To the list of activities I despise, allow me to add scrubbing toilets, apologizing and, come spring or summer in this fair, feral city, alfresco dining or drinking.
“Are you out of your hairy gourd?” you inquire.
“Sometimes.”
“Sipping a beer beneath clear skies—”
“The smog-choked air, you mean.”
“It beats being crammed in a dingy dive—”
“And instead being shoehorned into a too-packed patio, elbow-to-elbow with chain-smoking drunkards racing to acquire lung cancer.”
“You occasionally smoke cigarettes.”
Quiet, you, and listen: Drinking and dining is more pain in the ass than payoff, like cracking a lobster claw to retrieve infinitesimal morsels of crustacean flesh. There’s zero pleasure in sitting beside dog poop at an East Village sidewalk café or waiting hours to enter Astoria’s Bohemian Hall and Beer Garden, where the clientele’s meatier than the kielbasa cooking on its grill.
“I’m He-Man!” I once watched a besotted youngster scream, as he hoisted a hefty picnic table and stumbled around screaming.
“Wouldn’t it be great,” I said to a friend, “if alcohol stripped—not provided—perceived super-human powers?”
“Like having sex for more than two minutes?”
“Good point.”
Maybe I’m a life-hating curmudgeon. Or maybe I’m in solidarity with albinos and sufferers of solar urticaria, who break out in hives when exposed to sunlight. It’s like being a vampire, minus the unslakeable thirst for human blood. Most sunny, sweltering days, you’ll locate me inside pits of drunken despair, such as Holiday Cocktail Lounge or Jackie’s Fifth Amendment. Seats are always available, the air conditioning’s Arctic and the drinks are cheap liquid lobotomies.
However, forces greater than myself (girlfriend, visiting friends, vitamin D deficiency) often compel me to drink beer or dine outside. When these moments arrive, accompanied by shrieks and howls associated with men transforming into werewolves, I don’t hit B Bar or Long Island City’s Water Taxi Beach. Instead, I’ll hop aboard the Staten Island Ferry and head to Killmeyer’s Old Bavarian Inn (4254 Arthur Kill Rd. at Sharrotts Rd., Staten Island; 718-984-1202).
The 19th-century beer hall is styled with taxidermy, beer-motif stained glass and sunny garden bereft of Radegast Hall hipsters. While septuagenarian duo the Happy Tones play oompah tunes (every Sunday!), I happily ingest snappy sausages and liters of summery Hacker-Pschorr Hefe Weiss and crisp Pilsner Urquell. This beauty’s reachable by the Staten Island Railway (get off at Richmond Valley), but I recommend bringing a bike.
From the terminal, it’s a hilly, hour-plus ride. As a reward, you’ll pass by the boat graveyard (located in Rossville, it’s the final resting ground for rusting, disintegrating vessels) and rough-and-tumble Big Nose Kate’s Saloon (2477 Arthur Kill Rd. at St. Lukes Ave., 718-227-2833), where the beer’s cheap, and the bar-top-dancing women are even cheaper.
For another wallet-friendly outdoor adventure, I venture to Williamsburg’s heavy-metal cubbyhole Duff’s (28 North 3rd St. at Kent Ave., B’klyn, 718-302-0411). This squat, former check-cashing joint head-bangs wildly with copious metal memorabilia and horror kitsch, contributing to the claustrophobic, creepy feel—especially when bartenders play XXX flicks starring overweight ladyfolk (“That looks like rotten roast beef!” was once uttered). I favor commandeering the coffin-decorated wooden deck and draining icy $1 PBRs (6 p.m.–9 p.m. daily), staving off eventual intoxication with free hot dogs.
Still, my favorite mix of meat and inexpensive outdoor inebriation awaits at Moonshine (317 Columbia St. betw. Woodhull St. & Hamilton Ave., B’klyn, 718-422-0563). This free-peanuts honky-tonk has Johnny on the juke, bulldogs roaming and a righteous backyard outfitted with grills primed for sizzling flesh. A fiver purchases an icy pail of four crappy beers, including Stroh’s, Schlitz and my sweetie, Genesee Cream Ale. Liquor lovers can sip 50-odd whiskeys, ranging from George Dickel to Woodford Reserve, but screw that: Come summer, you’re sucking canned beer. It’s a rule. I read it somewhere. I swear.
