Profile

Where jazz cats once grooved from the stage of the C-Note, a 100-CD jukebox now blares REO Speedwagon, James Taylor, and Pat Benatar. The middlebrow bent of Murray Hill is clearly elbowing its way below 14th Street as giddy girls in Tsubi jeans do shots with the barkeep and dudes in Yankee caps pair Molson drafts with fatty, juicy Angus burgers. Yet a bit of Loisaida lurks within this narrow space, too. The owners of nearby Cafecito have endowed Royale with the color scheme of a Guinness bottle: There are polished dark mahoganies, amber lighting, and plenty of mirrors for the beefy pitbull owners who come from the nearby Jacob Riis houses to watch the game. The bar itself holds a tasteful selection of mid-shelf liquors enhanced by $4 cans of zesty organic farmhouse ales from the obscure upstate brewery Butternuts. (Brewer Chuck Williams is pals with the owners.) And in the backyard, that ultimate East Village asset: a leafy, flower-dotted deck with picnic tables and a sunken, pebble-filled nook. — Daniel Maurer