peg-eew

It’s true: my approach to Pegu was a bit half-assed. I had already had four beers (three with coworkers in Brooklyn + one at Art Bar where I joined my partners in blog) by the time we made it there, which fueled my preemptive snark and diminished my desire to stand up. Still, I don’t think my plaid flannel shirt and I would have enjoyed this bar under any circumstances…even if we had been with Josh Malina (as Jeremy Goodwin, that is, or as Will Bailey before he starts working for the vice president; after that Will turns into kind of a dick. See figure 1).

figure 1

“Gossip Girl” was the first thing that came to mind, only the people weren’t as young or attractive, and the soundtrack wasn’t as poignant. It seemed almost like someone took a bar from downtown Chicago and plopped it in lower Manhattan where its Gucci bag and Prada glasses no longer lend it an air of class but, instead, emit a whiff of skewed and misplaced effort.

I didn’t have a cocktail, which was probably a mistake. After three Radebergers and a Stella, I didn’t think an Old Fashioned would go down that well. In fact, what I really wanted was some Jameson and a Budweiser, an order that—despite the bartender’s somewhat rock-and-roll facial hair—would not have been well received chez Pegu. I got a Saison. It came in a snifter (I do love beer in a snifter). It was cold, simultaneously refreshing and robust: malty. I would have liked it a lot better if I had been drinking it on the patio of a different bar in late June.

The front of the bar is all big banquettes and round tables with low stools, but as you move further back the levels split, and to the left there is a row of four or five two-person tables; to the right is the bar itself, with some standing room in the center (which we occupied for the duration of our stay). Each of these tables was occupied by a couple; the most enjoyable part of the Pegu experience was analyzing the dynamic of each of the couples at these tables (see figure 2). A diverse set of twosomes, none of whom portrayed the kind of ease and humor I expect out of people who are fucking regularly.

figure 2

There is a chance that there is a causal relationship between a lack of regular fucking and a visit to club Pegu, but I’ll save that analysis for another day.

All in all, it was trite, contrived, and decidedly not our (my flannel shirt’s and my) scene. I would have done well to stay at the pizzeria in the west village, where I stopped for a slice between Art Bar and Pegu, reading Bertrand Russell and getting to know the regulars.

Maybe next Friday.

beers i drank

Wishing I were in Burma

I just learned from wikipedia, where I learn all important things about life, that the Pegu Club was a bar in Burma (now Myanmar) that Rudyard Kipling frequented back in colonial times.  I picture British men sitting around in white linen suits, damp with perspiration, getting smashed on strong cocktails on a veranda in the tropical heat.  Outside is a backdrop of lush jungle; inside the walls are covered with the mounted heads of wild animals and photographs of serious-faced white men.  A place where deals go down and illicit love affairs happen in dark corners.

Let’s just say that New York’s version of the Pegu Club did not quite stand up.  I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to have a love affair with any of the clientele.

This red-lit Asian-inspired place gave off more of a spicy tuna roll than a British colonial vibe.  The biggest problem was not the decor but the crowd. Generally bars exude a certain character; they attract a set of somewhat like-minded and styled folks.  But the jumbled and happenstance mix of people hovering near the bar gave it the unfortunate tone of an airport lounge.  And there was a dearth of attractive men, which is never a good thing.

It felt like a place you would come out of convenience or a lack of creativity or because you read about it once, but not because you really wanted to.  Not because it was your bar.

On the upside, the bathrooms were very nice.

And unfortunately I can’t comment on the quality of drinks as I had a beer. But a good one nonetheless.

Don’t imagine I’ll be going back anytime soon.  So far, two strikes.

-Rachel M.

Week 2: HALL’S Pegu

Fair is fair.  We were drunk when we got there and refused to check our coats.  I stand by the decision.  Now, I had some real problems with this inclusion in the list of the best of the best.  Pegu has been around for a while and as far as the whole “fancy cocktail, overly priced, we’re an exclusive speak easy lounge” goes, Pegu really hit a few years ago.  I find it a staple among the b&t crowd who are just out for the night.  But let’s be honest, these are the impressionable readers of our fair Time Out NYC list.  So I suppose I digress and need not go further down this road.

However, upon arrival and after deferring from the coat check (it is complimentary so maybe we were just ornery), the hostess gave us a fantastic example of the “I have bangs and host at a cocktail lounge in SoHo” eye roll.  She really hit it home with a under-the-breathe “Some People!”  Now, I am a practiced asshole, and I know how to leverage a good eye roll.  Just like I know how to leverage a cheesy client…my method of choice, the Pegu Club.  But take them on a weekday, and early.  This way they won’t notice the other people in the bar, or if you have the best of luck, an empty Pegu Club.  As far as I could tell this place is as old as the paint job.

Seriously, some of the ugliest two spot tables I have seen in years.  For an upscale cocktailery there sure were a lot of double-chins and sporty t-shirted ladies.  I will hand it to Miss Hoboken ’04; she sat the real mirror breakers by the bathroom.  (Come to think of it, this place does have a nice commode.  I really like a sliding door detail.)  But I was annoyed.  Over all annoyed.  The term “Just Class It Up”  came to mind, but this is also something a client has said to me….   so again.  CLIENT BAR.  Don’t go without a corporate card.

