-
Barred: Spuyten Duyvil
When: 10:47pm, Saturday
What did I drink? Dieu du Ciel Revenante Smoked Porter, $9; Single Cut 18 Watt IPA, $6Nilsson. Destroyer. Man music for a beer bar that’s not really all that beer geeky. People, i.e. couples and groups, just go for the backyard seating.
I had written off the entire place when an hour or so in, a friend (a previously unmentioned 40-year-old–apparently, I know more neighborhood old-timers than I thought) clearly on a date, passed by my stool. She was with a visiting Italian gentleman in his early 30s, it turned out.
Apropos of nothing: If I ran a bar, I would put on Duran Duran’s Tiger Tiger as the let’s close this place down music. It would work as a dog whistle to the aged and a repellent to the cool. In other words, there would be no stragglers at 4am.
Age Appropriate? There’s nothing overtly inappropriate about Spuyten Duyvil…apart from the ages of 98% of the clientele. You could sip a beer unnoticed, no problem, unless you wanted to be noticed. Bringing a younger foreigner might be the only remedy.
-
Barred: Roebling Tea Room
When: Tuesday, 9:29pm
What did I drink? One Manhattan (unsure of price)Despite the name (it put me off for quite some time) Roebling Tea Room is more restaurant than café. It’s not really a drinking establishment either, but there are a sufficient number of eaters and drinkers sitting on stools that the bar area is more than a holding pen.
There was a finance dude in a pristine ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots who insulted the bartender’s intelligence while thinking he was complimenting her beauty, then later slipped her his number (I think—hope—she wasn’t having any of it) which seems exactly what a 30-ish bro dressed like J.R. Ewing in Williamsburg would do.
The bar clientele was more motley than I’ve come to expect for the area, as if partially made up of lost walk-ins. Steely Dan, a persistent aural neighborhood presence, would seem to indicate a certain level of comfort for the older set, but the adult male in his 50s with thinning hair seemed out of place (he may have been a P.O.M., a.k.a. parent of a millennial). So too, the mid-30s gent with a leather jacket and dangly earring. That was more a matter of wrong decade than physical place, though.
Age appropriate? I really don’t know. My first instinct is a yes, though the masculine vibe, maybe not typical, further clouded the lack of grown women issue.
-
Barred: Iona
When? Friday, 4:05pm
What did I drink? Mother’s Milk stout, $6; an indeterminate IPA bought for me (no, not by a stranger).I have discovered the secret to Williamsburg drinking for oldsters and it is as dependent on having nothing going on in the late afternoon as a poor unemployed millennial (or a twentysomething trust-funder, depending on your level of crotchety-ness). Ok, no secret, just start drinking earlier. Many neighborhood bars don’t open until 5pm while Iona, god bless them, starts serving at 1pm.
I may have been the first to set foot in the inviting backyard on a Friday, but the neighboring table was quickly filled by a Caitlin Moran-esque woman, but blonde and definitely over 40. She gave me the side-eye, surveying the early Friday scene, lamenting to her seltzer-drinking gray-templed male companion about the area “tourists, hipsters and college kids” who pay rent who knows how. One sounds like less of a crank with a British accent, it turns out.
That’s another truth: where there is a high foreign factor (as is the case at Iona) age is often less of a constraint. Also, smoking is de rigueur.
By the way, shit can go down at Iona. Just the year before last, a normally mellow mid-40s friend (he’s in a twee band, for crying out loud) got into a fist fight there. I did not witness this first-hand, but it sticks with me.
Age appropriate? Two beers later, still light out, and three-fourths of the bar, outside and in, were over 40. Sure, some were men with white pageboys, but a high ratio, nonetheless. Does everyone go home by 8pm? Do they disco nap and go back out later as I unwisely did? If you start at 4pm, don’t restart at 8:30pm.
-
So, I Finally Read the Damn Article
So, I Finally Read the Damn Article
“Middle-aged” New York Times writer, Henry Alford (51) goes hipster for a weekend and becomes the oldest person (obvi) at the Wythe hotel’s Ides bar.
