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After I finished inking
my tag, "¡bobloblawlawblog!," on the subterranean door, I peaked
my head inside the tiny, dark space and realized that I had come to
the party just a bit too early. The perfectly slackerish bartender
was still busy lighting votive candles, and trying to get the 70s
basement track lighting to just the right level of murk. The equally
mid-century shale walls (shut the hell up, I never took rocks for
jocks in college) are spray-painted black, and the small bar is bedecked
with several old-school, pleather-topped stools complete with foam-exposing
rips and tears. I sat at the bar waiting on a friend while drinking
a Bud and listening to that same bartender's iPod play something from
the latest crop of Brooklyn and/or Canadian indie bands. One other
patron's face emerged from the gloom, and another female barkeep strolled
in talking about a party she was going to that night on her cell phone,
and then leisurely chatting with her co-worker and me. This happened
to be a weeknight after work, and the place didn't fill up with any
more than a couple while we were there, but we were there on a Saturday
at one point, and the place was jumping with t-shirted trust-fund
folks (what else could they be with those haircuts?) and your general
LES hipsters. A DJ spun rock records that even veered into a couple
Rush songs--which can be fun when you've had ten or eleven--and various
prime 80s tunes. The vibe was very upbeat and laid back, and despite
the cave-like, subterranean locale was very comfortable. If I had
a couple more thousand dollars a month, and a giant black sharpie,
this is exactly the kind of joint I would want to open. And that's
what you, as the consumer, should always look for in a bar. [MF] |
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