The doorway of McKenna’s may be just a kitten-heeled stumble from the Meatpacking District’s velvet ropes, but as far as any resemblance to that overrun playground of $300 jeans and $15 cocktails goes, this no-bullshit Irish pub might as well be in Staten Island. Nothing about McKenna's is meant to impress: The flimsy tin bartop, rickety green glass light fixtures, and worn leather booths—coupled with ruthlessly efficient bartenders—are there to get the job done. A grimy pay phone that doubles as the bar's own landline perches in the far corner next to the jukebox, and the spacious outdoor terrace is peopled by drinkers snagging a cig between pints. McKenna's pricing is about as extravagant as its décor: Working stiffs who've sweated out an 11-hour day can take advantage of the unbelievable seven-hour-long happy hour, where the two-for-one drink special means your belt buckle may give out long before your wallet does.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.