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With all the gruesome kitsch emporia strewn along this stretch of St. Mark's Place, it's easy to overlook the Grassroots. But have courage and press onwards. Head three steps downward into the low-ceilinged room and belly up to the bar, where a middle-aged man will pull you a stout. Suddenly, the hubbub outside seems far behind. Vanishing emblems of civility are the norm here, like the honest-to-goodness phone booth. Spacious and seldom mobbed, it's a handy spot for an unwieldy gang of friends to rendezvous. — Matt Kelly

Check out the least lovingly maintained trophy case this side of your old high school.