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Barred: Sophie’s
When: Saturday, 10:07pm
Even with Saturday night kicking into gear in the East Village, the crowd at Sophie’s, perpetually post-college, was shockingly civilized. As if by magic a four-seater opened up as soon as my party of three entered the once-familiar threshold.
Maybe it was the work of the older gent (one of two) with a cane, not a staff, but who came to be called Dust Bowl Gandalf nonetheless for his crumple-peaked Depression-era hat and white whiskers.
One thing I don’t understand is how the jukebox–The Smiths, Stone Roses–remains in the ‘80s yet the bar’s average age always hovers around 26, now just with more beards and man buns. If it were up to me, the Violent Femmes song playing would be updated to “Gone Dadbod Gone.” As if on cue, a young, mildly schlubby dude in a flannel appeared as the tune came on, looked around for something or someone, and left. Bye. Gone.
Sophie’s is where in 1998, five months into being a New Yorker, I told Henry Thomas, Elliott from E.T., to meet me. And he did. Later, he would stop returning my calls and invited others to Sophie’s casually and familiarly as if it was his regular haunt and hadn’t just been introduced to it by me. Such is the way of grown child stars.
If I weren’t with my friend Jane on this particular night, the same friend who happened to be with me at Sophie’s that fated evening 16-and-a-half years ago (along with her boyfriend at the time who now co-owns Abraço three blocks away) I might not believe any of it transpired.
Was I carded? Yes, at the door. Before I arrived, the third member of my party was waiting outside and chatting with the doorman who told her people were always embarrassed about their age but were never older than he was. He didn’t look that old.
Age appropriate? Not for women on a weekend night, no. The last time I stopped into Sophie’s was nearly four years ago when I was feeling sorry for myself on my 39th birthday because a last-minute call for company at HiFi only turned up two friends. (Actually that still doesn’t sit right with me and is inducing the annual anxiety that makes me leave town if possible when the date arrives.) On the earlier side, sun still out, it was locals scene, including a few middle-aged couples.
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Barred: Bar URBO
When: Tuesday, 6:48pm
Lately I’ve noticed that if you tweet about a Times Square establishment, a nearby business you’ve never heard of will attempt to engage you in conversation. Something called The Three Monkeys wanted to know why I’d called URBO “the weirdo bar.”
Well…because it is weird.
PWeird,“ "crazy,” and “fancy” are all uncreative catchalls I frequently lean on. I can’t help it. In this instance URBO is weird because it’s in my office building where the Señor Frog’s is threatening to open any day. Up a massive spiral staircase that opens into an empty event space and catering kitchen, the second-floor bar is also large, more after-work than touristy, never mobbed, reasonably priced at happy hour, but more than anything the whole URBO complex is weird, enormousness aside, because the lofty, rough hewn-industrial aesthetic paired with Blue Bottle coffee, pork belly, and poached eggs as garnish is still out of place on the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue facing Chevy’s and Dallas BBQ. I believe that within ten years this Brooklyn shorthand will be the norm and that the entire swath of Times Square will be lit by Edison bulbs and filled with communal tables crafted from reclaimed wood.
Recently URBO has added stand-up comedy and “curated open mic” nights. Weird or crazy?
On the substantial walk from the bar to the very nice individual stall, floor-t0-ceiling door, bathrooms (one might say fancy) on the far side of the unused private dining area, “Sausalito” by Ohio Express was tinkling quietly over the speakers. On the subway ride home “Sausalito” by Ohio Express started playing in my earbuds. Definitely weird.
Was I carded? No one underage would even bother.
Age appropriate? Of course. Anything geared toward midtown drones will be to some degree. On this particular evening the bar appeared to be hosting an office party including a very non-young pregnant woman in a maxi dress.
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Barred: Billymark’s West
When: Wednesday (St. Patrick’s Day), 9:26pm.
“Why did you come here?” asked a drunk man who wasn’t possibly yet born when “Touch of Grey,” the only Grateful Dead song I know despite being raised in Oregon, was on MTV rotation. Now it was someone’s jukebox pick at Billymark’s.“We were looking for shittiest bar in NYC,” I was told before I could reply.
