-
-
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?
-
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.
-
-
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.
-
-
-
Barred: Edison Place
Photo: ManBeerLove.comWhen: Friday, 12:20am
I wouldn’t blame you for thinking Edison Place would be the type of establishment lit by its namesake filament bulbs, but pork belly and kale has yet to penetrate Glendale (despite neighboring Ridgewood now having a self-proclaimed gastropub named DISH). It’s still lollipop chicken and caesar salads in the subway-free zones.
You would not be wrong if you guessed that Journey and Guns N’ Roses might get played. There were a lot of Amstel Light drinkers, a mix of accents (Queens-y and Eastern European), and an admirable sprinkling of non-young, yet non-elderly couples, the latter which conforms to my theory about smaller cities and more traditional enclaves. People just have kids younger so they’re done parenting and back out drinking by their 40s rather than rearing grade-schoolers.
After a few Bitburgers (and an accidentally broken pint glass, and separately a hard stare for saying “fuck” too loudly) it was time to move on. It wasn’t until I got outside that I realized I’d been in this same space in my 20s when it was occupied by a German restaurant. The bar at Von Westerhagen was the first and last place in NYC where I witnessed overt inter-generational bonding over a dislike of minorities, sealed with honest-to-goodness sieg heils and “white power” said aloud for reinforcement. For the record, I encountered nothing of the sort at Edison Place.
Age appropriate? Definitely. There’s a direct correlation between age diversity and the distance from lower Manhattan and gentrified Brooklyn.
-
-
Barred: Oak & Iron
When: Saturday, after midnight
As you may have heard, Greenpoint is the number one neighborhood in the entire universe for millennials. Just because only 15% of residents fall into my advanced age group compared to 32% for 25s-34s, two friends (42 and 44) were still not thwarted from having birthday drinks at Oak & Iron.
Greenpoint’s number one status also hasn’t staunched the flow of extremely drunk young men fresh off the boat (ok, plane) from Warsaw. A straight-up “wild and crazy guys” (technically, more boomer humor than middle-aged laughs) crew was present, but gold medallions and denim caps have been updated with fitted leather jackets and Hitler cuts. One member, incapable of reading body language and go-away scowls, decided to sit at the end of our booth anyway and play a game of telephone starting with me.
In a whisper loud enough for the whole table to hear, I was meant to pass along the question “What’s your husband?”
This was followed by a gleeful cackle, addressed to no one in particular, followed by “You’re a mother!”
Ok, dude, we can play. “What’s your wife?”
“I am divorced!” he declared like it was the ultimate burn, and then with an aggressive flick of the wrist yelled “In your face!”
We were temporarily rescued when his more coherent friends decided it was time to leave. “Let’s go to Bedford,” one said, because even recent immigrants know that’s their scene. They left, he came back and began mumbling at the bar.
Age appropriate? Not in the literal sense. But it’s a fine place for playing MILF with techo-loving construction workers who speak in broken English.
