“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” says the bartender at Finnerty’s, a spacious, pool- and foosball-appointed boozitorium in the East Village. She appraises my eyes then examines the premises. Dudes, dudes and more dudes, belting pitchers of domestic slop—some straight from the plastic vessel.
“You’re thinking, ‘Who invited me to the sausage party?’”
I invited myself to this sausage fiesta, and for fine reason. Finnerty’s is an unapologetic drunkery. It’s where patrons’ brains turn reptilian, reduced to pure impulse. Drink. Drink. Yell at TV. Try to get laid. Fail. Drink more.
It’s just like old times. See, a few years ago Finnerty’s sat on Third Avenue near Union Square, before being killed by a cloud-kissing condo. The original bar was a den of nicotine-stained sin. You feasted on salty Utz party mix and drank el cheapo beer, before tossing dull conversational darts at liquor-dumbed cohorts.
In its rebirth, Finnerty’s commandeered failed lesbian bar Second Nature. Nowadays, reciting passages from Our Bodies, Ourselves will get you nowhere. Finnerty’s caters to guy’s guys. Televised sports galore, flirtatious bartenders and Sexy Photo Hunt rule the roost. My stumbling trio was here to ingest name-forgetting levels of alcohol. Finnerty’s makes this too simple. All day, all night, pints of Bud and Bud Light are $2. Tall boys of PBR and a whiskey shooter are $5. And, sweet Mary Jesus, pitchers of macrobrew hogwash are $7.
“Wanna try the Red Wolf?” the bartender asks. “It’s like Killian’s, but better.”
I thought Red Wolf was nearly as extinct as its namesake. But color me surprised: The Wolf’s a richer alternative to Bud and friends.
“I don’t feel embarrassed drinking this,” says one pal, 10 years removed from college. “What does that say about me?”
We reserve our opinions, instead focusing on the sports-watchers. These firm adherents to the baseball hat dress code are hooting and hollering, like caged monkeys riled up at a bright-yellow glimpse of bananas. It’s a scene best observed from a safe distance, so we hot-foot it to the rear dart room. This is a muted departure, and also as thrill-a-minute as The New Republic. Darts is a sport of diminishing returns. Initial glee (sharp objects!) devolves into stultifying boredom around round 23. By then beer has irreparably damaged hand-eye coordination, making hitting that bull’s eye hopeless.
Still, don’t assume that Finnerty’s is boring. No, no, no. Enough alcohol’s absorbed here to assure rollicking good times (or at least reveal-too-much conversations). Later on we relocate to the pool table (no hustlers here). We strike up a match with coeds and their spottily bearded boyfriends. After tanking the eight ball, one young buck wraps his arm around his girlfriend and says, “She’s the only hole I’m going to hit tonight.”
He loses, in ways it will take years to comprehend.
Smart bargoers would run for the hills. But after our third pitcher, we begin to feel more comfortable. We lose our at-least-my-daddy’s’not-buying-my-beer superiority. There’s bonhomie between us men. We scream at TVs. We curse when we miss pool shots. Sure, it’s a sausage party, but every once in a while, who doesn’t enjoy sausage?
Finnerty’s Irish Pub
221 2nd Ave. (betw. 13th &14th Sts.)
212-677-2655