One man’s shithole is another’s salve. I’d just escaped Porchlight with a friend. Wrong color for St. Patrick’s Day, but I wanted to experience that much-Instagrammed $14 blue drink for myself. Porchlight could be summed up by the long wooden table seating eight women ranging in age from 28 to 29, all with Patti Stanger-approved lady manes, one particularly platinum. Their server asked our bartender for a check. “The one in the blonde wants it,” she said. So blonde that she ceased being blonde and became consumed by blondeness.
“Bland,” was the friend’s assessment.
“We need to go to a dive,” said me, always seeking counterbalance.
Billymark’s was the closest contender. And it delivered in spades. Blue curacao was suspiciously absent, and most of the liquor brands were deeply bottom shelf with an unusual amount of double consonants: Du Bouchett, Llords.
9:30 seemed early enough to avoid trouble and I assumed that all of the revelers who’d started drinking at 10am would be long passed out by now. Not so. We witnessed two verbal altercations, one which involved a young woman stumbling into me while trying to run out the door without paying. Caught, she attempted to turn it around by screaming about her ID being stolen by the bartender and threatening to call the police. Mark, whose brother Billy was wise to stay home this evening responded unsympathetically. “Retard does not even begin to describe you. You’ve got a terrible problem, miss, because your life sucks. I don’t know what your problem is. Bring a cop because I will press charges and have you arrested.”
While invisible at Porchlight, at BillyMark’s we were the recipients of two rounds of Brooklyn lagers from two different men, just for being unaccompanied women, exchanging names and chitchat. And best of all? Being gifted with bodega crackers even after insisting “I’m good.” Danny Meyer has his hospitality, sure, yet the dive has its own beauty, and there aren’t a lot of strings if you feel like engaging.
Despite three drinks, two more than I’d intended, we never did hear our songs on the jukebox. No complaints about two Duran Durans, “Night Moves,” “Take Me Home Country Roads,” and unexpectedly, Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You,” which will always imprint itself on my psyche and convince me of a bar’s favorability.
Was I carded? Despite ribbing that we couldn’t possibly be old enough to have lived in NYC in the ‘90s and a comment on some exposed cleavage–“I’d like your ID”– no one truly asked for IDs. There was a whole lot of carding going on, though. The second dust-up was a result of a fake driver’s license. No amount of arguing could save the guy in a leather jacket and bleached hair from getting the boot. “Put it on Yelp. That’s what you kids do,” Mark cracked.
Age appropriate? Women-wise, the scene was unexpectedly young. Two middle-aged-plus female solo drinkers did eventually appear. “Are you getting off work?” one was asked with familiarity. No, on her way.
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Barred: The Ready Penny
When: Friday, 2:42pm
I imagine that on any given day, a parade of disconnected subjects may form the basis of bar stool stories. On this particular afternoon, hot topics at The Ready Penny involved stuffed cabbage and dental procedures, and these topics persisted the duration of two slowly sipped pints of Stella.
“That Stella is so strong first thing in the day,” was declared at one point in no reference to me. “Knocks your socks off.” Thankfully, I wasn’t wearing socks.
I only interjected myself into conversation once when no one else appeared to be familiar with Jeepers Creepers. Reinforcements were needed, even an introvert could see that.
Elephants also roam the barOne of the only four customers on the late side of lunch brought stuffed cabbage in to share and snack on, as one does at the only remaining dive bar in Jackson Heights. By chance, another regular who apparently had his teeth recently fixed (“It’s going to take some getting used to” was the sentiment expressed while he was in the bathroom) was making stuffed cabbage for dinner.
His recipe? I missed what made up the “meat mixture,” though I’m guessing pork and beef, plus white rice from a Chinese restaurant, fried onion and garlic, tomato sauce using canned crushed tomatoes blended with light brown sugar and apple cider vinegar. Everything gets seasoned with parsley, salt and pepper. Don’t forget the Parmigiano-Reggiano, which must be freshly grated and not shaken from a cellulose-filled container.
The smoke points of grapeseed oil were compared to olive oil. It was decided that seasoned breadcrumbs should never be bought and always made at home.
A good 30 minutes later, the single-minded gentleman with improved chompers announced that he had to run to the store. “I forgot an ingredient for my stuffed cabbage.”
Was I carded? No, not even a question. I can’t imagine anyone even approaching underage attempting to sneak in.
Age appropriate? 40 feels downright youthful, which is the hallmark of a good dive bar. And though no women other than the not-old Irish bartender were in evidence–public, weekday drinking is mostly the province of men–I wouldn’t say they are unwelcome as long as they can handle overhearing “a corker” describe how “maiden juice” is good for dental work and pubic hair great for flossing.
