Profile

Though the name conjures visions of leather club chairs set against tasteful stacks, it just isn't so. The shelves of this musty neighborhood dive are lined with lost-and-found tomes such as The Quaker Way of Life and Executive Jobs Unlimited, but how anyone can read when Motörhead is cranked up this loud is an East Village mystery. Starting at noon everyday the turbo-charged jukebox spins punk rock discs that rotate in and out of play each month. Halloween skulls are up year round and Kung Fu and B-movies are projected on the back wall, while up front aging rockers and the occasional stray businessman park themselves at the grungy wood bar to try their luck with the sassy-pants bartendresses, often the only female presence besides Ms. Pac-Man. The beer selection is medium in size but runs the gamut from microbrews on tap to canned Natural Light. The booze is poured with a thickness, and on rowdy nights often ends up all over the floor or Naugehyde booths. — Andrew Paine Bradbury