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So what if its tangled mini-blinds and pay phones invoke a jury-duty waiting room? So what if it trades in staple domestics instead of potent microbrews? For over four decades, Hughes Bar has drowned its regulars’ sorrows in a steady stream of affordable drinks—bottles of Bud and Coors Light top out at $3.50 a pop. The vibe is old-school and insular, but not quite uninviting. Couples and workaday stiffs pull taped-together chairs up to chipped Formica tabletops under the glow of seven flat-screens playing sports. The old-fashioned jukebox has been replaced with a digital one and the musty upright piano has disappeared from its corner spot. Manhattan can continue manufacturing one hot scene after another—Hughes and its weary roadhouse bonhomie will outlive them all. — Tom Blunt