Bars have been operating at this location since the days of Prohibition, but Soccer Tavern doesn’t transmit much of a sense of legacy. A primitive dive bar (a sign over the bar counter proclaims, helpfully, “Irish Pub”) where drunks and Teamsters go to die, the dominant feature of this place is a battery of flat-screen televisions that beam news and sports into the thousand-yard stares of the regulars. The kitchen-esque linoleum floor contributes to the underlying depressing-ness of this place. An American flag slumped in the corner and a jukebox playing old Coolio jams complete the picture. Also: no one here seems to particularly like soccer.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.