Jia J.
Yelp
I'm certain that this little underground watering hole would average out to four stars after visiting on a weekend night when the charm of the little space is obscured by the trite throngs of the Lower East Side. However, it was five sparkly stars on a Monday night - perfect for the anti-Valentine's Valentine date I was sort of on. Nice and private, but minimal PDA from the couple couples that were in attendance.
The music, presumably controlled by a living, breathing DJ tucked out of site in some mini cavern somewhere, was non-incidental; The Cure, MGMT, stuff like that.
Sorry I never found out if it was cash only or not because for the first time practically ever, I was prepared with the lettuce in hand. We had our first pints of ale at 9:30 p.m. or so. The next round, I made the leap from Blue Moon to a Guinness...the one woman manning the bar was definitely in her happy place; consequently, I went all the way to the bathroom and back and the drinks still weren't ready. It doesn't take THAT long to fill a pint glass with frothy stout!
In a generally good mood, I waited patiently while she talked to a young, edgy looking married couple she seemed to know well and multitasked a bit with White Russians for a party known as "the film people" seated at a table. She told me one of my beers would arbitrarily be charged at the happy hour price. When she finally brought me the drinks, she said, "They're both happy hour, because I knew that took FOREVER." Sweet!
Soon, we were convinced that neat whiskey and dirty martinis were definitely the way to go, tomorrow be damned. She poured generous tumblers of whiskey and made proper martinis (meaning she chilled the glass by setting it aside with ice in it, meaning she knew that the default base when someone says "martini" is gin, and not VODKA, as some greehorns actually believe).
The unexpected bonus was a huge cup of olives that she plunked down at our table, saying, "Olives. I forgot these. Here they are." It was as big as the cup that most bars keep behind the counter so they can garnish a hundred separate martini orders.
The next time I went and got yet another dirty martini, I thanked her for the most lavish helping of olives I had ever received in my life. "Oh! Yeaaah, seriously, what happens in bars is that we have to use all the juice out of the jar for dirties, then the olives get dry and we end up just throwing tons of them away.
So obvious, but I had never figured that out. "That's HORRIBLE!" I shrieked, eyes even watering a bit. Yeah, I was buzzed.
"Do you just want like a whole PINT glass of olives?" She asked nonchalantly. Hell yes...so we picked off about three pounds of salty, pitless olives. The result? The clock moved like it was on time lapse photography and we shut the place down at 4 a.m.... No hangover the next morning - just puckered lips and an intense feeling of unquenchable thirst, not to mention a level exhaustion tormenting even the hairs on my head.
This was an original experience, probably thanks mainly to the bartender (who also brought us tall ice waters without us asking right when we needed it), along with the nude paintings on the bathroom doors (though a couple dudes still utilized the facilities behind the door with the naked, breasty female on it)...
To preserve this enjoyable atmosphere as the brine filled jar preserves a turgid olive, I will never bother to come here on a weekend night. Weekdays, however, will be other stories.