The lack of female-friendly bars in the neighborhood is not just my lament, it has become an intermittent topic on neighborhood message board Jackson Heights Life and I’ve recently started chiming in because I’m now a homeowner and be the change and all that. My favorite quote to date: “I’ve been waiting for a place where a woman of a certain age can go to spend time with her neighbors!!”
For now, this is it.
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Barred: Station House
When: Wednesday, 9:03pm
Despite billing as a gastropub, the Station House might possibly be the most Guy Fieri establishment I’ve ever been to–and I’ve been to two Guy Fieri restaurants. It’s also possible that I’m just responding to our server’s easygoing “hey, guys” rasp and thumb’s up flashing when checking in. (At least it wasn’t the hand gesture pictured above.)
Continually, I was convinced I was in another city. First, when I noticed $39 12 oz. beers highlighted on the menu. It was like when you’re disoriented in a foreign place and it takes a second to register that you’re seeing kroner or baht. Then I remembered I was off the E train in Queens, which still didn’t explain the barrel-aged Vespers, $14 cocktails (having just sampled a few quality tiki drinks for $10) short rib kimchi empanadas (which I ate and enjoyed) and Blueshammer-esque tunes I couldn’t muster the energy to Shazam. I think all second and third tier cities now have a place like this. I’ve been to them in Oklahoma City and Charlotte. I’d like to believe this is what Hoboken is made up of in its entirety.
Despite the fratty portrait I’m painting, the crowd was not homogenous, a hallmark of Queens that I always appreciate. There were young black women sitting with emo girls, grizzly men in baseball caps, a gentleman with an Aztec profile in a peacoat, and most importantly for my intents and purposes: two women hovering around 40, one with a bun, one with an indoor scarf.
Age appropriate? Close enough. While the average age was around 29, there was nothing that translated as uncomfortable for those a few decades older. I would argue that the Blackberry Bootlegger (Virginia Highland Port-finished Scotch, pinot noir, blackberries, ginger, lemon) is begging to be drunk by a mature woman.
Was I carded? No. I was surprised, though, to see what was either an informal doorman or authoritative customer with the appearance of one sitting on a stool near the entrance as I was leaving.
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Barred: Réunion Surf Bar
When: Thursday, roughly 8pm
Until that promised Señor Frogs opens in the base of my office building, Réunion will remain the only beachy drinking spot around Times Square. I had been under the impression that this was an after-work hangout–and maybe it is–but by true evening the subterranean space plastered with surfboards is occupied by a clientele that is obviously just post-college, recently transplanted–and not to the boroughs.
Upon squeezing into a space at the bar to try and peek at the taps (frozen drinks are more the thing) a young man seated on a bamboo stool handed us a drinks menu unprompted. Later, a different young man bumped into me and said “sorry,” further blowing my mind with politeness and the dawning realization of how abusive Brooklyn kids truly are.
Wholesome was the decided upon adjective for this scene. I’ve never seen an episode of How I Met Your Mother (I accidentally saw part of the series finale, I’ll admit) but this is how I imagine the characters being in the early seasons. And to further the model millennial atmosphere foreign to cooler neighborhoods, the crowd was surprisingly multicultural with every race downing Riptides (Midori, lemon juice and blue curaçao) in harmony.
Was I carded? Yes, and scrupulously so. It would only take a one-second glance up from the ID to recognize a face that’s no lie.
Age appropriate? Maybe on the earlier side. I shared a chuckle with an older blonde, business-attired woman in the bathroom when a guy walked in mistakenly as we were washing our hands, yet when I looked for her a few minutes later she was nowhere to be seen, making me think I’d been hallucinating the whole exchange.
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Barred: The Flat
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Photo: Grandma Club
When: Friday, 8:08pm
I blindly took a seat at the bar while a friend’s band set up and happened to sit next to the only other woman by herself who looked mature. She was probably 37 because whenever I think someone is my age they turn out to be 37. “I never go out,” she told me, having made the trek from Bed-Stuy. She and her boyfriend, who wasn’t there, don’t really drink. The friend she was waiting for was lost on her way from the East Village and didn’t arrive until after the music started. It was loud; they moved to the back. The friend looked more like 47, though it may have been the fault of her short, sensible haircut that signaled mom hair, but mom hair from the ‘80s.
