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Named after an old Willie Dixon tune, this sister bar to the one in Memphis first appears the antithesis of the mega-clubs that surround it. In the early evening, a mellow non-descript crowd swills pints and chows down on well-charred burgers. The red and black checkerboard floor and the whitewashed brick walls evoke a quaint, Southern dance hall in miniature. But like many institutions in the Meatpacking District, Automatic Slim's leads a double-life. When the sun sets, the halter-topped bartenders get ready by pushing the few tables aside, lining up the shot glasses and setting the dance party mix on play. Thereafter, the khaki-clad descend from all corners and Slims becomes a more sanitized version of nearby Hogs & Heifers: same rowdy types trying to score numbers and to get a peek at some flesh; same booty shakin’ girls gone wild atop the bar. Truthfully, the sturdy bar is easier to navigate in heels than the cobblestone streets outside, which may prove precarious when the music ends. — Deborah Goldberg