The front door of this brick building looks as if it were made from driftwood, and the patrons inside are just as salty. As evidenced by the union stickers in the grimy bathrooms, plumbers, carpenters, iron workers, and even bridge painters come here to throw darts, shoot pool and pound draft beers (Bud or Coors Light only) while their dates hit the boxed Zinfandel or the schnapps. Nothing fancy here. As if paper shamrocks and lace curtains weren't enough, Irish heritage also gets plenty of play on the jukebox via Black 47 and the Pogues. Now if only someone would let out the odor of stale cigarettes, we’d be able to imagine the Emerald Isle instead of skid row.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.