Despite a name fit for a nineteenth-century serial killer, Throgg’s Neck Clipper is actually a pleasantly wacky if not out-of-the-way pub. The owners—expats from County Cavan—serve beyond-bangers-and-mash Irish grub: a mixed grill of liver, sausage, and smoked pork chop; scallops spiced with paprika and water; and a weekend breakfast of blood pudding and bacon. The décor is a bit frantic—the anchors and life vests lodged in the striped wallpaper suggest a boat explosion inside a Dublin bed-and-breakfast. (Not to worry: The Clipper, a fictional Irish-immigrant ship, sailed only in the minds of the bar’s creators.) The locals eat it all up, forming lines on weekdays for the dining section and, during sporting events, bellying up against the plasma-screen-dotted bar to loudly call their bookies. The dartboard is stalked by players who, outfitted with only a pack of darts, could hunt and feed themselves for years in the wild. The songs are oldies, as are the beefy, red-faced men left with their whiskeys when the place starts clearing out, looking thoroughly, shall we say, "throgged."
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.