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Go west young man --
(like practically into the Hudson River west) to this ancient hole
of a pub that packs 'em in every night of the week. Another Manhattan
pub where apparently Ben Franklin's brother Tommy once puked his guts
out and John Adams took a dart in the cheek, this joint relishes its
history. Unfortunately the patrons wash about as often as the owner
cleans the dust encrusted light fixtures and the tables are packed
so tight, you can smell your neighbor's chili breath and soggy flanel.
For some reason management encourages customers to each light three
cigarettes at a time and do his/her best imitation of a fire-breathing
dragon. Maybe it's an attempt to add to their famous dust or maybe
it's a foggy ode to merry old England. Despite the claustrophobic,
smoky conditions, the many regulars are generally friendly, the beer
is cold and there isn't a suit in sight. [MF]
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