This neighborhood pub is a sixties–era artifact from the days when The Bronx’s Kingsbridge was an Irish enclave. The cheerful maroon and cream-striped façade adorned with a row of sconce-mounted lanterns stands out from the chain stores and taquerias that line the now Dominican and South American-dominated streets. Inside, wizened old men from the neighborhood still work the grooves on their favorite bar stools, and bartenders with thick brogues dispense Yuengling and Guinness. But, these days, much of the clientele is neither Irish nor Dominican—they’re thirsty commuters dropping by for a pint and a game of pool before switching from the 1 train to a bus back to chichi Riverdale. Gleaming trophies, which sit atop the nifty cubby-holed bar, were gleaned from the weekly pool and darts tournaments that spice up slow mid-week nights.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.