I’m not convinced that this piece of satirical journalism would work the same with a female author.
-
Barred: OTB
When: Friday, 11pm on the dot.
What did I drink? Turkey Jerky (Redemption rye, Osocolis brandy, cinnamon sugar, Angostura bitters, Bittermen’s Tiki bitters) Two Hemingway daiquiris (maraschino and grapefruit juice makes the difference) which I’ve decided will be my spring drink if it ever becomes spring-like outside. $10, apiece.Old To Be here? Oblivious To Boundaries? On The Bench? Obviously Too Broken-down?
OTB proves that it’s possible to even make off track betting (RIP) Brooklyn old-timey. It also reminds me that I really need to get to that Aquaduct racino for a very different, mostly likely highly age-appropriate, experience.
What the bar could’ve looked like.The design includes a trio of antique rotary payphones that will make elders feel welcome while confounding digital natives (my favorite new coded job description phrase). The evening candle light (ours was snuffed out three times because I’m a blowhard–but it was promptly relit every time) is also kind to the older woman. That doesn’t mean you’ll see any, though.
As with Williamsburg generally (I swear, I’m branching out soon) a quick sweep of the room rarely turns up anyone obviously over 32. It’s the obvious aspect that’s making me start to wonder, though. I don’t think that I or most of my female friends look overtly 40+ (though stating that aloud is a sure sign of being Wurtzel-level delusional) so who is to say that I’m accurately pegging the ages of others?
Was I carded? No, OTB is semi-restaurant in nature.
Age appropriate? Yes, in that no one will pay attention to you one way or the other.Photo: Yana Paskova/New York Times
-
Barred: Donna
When: Saturday, 5:46pm.
What did I drink? Daiquiri, Haunted House (Appleton Jamaican Rum, rye, Swedish punsch, ginger syrup, Angostura bitters) $7, 2 oz. Buffalo Trace, $9.Like Linda or Deborah, Donna is not a young person’s name (even The Donnas, once girl wonders, are now in their 30s). Donnas were teens in the ‘70s, like my aunt’s friend whom she met working at Winchell’s when I was in preschool and recently friended me on Facebook.
It may go without saying, but daytime drinking (weekends and furtive workplace slip-outs) is tailor made for the older set. And Donna, down low on Broadway near the Italian waterfront restaurant everyone knows about, but has never visited, is a perfect place to spend a few daylight hours. On Saturdays there are tacos. Before 7pm, even on weekends, there are discounted drinks, $7 instead of $10, which encouraged me to try the Haunted House, an iced alcoholic mishmash, a.k.a. hipster Long Island Ice Tea.
On the early side, there was a group of gay men visiting from Boston, possibly over 40 but well-preserved, a tan gentleman in a preppy v-neck sweater who had to be in his 50s with a decade-younger woman who had that darker eyebrow, blonde Argentine look, both polished. It was our group, though, celebrating at 41st birthday that raised the average age in the room. Seven out of ten were 40+ (and I was rude enough to ask the two attendees I’d never met before how old they were).
But beware, the Belle and Sebastian, Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan (Peg!), all favorite soothers, give way after dark, and the sunny, leisurely atmosphere shifts with the arrival of a DJ. Stay too long, and it’s a standing room only scene for people who’ve never known anyone named Donna first-hand.
Was I carded? No doorman, no nonsense.
Age appropriate? To a point. -
Barred: Reynard
When: Monday, 8:29pm
What did I drink? Last Word (gin, chartreuse, maraschino, lime juice) $14I’m still not clear whether there is an S or not at the end Reynard since it’s spelled both ways on the Wythe Hotel’s website. I will stick with Reynard out of fear of sounding like the sort who says Nordstroms or Barnes & Nobles (Tim Hortons, however, is correct and always throws me off) even though I totally am that sort at my core. A business shouldn’t confuse old people like that.