Our cocktails were good though.  I wonder why this doesn’t really impress me anymore.  When I was twelve my father taught me how to make two drinks:  a classic Martini, and a Manhattan.  We have it on film, our first video with the new super slim vid-cam.  And my Great Aunt Joby always said “never drink three Manhattans and try to get up off a bar stool.”  (Actually she said “A Lady never…”)  I take good advice, so I only had one.  Some wisdom truly is wise and I try to respect my elders.  But it was a great Manhattan in a Manhattan smack in the middle of a bitters recession (Augostura of course).  The cherries really were a treat even though I usually go for a Maraschino…which this was not.  For all the fuss the bar-keep made over making  it, I think a better Manhattan is found at Kelly’s, in Pittsburgh.  God I love that bar.

Also, my Dad makes an awesome Manhattan: this bar made me wish I was in his living room listening to a shaker in the kitchen.

LED Edge-Lit Acrylic Sign. CUSTOM FABRICATION COST ~$1700.00

TOURNAMENT OF CHAMPIONS!

Fig #1:  The Bracket

Rachel L + The Beer Jerk = True Love

The trek out to Ice House was a long one, but not altogether unpleasant. I recall having remarked at one point that I sort of felt as though I were in a bright eyes song (one of the ones where he’s getting fucked up in an alley in the middle of the night, only we weren’t really in alleys so much as on the sidewalk in red-hook, and it wasn’t the middle of the night so much as seven o’clock). Regardless, there’s always something poetic about being so close to the water while so far away from nature, and something refreshing about being at least a half-mile from the nearest Starbucks.

Aside from the bartender, we were the only ones there, when we first walked in, who visibly possessed a liberal arts education. A guy with a Chrome bag and one pant leg rolled up (cycling, I observed, must be the only efficient way to travel as an inhabitant of this far-out land) showed up about twenty minutes into our stay to have some beers, tout seul, at the bar. He may or may not have had a liberal arts education; I found him attractive either way.

Things got off to a rocky start. Immediately upon our arrival we marched, one by one, to the wholly unremarkable bathroom to relieve ourselves after the journey, then to the bar to fetch a beer from the relatively limited selection on tap (there were a disproportionate number of IPAs and the Sweet Action ran out after my first beer which left me at a bit of a loss). The bartender was a degree warmer than snotty; there’s nothing I like less than holier-than-thou beer-jerk without the looks and/or magnetism to back it up.

We strew ourselves around a big table in the corner by the front windows and began the process of settling in. After inspecting the crop of board games on offer: Boggle (which does not strike me as a good bar game), Scrabble, Jenga, Pig Toss (look it up), we settled a round of Tournament of Champions (see figure #1). But not until after we had sampled the fare: dry, biteless pulled pork sandwiches with pretty much no seasoning, extraordinary chili fries, decent onion rings. Even if I lived above the Brooklyn Ice House, I would probably never eat another pulled pork sandwich there; I would eat chili fries there…maybe every night.

After a cold cigarette break spent pondering the philosophy behind “Hair or No Hair by Pilar” we started drawing up our Tournament of Champions bracket when all of a sudden seemingly out of nowhere from across the bar these two huge dudes start yelling and shoving until they are literally on top of Allison with one guy choking the other guy and then a third one comes in and starts punching the guy who’s getting choked until someone pulls them up and reroutes them onto the sidewalk with all kinds of commotion and dogs and running in and out of the bar…and then it’s quiet and people laugh nervously. Finally, Hall shouts out “hey, isn’t the bartender supposed to buy a round after there’s a bar fight?” to which the beer-jerk (who seems not to have come out from behind the bar at any point during all the hullabaloo) responds “that’s only if I start it” which is a patent misinterpretation of the custom, not to mention the fact that after the brawl participants cleared out there were maybe a total of ten people left in the bar. You can’t buy a round for ten people? Really? Maybe you should give back that liberal arts education and get some fucking manners instead.

The denouement was nothing extraordinary; some more youngsters showed up, the bar started to fill out, we had a couple cigarettes, drank some Budweisers  (we tend to switch to the old standards around number three or four), sex was in good stead to win tournament of champions; all in all for the last hour or two the experience was quite pleasant, but not necessarily as a result of the unique attributes of this particular establishment. The one thing that struck me, though, and I think all the other Kenyon veterans in attendance, was that it really did feel like it could have been any shithole bar in the midwest—maybe even our bar, in little old Gambier—and that will always elicit a sense of belonging for us. Except in the midwest, the bartender would have bought a round after the fight.

Pull Your Pork, Or Mine…

Fig #3

The Brooklyn Ice House: As seen by Rachel M.

