"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.' (--Shirley Jackson).
Thus, the best drinking emporium I've stumbled over in a long time. This is my kind of bar. If these walls could talk, eh? Smith's Tavern is earthy. Not afraid of mud, blood, slurs, fried food, religion, boilermakers, dirty jokes, relatives, ulcers, or chauvinism.
Boots'n'jeans'n'suspenders, axel grease. Bricklayers, drywall, tilers, HVAC. Pipefitters, sheet, Train-men, probably stevedores at one time, probably sewer workers some time other. Wrenches and crowbars and welders. A man's bar; a working man's bar. Calloused and weathered. Otherworldly. "You've always been with us, Mr. Torrance..."
Indeed it is--as others have said--very spacious. And ancient. It's utterly the opposite in style from all the bars surrounding it. You know the standard, quintessential Park Slope bar I'm referring to. Kiddie bars, mums & stroller bars, politically-correct bars...cheap, tacky, anonymous, androgynous, all modern chrome and leather and slick (I'm so tired of that scene).
Valves and tubes and bellows. Fire hooks and boat hooks. Helmets and cotter pins. Smith's possesses something which can't be bought: identity, history, character.
Smith's is funky, aged, wobbly...but Smith's doesn't give a damn. Doesn't care what you think or say about anything. It's seen it all, seen generations of drinkers come and go. You can feel it when you saunter in. There's no poses, no posturing, no amenities, no niceties, and nothing for free. That's the way I like it. For real.
Jukebox: heavy metal, or classic country. Men's music. You can come in here to drink wearing whatever you picked up off the floor that morning. No one cares. Gritty. You can actually feel tiny grit and scree and riprap rolling to-and-fro under your tread as you enter. Everything scrapes and grates and screeches.
Squeaky fan blades. Rusty hinges, stripped nuts, frozen bolts..the whole apparatus has hung together for a hundred yrs and might hang for hundred more. I didn't even think over-trendy, hyper-posh Park Slope even had any bars like this leftover.
I'm in. Yep, I'll have another. Another one here please. Thanks mate. Whenever I'm trudging my way through the surrounding neighborhood benighted by commercialism and consumerism (designer doggy apparel, designer strollers, designer bagels, designer doughnuts, designer coffee carafes, designer dildoes for your wifeswap parties) I will make my way here with relief. read more