“Why don’t you rip more bars to shreds? You’re so good at being a jerk, Josh,” a friend recently told me, justifying entry into the backhanded-compliment hall of fame. I set my sweaty beer bottle—am I ever without?—onto a table and explained my bar-reviewing philosophy.
“There’s zero benefit to informing you that a bar’s sucky. My job’s to tell you where to get drunk—not where not to get drunk.”
“But don’t some bars deserve a good reaming?”
“Of course. But only if they’re hoity-toity or over-hyped and deserve to be knocked down,” I said. “Or if they’re doucehbag depots.”
Like Honey, a lounge apparently named after a plus-size, grade-D stripper working at Atlanta’s infamous Clermont Lounge. There, women weighing more than NFL offensive linemen crush soda cans between breasts massive enough to merit separate zip codes. If only the same debauchery transferred to this downstairs drinkery. It’s located several blocks from the Meatpacking District madness, a distance that would ideally insulate Honey from financial drones, Euros and cosmo-swilling señoritas. Instead, the location attracts unfortunate herds like, well, ants—or other small-brained creatures—to honey.
What’s to love about this cave-like, 3,000-square-foot lounge ringed with mahogany and brick? Happy hour (5 p.m. to 8 p.m. daily), when masses gather to guzzle $5 pink cosmos, sugar-y apple martinis and $4 draft Buds. Finger foods such as fondue, quesadillas and grilled cheese abound, but few indulge in lieu of budget liquor.
“Four cosmos!” a girl with makeup applied via paintball screams one Friday night. The bar is glutted with J. Crew catalog extras, collars open and cleavage on display. Sadly, not a single bosom is used to compress aluminum cans.
I weasel to the bar and order the Picasso Honey: honey liquor, gin, Cointreau and tonic ($11). It’s froufrou, but I adore gin.
“Not too many people order that,” says a squinty, impatient bartender. Behind him, TVs show athletes running toward a ball.
“Well, I feel special then,” I say.
“Sure you want that drink?” He suggests the rum-soaked strawberry lychee punch ($11) or the honey caipirinha ($11). Both sound equally revolting, so I stick with my original selection.
The bartender shakes his head, disappointed, like my father after my first B on a report card in fourth grade. The Picasso is served, glistening with condensation. My first sip is like French-kissing a beehive spritzed with perfume. It’s among the most vile cocktails I’ve sampled since, at 15, I mixed room-temperature chardonnay with Hi-C’s neon-green Ecto Cooler.
“How do you like your drink?” the bartender asks.
“It’s evil. Evil and sweet. Or sweetly evil. Take your pick.”
He pauses for a second, pondering my response. A thoughtful drink-slinger would offer to craft another cocktail, perhaps one that wouldn’t cause cavities.
“Don’t worry about it,” I think. “Bad drinks are a job hazard. Just give me a gin and tonic, good buddy.”
He says aloud, “You should’ve ordered something else,” adding, “I told you so.” Then he tends to ladies with helium voices, leaving me with my syrupy sludge. A smarter man would’ve ditched the liquid abomination, but abandoning an $11 cocktail is a mortal sin—on par with ordering an $11 cocktail. Or entering Honey again.
Honey
243 W. 14th St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.) 212-620-0077