I wondered if I had mom hair, decided I might, then ordered another Sixpoint.
Being oblivious to your looks also made me think of a Middle Ages sub-genre: grandmas at the club. I’ve not experienced this insult (maybe that’s the difference between Atlanta and Brooklyn) though when I saw The Fresh & Onlys at Glasslands last month I made a point of surveying the scene, and not only were there definitely not any women over 40, there were barely any women not in the company of men (most who just use shows as an excuse to rub their dates’ backs sensually in public).
Age appropriate? Sort of. I mean, no one’s going to call you a grandma.
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Barred: Acorn Lounge
Photo: The Old Oak InnWhen I become concerned that bar-hopping is the province of the young in big cities, I look to dispatches from my friend who moved last year from Crown Heights to a farm in Viroqua, Wisconsin (population 5,079). This is the scoop on the Acorn Lounge, part of a newly restored Victorian B&B.
The first hint should have been that there are NO stairs outside, just ramps everywhere and lots of them. Inside the place was hoppin’, packed with the spryest, loudest bunch of seventy-somethings I’ve ever seen. And this is probably why–a bar built with that exact crowd in mind: carpet everywhere and a sunken bar. Genius. The bartenders have to go down about five steps to get behind the taps, but the crowd gets to sit on padded, wide, wheeled 1980s chairs–like something from the Golden Girls set and just SO much easier than the comfortable barstools at Dead Rabbit. (ed. note: the best bar stools I’ve encountered to date.) For added comfort you can grab yourself an extra cushion from a stack near the bar and when you’re done a waitress rolls your chair back and helps you to your feet. On the digital jukebox: Bruno Mars, One Direction and Pink. Perfect.
Photo: The Old Oak Inn/FacebookPerfect, indeed. Plus, all the dairy-based drinks a mature constitution can handle. Also, what the heck is a Sneaky Pete, and where can I get one in NYC?
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Barred: Keens
When: 6:47pm, Wednesday
Keens’ bar room was filled with the expected after-work scrum, but I’d under-estimated the tourist factor, both seemingly Japanese and of the baggy denim and white tennis shoes persuasion. The primary benefit to so many out-of-towners is that their politeness and hesitancy can work in your favor: assertiveness and lack of respect for strangers’ personal space is practically required to get your $14 Manhattan during peak hours.
The crew of short, shouty men nearest to me included members who were recently married and recently celebrating 40th birthdays. One thought he was “more of a jerk” than when he was younger while another thought he’d mellowed out. “I don’t just jump on anybody for the fuck of it,” he declared, thoughtfully. The merits of Wolfgang’s vs. Empire Steak House were also discussed, but more importantly, Keens ranked highly because there were fewer women present than at other steakhouses.
Of course, there is the reclining nude over the bar, a.k.a Miss Keens, and a bun-less, fry-free burger named for her, yet I still wouldn’t lump Keens into the same category as Los Pollitos III and its gendered cocktails.
Age appropriate? Yes. Dark, woody bars that haven’t been fashioned to look dark in woody in the last five years, are usually safe bets.
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Barred: All of New Orleans
When: Any time, any day of the week.
Based on a handful of previous visits and extremely informal observation at bars and bars of restaurants, ranging from suburban to touristy to upscale to, yes, hipster (Warehouse Grille, Lucy’s, Cafe Adelaide, Columns, Booty’s, Coop’s, Frankie & Johnny’s, 12 Mile Limit, Carousel Bar, Erin Rose, Dat Dog, Peche) over a recent three-day period, New Orleans just might be the most age-diverse drinking city in the US. (I would also speculate that Key West ranks highly.)
What the Girls Gone Wild videos don’t show are the white beards of Bourbon Street in denim shorts on motorized scooters, and the little old ladies clutching each other’s arms with one hand, Styrofoam daiquiri cup in the other. 80% of women over 45 wear their pants cropped as well as their hair, an American phenomenon I’m still trying to understand and avoid for myself. It’s also possible that this is such extreme normcore that my brain can’t process it. The remainder look like twenty-somethings from behind: tan, long hair don’t care with highlights, short shorts or short skirts. This species will always dance if there’s music and groove at the counter waiting for Fireball Whisky shots.
Age appropriate? Obviously. Even at the bars that if transplanted to Brooklyn would only attract under-32s, there will always be at least one woman or couple, well past 40.
