Bad day at the office? Been dressed down, looked over, or (gulp) laid off? No point in sticking around—better to sneak away early and slink off someplace dark and quiet to lick your wounds. Someplace like the Holland Bar, where they’ll either understand you, ignore you, or both. Here the regulars come in two kinds: those who gaze silently into their drafts, and those who conduct loud, never-ending sports arguments despite the fact that no one’s actually disagreeing. The bartender’s manner is part biker, part kindergarten teacher, and he has a sixth sense for refills. Eventually, evening will bring the commuters, and night will bring the slumming hipsters. But you’re safe. After all, even if they know you’re at the Holland Bar, they’ll never think to look for it by the Lincoln Tunnel.