This venue is closed.
LES hipsters have their unmarked bars, as do daytraders, union stiffs, and do-ragged gangstas in the form of this tiny drinking den in the back of a Financial District deli—a throwback to the days when illicit grogshops hid in the back of grocery stores. A neon beer sign and the thud of jukebox hip hop cue the adventurous to open a nondescript door onto a scene so seedy that an off-duty cop once accidentally shot a fellow drinker here for spilling his beer. Before midnight during weekdays and until later on weekends, jeans-wearing barmaids sweet-talk fat cats at the splintered bar into buying them glasses of Alizé or aguardiente; that is, when these women aren't grinding for tips wherever the often packed space allows: be that on one of the stools lining the far wall or beside the video poker machine.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.