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Barred: Jackie’s 5th Amendment
When: Saturday, 11:26pm
What did I drink? Bottle of Heineken.
Metal buckets of beer, sluggish air conditioning, “Moves Like Jagger” and “Empire State of Mind” on jukebox repeat, a legit grandma-aged woman at the end of the bar, and a young lady bartending in a ratty Daniel Johnston t-shirt, despite the bar’s anti-hipster petition, all make for a not unpleasant experience.
I would’ve stayed for a second drink if I knew what awaited me at Mission Dolores.
Age appropriate? If anything, this is what a dive does best. There will always be at least one woman older than you no matter how old you get.
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Barred: Bar 360
When: Friday, 4:22pm
What did I drink? Tanqueray & tonic in a plastic cup ($8).
World Resort Casino at the Aquaduct didn’t live up to my not-that-high standards because it lacked three very important casino staples: Keno, free drinks and indoor smoking. I rarely visit casinos because I’m not a gambler, but when I do go I’m not looking out for my health.
I had to sneak out the propped open doors (no reentry, my ass) along with all the Chinese men to have a cigarette, and was forced to pay my own money for a cocktail. I also lost $24.84 playing slots, which are not my game.
There were only 12 patrons indoors drinking in Ozone Queens on their Friday off, but three were women clearly over 40. Baseball caps, moustaches and gold chains belonged to the men. One gentleman was using a Kindle with a reading lamp attached, no matter that the bar was lit bright as day from the towering video screens advertising upcoming shows, including a disco event hosted by Deney Terrio (?!)
Was I carded? No, but there were prominently displayed “We ID” signs.
Age appropriate? Nearly everyone was old enough to have seen Dance Fever on broadcast TV. -
Barred: Mission Dolores
When: Saturday, 12:33am
What did I drink? Nothing.A friend and I were projectile vomited on by a bro before we even made it to the bar to buy a drink.
Age appropriate? Uh, no?
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Barred: Nitehawk Cinema
When: Friday, 11:10pm
What did I drink? Redrum (Goslings rum, hibiscus, lime, rosehip syrup, Peychaud’s bitters), $12.
I’m not used to drinking with moms, so it really threw me for a loop when the 39-year-old at the table, a high school friend of a friend, mentioned a realization about her 20-year-old son who lives in Williamsburg and is a DJ. “He’s a grown man.”
The rest of us childless middle-agers had a hard time wrapping our heads around being the mother of a grown man, and one you might run into on the street and at parties (this has happened).
Time for a stiff drink.
Age appropriate? More or less. The bartender was wise enough to call me miss, not ma’am.
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Barred: Trash Bar
When: Saturday, midnight on the dot
What did I drink? Maker’s Mark on the rocks ($8), Rolling Rock ($4) Rolling Rock (free).
A friend of a friend bartending: What are you doing tomorrow?
Us: Watching Ghost Dad.
Bartender: Oh, I’ve been watching a lot of Jarmusch lately.
Pause
Me: Dad, not Dog!
Age appropriate? Not naturally. The secret to drinking in Williamsburg is to have your own pack to travel with in order to skew the ratio slightly.
Pic via We Are the LAW
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Barred: Ruby
When: Thursday, 11:09pm
What did I drink? Ruby daiquiri (rhubarb jam, vanilla syrup, lime juice, Angostura bitters, 5-year rum), Meadow Mist (Zubrowka bisongrass vodka, elderflower, sorrel, dandelion, burdock bitters, Agrapart), Manhattan. 100-120 dkk, roughly, $20 apiece.
It’s surprisingly easy to spend $60 on cocktails in Copenhagen, especially if you tire of pints and aquavit. Ruby is sort of a Danish speakeasy, no sign, just inside the entrance to the Georgian embassy, and done up in a cross between gentleman’s study and Victorian parlor. In theory, the leather wingback chairs, gilded mirrors, oriental rugs, frilly lampshades, and pricing structure would attract a mature crowd (or young, flashy Europeans). And it did, for the men at least.
Upscale foreign bars always seem to be the setting for at least one large multinational work outing where everyone speaks English with different accents. The bigwigs are always middle-aged-plus men who leave early and are often American and wear khakis, polos and wire-rim glasses. Females are in the minority, if present at all, and are always in their 20s. Most of the women at Ruby were also in their 20s.
Upon leaving and approaching the bus stop on the other side of the little river in front of the bar, we nearly got into a physical altercation with a taxi driver parked across the street, an incident locals I recounted this to later found hard to believe, considering how polite everyone seems in Copenhagen.
Taxi driver: Screaming unintelligibly, possibly in Danish, something, something, assholes!
Me to James: Did he just call us assholes?
Me screaming back to driver: Are you talking to us?
Taxi driver: Motherfuckers, you don’t call a cab and take the bus!
Us: We didn’t call a cab. (I don’t even know how to call a cab in Copenhagen.)
Taxi driver: The bartender said you did! Motherfuckers!
Us: Um, no we didn’t. Call the bar back if you have a problem. (Would anyone actually get into a vehicle with someone who is yelling at them?)
Taxi driver: Motherfuckers!
Us: Hey asshole, come say that to our face. (I don’t think he was used to back-talking New Yorkers and this enraged him further.)
Taxi driver getting out of car: I’ll kick your ass. I’m going to kill you.
A fuck you, no fuck you shouting match ensued until he finally gave up and drove off.
It’s worth noting that absolutely no one is on the streets of Copenhagen at 1am–despite what anyone will tell you, it’s not a late-night city–and I never once saw a police officer in my whole week there. This was the first time it ever occurred to me that it’s worth knowing the 911 equivalent when in another country.
Was I carded? No, I’m not sure if they even do that in Denmark.
Age appropriate: Yes, though you may be the only woman over 35 in the place.