We walked a hell of a ways through some desolate streets to get there. It’s an inviting little place – snug and dark with bowls of pretzels and candy around and a stack of board games in the corner.  There were just a handful of regulars at the bar when we arrived sitting with an air of resignation.  It felt like a place you could come and be lonely.  And eat chili cheese fries and pulled pork sandwiches, which we did.  A guy bought me a beer while I was standing at the bar.  And then 15 minutes later the guy had overturned two tables and was strangling another patron inches from us.  A bar fight!  It was terrifying. The men were pushed outside. Police and paramedics came.  A dog who got caught in the mix was lost and found.  And to the bartender’s discredit, we did not get a free round of drinks for surviving the melee.  We contemplated leaving, but regained composure and ordered more beers. More people came through the doors – a younger, hipper crowd.  Good-looking, scruffy bearded men caught our attention.  We argued about the worth of a bagel compared with that of a pickle.  By the time we left we were in good form – filled with fried food and beer and whiskey, feeling valiant for having come out alive of a raucous brawl and ready to sing karaoke.  Final conclusions? Fight aside, I liked the place for being unassuming and disheveled, for offering a simple no-frills respite.  Ultimately, though, it is a dive bar like any other dive bar – familiar and comforting in its lack of ambition, but not particularly special.  Or, at least, not special enough to inspire me to make that long trek back (and risk getting punched in the face) anytime soon.

Whose House? Hall’s House!

Its true. We chose one of the coldest nights of the year to head out to the fucking farthest bar we could from any train, and I don’t take buses.  So we trudged, and meandered, and scuffed out feet through the trenches of the insufferably cute Carol Gardens down to the water.  Passes bus garages, and scooter stores, almost into The Battery Tunnel (glad we backed out of that one), we even passed a possible location for our dreamed of, “one day, if we can get our act together, do you even know how to write a business plan,” bar of our own.

Then we arrived…to a fucking dive bar.  Look, I love the shit out of dive bars, I grew up in Pittsburgh…college in Ohio, how could I not love dive bars?  But to walk your ass off to one, through the cold, windy, sleet filled Brooklyn night (OK, it wasn’t sleeting, but I exaggerate) just to come up on your down home typical dive bar?  Lame.  Once inside I was hoping a good game and lots of whiskey would cheer me up.  So I drank beer and we canceled Tournament of Champions (See Fig #1).  Also, the pulled pork sandwich sucked.  But the pulled pork signage was pretty funny. (See Fig #3)

Generally I don’t mind being the only fag in a big straight dump.  There is something about it that sets my teeth on edge.  Like, maybe I’ll fall in love with that guy in the corner, who looks like he has been here for thirty odd years, and adopt an Asian kid and then everyone will see. I’ll even name her Spencer like every other kid in the family.  Won’t that scare the shit out of my Grandfather!  An  Asian great-granddaughter with fag parents and his name!   Well that didn’t happen here.

Instead we watched some big black guy choke the shit out of a skinny meth-head white dude.  IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME.   We still don’t know why.  It wasn’t cause of a girl, which everyone seems to be asking.  It wasn’t even over me.  In fact, by far the most attractive women in the establishment were there with…me.   And I’ll choke you if you try anything.  We do know that the choker, not the chokee, was a federal employee.  He stated so clearly post fight when he let everyone know, “this is why I don’t leave my house!  Immmma get that MutherFucker arrested, I’M A FEDERAL EMPLOYEE!”  Of course we all assumed he meant postal worker cause why else would you say Federal Employee if you mean CIA SPECIAL AGENT NINJA!  So once they had all been relocated outside, we found the missing dog, and the jack-hole bartender refused to buy the bashful and bruised few of us that remained a round, I noticed that somehow in the commotion my belt came undone!  This always used to happen when I watched UFC too.  Weird.  Anyway, things got much better after this (See Fig #2). 

Fig #2: Cause We’re Visual Learners

Then we were drunk and rationalized taking not one but two private cars to a bar with Karaoke like six blocks away.  One was even an SUV.

All in all, this place is cool.  I had fun.  It made me feel like a SPECIAL AGENT NINJA.  And I always wanna feel like a NINJA.

And So It Begins. A 13 Week Bender.

13 in 13, 2010

This seems to be a time of make-it-or-break-it for most of the people we know. Jobs have been gained or lost; relationships have been solidified or dissolved (though in our cases, just dissolved); school has ended or begun. The slump that usually characterizes the months between the holidays and the first break of spring seems more like a respite this year: we will be able to stay the incessant making of decisions, succumb to inertia, and live life quietly.

Quietly, but not silently.

Time Out New York recently published a list of what they have deemed the 13 best bars in New York City. Cultivating the dream of opening such an establishment ourselves one day, we’ve decided it will be in our collective best interests to see what sets these watering holes apart from the countless others that surround and divide them.

Whence the birth of our project, and this blog: 13 in 13 2010. We have decided to patronize one of the list members each week for thirteen weeks and record our experiences. Our journey will be an exercise in cultural anthropological research, geographical exploration, and beverage consumption. And who knows: maybe one of us will even manage to get laid along the way.

Cheers,

Rachel, Rachel, and Hall