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One might think that anywhere bikini-clad blondes serve beer might win over a certain fraction of the male population. Not so at Deno’s Party House and Bikini Bar, a scummy West Village dive that makes other bars on this tacky stretch of Seventh Avenue South look downright welcoming. The linoleum-lined space has three deserted levels: a blue-lit ground floor, a claustrophobic mezzanine lounge guarded by an irrelevant bouncer, and an oddly angled attic with bartenders, yes, in bikinis. Shapely of figure but weary of face, most of the girls recall the post-Soviet sex trade more than any Sports Illustrated cover. The unflatteringly bright light doesn’t help matters, exposing every flaw, as they halfheartedly wiggle to a soundtrack of tunes demoted from the Top 40 six months before. At least at Hooters, the waitresses look like they’re having fun. — Carey Jones