Since there's no menu, there's no way to predict when (and what) food is available at this grill. That lawless approach to customer service—and $3 beer—keep this bar-that-the-world-left-behind true to its roots. It's been in a townhouse basement on an ungentrified block of Franklin Avenue for close to 40 years, the first 30 of which were spent as an off-the-books, after-hours spot. Although the bar now has a license, business cards, a sign out front, et al., you're still not getting in after the sun goes down, unless someone notices you lingering outside the locked gate. Once inside, you'll find little changed since the old days: The warm and bassy jukebox plays Al Green; haggard chairs, old appliances, and junk are piled up to the very low ceilings; and a clientele of old-timers sip scotch around the bar as Christmas lights blink just a few inches over their heads.
Picnics with a view, roller-skating nostalgia, and a party for gay headbangers.