Barred: The Jar Bar


When: 5:22pm, Wednesday

Between the necessarily tough Irish bartender and the women at the end of the bar who were beyond even pretending to be young, one tan with short shorts, spaghetti straps, exposed midriff, and big silver crucifix necklace,  her friend with pink hair, I loved The Jar Bar the second I walked in even though I was afraid I might get assaulted by the angry, stuttering man who took up residence right next to me and only required a few seconds to determine if he had Tourette’s and was beloved by all and I should be polite or drunk, damaged, and/or potentially dangerous.

“You’ve got 30 seconds to wrap this fucking conversation up,” the bartender said while calling him a cab.

“You are legally obliged to fuck off if I tell you to fuck off,” she added while he mumbled and sulked.

Because it’s Sunnyside you will hear a lot of accents and you will hear The Waterboys. Also, everyone smokes–there’s a patio out back.

Was I carded? Are you kidding?

Age appropriate? In spades. I’m not convinced there was anyone under 40 in the place.

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