from time out ny's survey of dive bars,
For the fear factor, no neighborhood beats the blocks around Ninth Avenue and 42nd Street. There used to be a pay phone at Bellevue Bar, until an unhappy customer ripped it from the wall.
that's crazy talk. menace is the hordes of aging businessmen who lurk outside midtown after-work spots and swarm young women, or (if we're talking bellevue) couches that slurp when you sit on them. even sarah agreed to go to this bar with me, and she's afraid of things like fennel.
And so my odyssey flicked back and forth between certified Dives that are in danger of transmogrifying into bridge-and-tunnel hell--Rudy's in Hell's Kitchen was a shoulder-to-shoulder cauldron of hormones...
the problem with rudy's begins at home, actually; "drinking liberally" has been meeting there for at least a year now, and the (incredibly sweet) bouncer got an extreme makeover and doesn't look scary any more. the crowd out back, in turn, stank of the village rather than hoboken. i'm new to the taxonomy, mind you, but for once i won't blame mainlanders.

No comments: