Apparently Saturday nights are all about the music at this joint.
Dueling acoustic guitarists sing down- home tunes of loss and regret
(read: Middle-American and Southern rock from the 70's). The substantial
crowd sways and dances and generally behaves itself. And then this
little white guy gets up between sets and does a Michael Jackson
routine; complete with a sequined jacket he stole from my grandmother's
"fancy closet" and droopy white socks. Passers-bye stop
and stare at this freakshow as they mosey down Amsterdam, and those
of us in the bar shrug and laugh. He's actually not bad--but it's
just too bizarre for words. The real talent wonders how they're
going to follow this, but do a great job when they do come back.
And then the retarded group of Bostonian firemen come in and start
jawing on the mic and we know it's time to get the hell out of there.
My God, there really is nothing worse than meatheads with thick
Masshole accents to ruin a perfectly lovely evening. [MF]
Formerly the train wreck of an UWS martini bar, Vermouth, Harrison's
has stripped down the pretension and given the people what they
want, a straight-forward, non-cheeseball Irish sports bar. It honestly
doesn't get more normal than this place, with its wood bar, ten
or so TVs and checked tablecloths. Throw in the midriff-bearing,
cleavage-popping server and plates of nachos and you've got yourself
the trifecta. We found it odd that at 5 PM on a Saturday evening--during
the NFL playoffs no less--that there were actually more woman in
the bar than men. Granted, they didn't have their crowns, scepters
and speeches about world peace sitting at home, but it's still an
impressive and shocking situation. We were amazed at the crowd this
place was able to drum up by 9 PM, and were promptly (read: rudely)
told that people were waiting for our table and that if we weren't
going to chug and eat again, that we'd have to get bent. Geez, and
after all the ogling, you'd think a waitress would be more appreciative.