head, was wearing a bikini top.. Another girl in a bikini top sat there getting felt up by this disgusting guy.. And when I say being felt up, it was close to nudity.. All the while he kept saying "I am the devil, you are an angel, do you want to f*ck the devil" He kept saying this over and over again.. He eventually slammed a bottle of beer on the ground and thats when I left.. This was at 4 pm mind you.. The place was completely dark, it was so weird.. If you are looking for trouble, I think you can find it there.. Its directly across the street from Port Authority, I couldnt imagine this place after dark..
One star? Jesus! This sounds like a rare six-out-of-five-star review!
Here's a more reasonable three-star review:
Probably one of the crappiest dive bars left in Midtown. So crappy it was entertaining. Some homeless guy was passed out in the booth behind us. The bartender was wearing a bikini top, and the crowd was entirely men and some looked like they were on drugs. Drink prices were on the cheap side.
And FIVE stars:
As you read my review of Port 41, please imagine that I am speaking these words to you in a heavy German accent and it is 1925 and the Velvet Underground's "Sister Ray" is playing on the jukebox.
I realize that this request is as strange as it is impossible, but that is Port 41: strange and impossible. You see, Port 41 should not be. Port 41 is the giant hippo head hanging on the wall. It is missing an eye, and it wants you to stay for another round. Port 41 is the homeless kid, who says he is a marine. He has dirty finger nails,and says he has a Polynesian wife he married on the telephone whom he has never seen.
This doesn't even begin to explain Port 41. Go there and you might find dullness, you might find horror, or you might find magic. Anything is possible.
The Post gets into the dive bar spirit today, offering up its listicle of the city's top-10 dives. I can't say there are any surprises on the list. Or let's say shockers. Was glad to see the International get some love. Co-owner Shawn Dahl is also quoted. In any event, I always find such lists pointless, except when I make them. (Joking!)
Uh, here's the list:
MARS BAR, 25 E. First St.
RUDY'S BAR & GRILL, 627 Ninth Ave.
BLARNEY COVE, 510 E. 14th St.
TURKEY'S NEST, 94 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn
HOLIDAY COCKTAIL LOUNGE, 75 St. Mark's Place
MILANO'S BAR, 51 E. Houston St.
SUBWAY INN, 143 E. 60th St.
JOHNNY'S, 90 Greenwich Ave.
O'CONNOR'S, 39 Fifth Ave, Brooklyn
INTERNATIONAL BAR, 120 ½ First Ave.
Guess there are no dive bars in Queens or the Bronx or Staten Island. Anyway! Quibble away.
According to this week's Page Six Magazine, "stars are forgoing getting trashed at clubs —- and seeking a far trashier scene." Like bars WE like to go to! And so the magazine features six such places where you don't have to pay $12 for a bottle of beer: "Pull up a stool to New York’s greatest, and grubbiest, dive bars." (Their words, not mine.)
Here's their report on Joe's on East Sixth Street:
Alphabet City Dive-y-est Element: Gunk-covered floor and bathrooms tinier than airplane stalls — all presided over by the toothless but friendly day-shift bartender, Tommy.
Celebrity Customers: While the former speakeasy hasn’t changed — or perhaps been mopped — since owners Joe and Dot (who refuse to give their last names) took over in the ’60s, stars have made Joe’s their dirty little secret. “Drew Barrymore comes here and so does Matt Dillion,” reports barfly Magda. “Keanu Reeves was just in last month, playing pool,” she adds. “Celebs are sick of getting their covers blown and want a taste of reality,” says Tracy Westmoreland, owner of legendary but now-closed dive Siberia. That “shipwrecks” like Joe’s are more popular than ever signals “the new golden age for dive bars,” he adds.
Not sure why I'm bothering with this one. First, it's outside the geography of EV Grieve. Second, well... Let's just say this Page Six item today annoyed me for various reasons:
LOWER East Side pub crawlers, who tend to hop from bar to bar on skateboard, were a little surprised to see two black Escalades roll up to Orchard Street dive bar Sweet Paradise at 2 a.m. Sunday. Passing up standard hot spots, Mary-Kate Olsen and her posse slummed it up with some die-hard hipsters. Page Six overheard one bystander comment, "An Olsen just went in there." When asked which troll-sized twin it was, our witness replied, "I think it was the fat one."
The Post's definition of dive bar is different from mine. Sweet Paradise is just fine -- I have no problems with the place. (And I'm a fan of their other spot, Welcome to the Johnson's, though only when it's not full of yahoos.) But a bar that opened in the summer of 2006 isn't a dive bar. I don't care how much the owners recreated the physical characteristics of some old dump that serves a working-class demographic, one without trust funds and $200 haircuts.