The restaurant bar (not the rooftop lounge referenced in New York’s Eloise parody–I wouldn’t guess that anyone in that illustration is a day over 33, would you?) was a civilized place to be on a weeknight, further reinforcing the now obvious theory that weeknights trump weekends. The crowd mellowing in proportion to the price of a drink (clubs, excluded) is also a growing truth.
I have yet to touch on the viability of male patrons (which while not the main focus, is a subtext of this venture). Reynard is certainly no Arlington Club, though it wouldn’t have been completely out of line to strike up a conversation with the silver-streaked but not elderly gentlemen reading a book (because I’m bad at this, I didn’t even notice what he was reading–you would want to be careful about Proof of Heaven or similar) or the solo dining Asian man who gave off a food-knowledgeable vibe even though he was quiet (no, I’m not saying Chinese are mystical and/or wise).
Lest you get too comfortable with the adult atmosphere, a Girls billboard, kitty corner, looms out of the dark as you exit.
Was I carded? No, it’s a restaurant not a kegger. The doorman (not Irish or Irish-looking this time) was imposing enough to keep interlopers at bay.
Age Appropriate? Yes, plain and simple. -
Barred: K&M
When: Saturday, 10pm-2am
Drinks: multiple gin and tonics interspersed with cans of Rolling Rock.An evening that started with a free wine tasting event, a thoroughly middle age-approved activity, soon devolved.
If you think that I’m sabotaging myself by visiting so many bars in Williamsburg, you would be correct. I used to refer to the neighborhood as The Shire because everyone I knew who lived there seemed incapable of leaving its confines for socializing. And now that I’m a resident I’ve started falling into the trap because there are multiple walkable options (mostly in the same genre, granted) and I’m lazy because I’m old.
This wasn’t my choice, though. K&M, was the site of a friend’s 41st birthday party (as well as her 36th, if I’m remembering correctly) ensuring that there would be an age-appropriate pocket by default. Once the night took off, though, and the sports bar atmosphere morphed into a dance party, the grown-up level dipped sharply. My working theory is that anyplace where dancing erupts will turn gross by 2am and be unabashedly adult-repellant.
And anyplace where a DJ thinks Matthew Wilder’s “Break My Stride” is acceptable, is a huge red flag. In 1984, my grandma liked that song very much. That same year, Depends were introduced to the world. At some point closer to 1990 the jaunty reggae-inflected song was used to advertise adult undergarments and “ain’t nothin’ gonna slow me down” took on new meaning.
Because I didn’t diaper-up beforehand (I would be more partial to Poise, frankly) my bladder eventually got the better of me and as a result I inadvertently got drug-doing kids booted out of the ladies’ room. The bartender yelled at me when I gave up waiting and started walking into the men’s room. Dude, there’s a mixed-sex group of nine in the bathroom and I just want to pee. Save your gender rule-enforcing for the appropriate party.
It’s possible that I misheard the two twentysomething men saying goodbyes on the corner, but I’m 98% certain they said, “We’ll meet again. We’ll probably be forties.” It’s highly doubtful the reunion will take place at K&M.
Was I carded? Yes, doormen are no joke in The Shire.
Age appropriate? Maybe if you’re a man watching a basketball game during daylight hours. Otherwise stay far away. -
Barred: Dram
When: 9:38pm on a Friday, and 12:20am on a separate Friday
Drinks: Makers on the rocks, a mildly unseasonal Leaves Do Fall (gin, Meletti amaro, pear eau de vie, amontillado, orange bitters) $10Perhaps because it s not as new as OTB or as small as Post Office, both nearby choices, I’ve been able to get a seat (old people need to sit) on a weekend on both recent visits. There are nice drinks at relatively sane prices and food like the kimchi dumplings (which I’ve had) and the masala popcorn (which I haven’t) that makes the whole bar smell sweet and cause patrons to exclaim that they can smell Eggos. Small plates, sherry and digestifs are indicators that a bar might be age appropriate–even if no one appears to be over 32–and serving a cold glass of water with a cocktail clinches it.
