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This den enclosed by unmarked frosted-glass windows was once a members-only club of dubious repute, but the only addictive substances being pushed here now are bar snacks. The new owner (whose name is Heather) installed subway station tiles on the existing white-washed brick walls and painted the distressed pressed-tin ceiling the same color, topping it all off with a thirties back bar for a lived-in elegance that probably clicks with Keith McNally's idea of a dive. The unfashionable address ensures easy claim to bar stools and seats lifted from a seventies grade school; a dusty tile floor and lighting you can read by lend the air of a workshop. (The owner and her friends are artists—hence the lightbox of a pornographically poised bear in the back.) Such minimal appointments put the spotlight on the direct–from–Other Music tunes and a selection of drafts and bottled beers. — Daniel Maurer