This venue is closed.
Ostensibly another downtrodden Irish bar with its neon beer signs and its maps of the motherland, Reynolds Cafe actually flashes other anachronistic charms: ancient bartenders—in ties and shirtsleeves—pouring beer into short-stemmed glasses. Pretty much everything, from the moldy drapes to the working-class crowd, looks like it's seen better days, and, to be honest, a livelier scene can be had half a block down, where Washington Heights denizens set up shop with beach chairs and car radios in the warmer months. But sixty years of service give Reynolds a wry, quiet charm that twenty years of stasis have all but marbelized.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.