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This joint is as out
of place in Chelsea as a piano bar in Bayonne. Old drunks litter the
even older space that wreaks of the days when Chelsea was clearly
not the Chelsea of today. I’m going to hazard a guess and say
that this was more of an Irish working class neighborhood that was
filled with hard-working and hard-drinking fellas who appreciated
a nice spot to rest their weary feet and chow down on a burger or
sandwich and wash it down with a lager or ten. My wonky knowledge
of historical Manhattan’s Caucasian subculture aside, I dug
this place like an old, stinky great uncle. You know, full of history
and character—and booze. I had a terrific burger that practically
bled through the plate (the best kind) at one of the creaky, plastic-check-clothed
tables in back, and then moved up front to watch a little baseball
and work my way through several cold beers. The bartender was clearly
comfortable with the regulars who lined the wooden bar, and was quick
with a refill. This is one of those bars that you hope doesn’t
get shoved aside (like our poor friend McHale’s)
because it gives a neighborhood a sense of itself, and really keeps
it grounded when all those one-word, neon eateries invade with their
arugula and appletinis. [MF]
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