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Run by the same people who brought us Yogi's—the same people rumored to hire bartenders by putting out a sign reading "Drunk Sluts Wanted"—the Patriot is gloriously, unabashedly, just a little pornographically, all about the boobage. It's a two-story bar bannered in "lost" bras, but the primary décor comes chiefly in the form of various types of mammaries: the massive ones of the bartenders (who appear on a Flickr fan-club gallery, "Ladies of the Patriot Saloon"), the attention-seeking ones on the girls-night-out gangs grooving on the bar-top, and the quivering manboobs on the unshaven peanut gallery wedged up against the bar. Pabst is ordered by the $8 pitcher; all other drinks are superfluous. There are also $1.75 burgers, though nobody seems to be eating them. — John Metcalfe