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“Wallace,” as the staff affectionately call the taxidermic moose head hanging on Bedlam’s wall, took five people to mount and nicely illustrates co-owner Benjamin Maisani’s determination to fill every poorly-lit corner of his bar with a dead animal, whether it be warthog, black bear or an aquarium of stuffed birds. If that sounds creepy, it is -- in a good way, like a midnight tour through the American Museum of Natural History. The cocktail menu, designed by general manager Sam Chiera, adds to the musty intrigue with drinks like the Lily Bart, a cucumber vodka and lambic concoction named for Edith Wharton’s tragic heroine, and the Apple Jack and lemonade Great Eastern which, like the 1850s iron ship, could carry you around the world without refueling (or so you might believe after downing a couple). The space is East Village cozy, with DJs setting up camp amid the burnished red booths and anatomically-themed wallpaper on many nights, while the crowd veers toward the hip, the gay and the occasional gawker who wants to see what a basketball-sized replica of an ear canal looks like. — John Metcalfe

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