I’m not sure if Ferris Bueller being projected on the wall was intended for those who’d originally seen it in the theater to reminisce/feel ancient or to give pop culture retroists a charge (same for the Fugazi playing one evening).
Ladytron’s “Seventeen," echoing on visit one, couldn’t have been more apt."They only want you when you’re 17. When you’re 21, you’re no fun.” (And best sad YouTube comment: “I am fifteen i don’t want to be old D:”)
My mission was saved when a 50-ish Mr. Belvedere-ish man in a wool overcoat stepped in the door just as I was about to leave. Then again, it’s different for men. I was with a gentleman celebrating his 43rd birthday and he couldn’t fathom why being the oldest person in a room would be an issue.
Was I carded? Yes, both times by the nice (but tough to the card-less) bouncer who reminded me of an Irish boxer (not one in particular, but the genre I just invented in my mind) who was the most mature looking person in the bar and yet probably no more than 36.
Age Appropriate? Not technically, but the vibe isn’t egregious. A friend brought 60-somethings and they had a nice time. -
Barred: Good Co.
The scene: Saturday at 3:06am
The drinks: 1 ¾ gin and tonics in plastic cups ($5 each—that seems super cheap so I could be wrong, but I definitely got a wad of ones back from my ten both times)Formerly Hope Lounge, possibly the only bar in Williamsburg resembling a Sheraton (which makes me wonder—does Hotel Jolie have a lounge because I would go), I believed it when warned by a fellow adult that Good Co. was “bad,” or maybe that was “horrible,” and smelled like cocaine farts. And really, when was the last time anything good came from being in drinking establishment after 3am? (Unless you consider headaches and tears good.) I probably wouldn’t have gone along with meeting friends (including one grown up) if the bar hadn’t been a block from my apartment.
I was dumbstruck by the crew in Adam Ant face paint dancing to “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life,” less because of the DJ’s schlock musical choices but because I was being presented with an omen. The weekend prior at duckduck (like a college town bar of no distinct geography where a beefy man with a silvery buzzcut and a lady friend with a mini ‘90s backpack, the future fate of everyone present, give or take 15 years, turned around and left as soon as they entered—not age appropriate) the mention of a cocktail called the Dirty Sanchez on the chalkboard spurred the invention of a hypothetical new act, the Adam Ant, involving white facial stripes. These kids were not only having the time of their lives, they were living the dream.
I sent a millennial over on a reconnaissance mission and she reported back, “I don’t think they know who Adam Ant is.” I bet they knew what corn hole, the wholesome bean bag game sweeping the borough, was, though. We can’t all be the middle-aged man in the blazer at a 2012 show, suited up in weekend warrior paint. This is where I would insert an animated gif of Chloe Sevigny cluelessly channeling Siouxie Sioux, with the text “sucksy sucks” on top, except that old people don’t do animated gifs.
I also learned that gray hair (on men—women don’t allow that shit, which is a shame) is no indication of birthdays passed. The chubby white-haired guy flailing around in a Bad Religion shirt couldn’t have been any older than 30. The womenwere all better looking than the men they were paired off with.
Additionally, even if you have deep creases spreading from your eyes to your fading hairline and are wearing a t-shirt, emblazoned with Bruce Springsteen’s The River, you may only be 33 (or lying). And you might still home in on one of the older ladies.
When the lights came on and we were being aggressively shooed out before finishing our drinks, Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer” began warbling. Music’s most poignant line, “Some people call it a one-night stand, but we can call it paradise,” failed to soothe. I handed a young man a cigarette out front while Springsteen approached my friend again and she yelled at him. No one night stands. No paradise.
Was I carded? Yes. Rules are rules.
Oldest person in the bar: 33, presumably.
Age appropriate? Most definitely not.Photos: Aged Adam Ant fan via my own eyes, Dirty Dancing Screenshot via Blu-news.com