“What the hell!” you’ll wail when trying to acquire picnic tables at Franklin Park (618 St. Johns Pl between Classon and Franklin Aves., Crown Heights, Brooklyn; no phone), a 12-draft beer garden fashioned from a former garage that’s become infuriatingly popular. Unless you arrive by 5 p.m. weekdays or 2 p.m. come weekends, you’re S.O.L. for a seat.
There’s always a seat at Cavo Lounge and Café (42-18 31st Ave betw. 42nd & 43rd Sts, Queens, 718-721-1001), containing a verdant, 4,000-square-foot garden, sprightly sangria and even a waterfall. There’s little opulence but lots I love about Trophy Bar (351 Broadway betw. Keap & Rodney Sts., B’klyn, 347-227-8515). Past the charcoal walls and artsy chandelier fashioned from gramophones you’ll find a peachy-keen backyard with plentiful tables and, eventually, a sculpture garden. I come to hide from the world and nurture my drunkenness with $3 pints of Sixpoint and Hennepin (until 8 p.m.), while crunching corn nuts by the fistful.
Of course, such salty goodness is hardly sustenance. When I need outdoor-dining options, I need Bedouin Tent (405 Atlantic Ave. at Bond St., B’klyn, 718-852-5555) or Olive Vine (54 Seventh Ave. betw. Lincoln & St. Johns Pls., B’klyn, 718-622-2626). They’re upscale falafel spots with breezy backyards and BYOB. But enough about Brooklyn; some of you, I suspect, do not care to leave that sweatbox island in search of alfresco excitement.
It’s a tricky rub, readers: Some nights, Boxcar Lounge (168 Ave B betw. 10th & 11th Sts., 212-473-2830) is swell, especially if you take advantage of two-for-one 20-ounce beers until 10 p.m. I can also tolerate the sunset-perfect pier at microbrew-Mecca Chelsea Brewing Company (Chelsea Piers, Pier 59, 212-336-6440), and when I want to get my romance on, the tree-strewn Cloister Café (238 E. 9th St. betw. Second & Third Aves., 212-777-9128) is a winning ticket for Italian staples and boatloads of romance—if that’s your thing.
My thing? Why, it’s praying for endlessly sunny days all summer so you can fight for seats outside—while I drink alone indoors in the comforting, forgiving dark.
“Are you out of your hairy gourd?” you inquire.
“Sometimes.”
“Sipping a beer beneath clear skies—”
“The smog-choked air, you mean.”
“It beats being crammed in a dingy dive—”
“And instead being shoehorned into a too-packed patio, elbow-to-elbow with chain-smoking drunkards racing to acquire lung cancer.”
“You occasionally smoke cigarettes.”
Quiet, you, and listen: Drinking and dining is more pain in the ass than payoff, like cracking a lobster claw to retrieve infinitesimal morsels of crustacean flesh. There’s zero pleasure in sitting beside dog poop at an East Village sidewalk café or waiting hours to enter Astoria’s Bohemian Hall and Beer Garden, where the clientele’s meatier than the kielbasa cooking on its grill.
“I’m He-Man!” I once watched a besotted youngster scream, as he hoisted a hefty picnic table and stumbled around screaming.
“Wouldn’t it be great,” I said to a friend, “if alcohol stripped—not provided—perceived super-human powers?”
“Like having sex for more than two minutes?”
“Good point.”
Maybe I’m a life-hating curmudgeon. Or maybe I’m in solidarity with albinos and sufferers of solar urticaria, who break out in hives when exposed to sunlight. It’s like being a vampire, minus the unslakeable thirst for human blood. Most sunny, sweltering days, you’ll locate me inside pits of drunken despair, such as Holiday Cocktail Lounge or Jackie’s Fifth Amendment. Seats are always available, the air conditioning’s Arctic and the drinks are cheap liquid lobotomies.
However, forces greater than myself (girlfriend, visiting friends, vitamin D deficiency) often compel me to drink beer or dine outside. When these moments arrive, accompanied by shrieks and howls associated with men transforming into werewolves, I don’t hit B Bar or Long Island City’s Water Taxi Beach. Instead, I’ll hop aboard the Staten Island Ferry and head to Killmeyer’s Old Bavarian Inn (4254 Arthur Kill Rd. at Sharrotts Rd., Staten Island; 718-984-1202).
The 19th-century beer hall is styled with taxidermy, beer-motif stained glass and sunny garden bereft of Radegast Hall hipsters. While septuagenarian duo the Happy Tones play oompah tunes (every Sunday!), I happily ingest snappy sausages and liters of summery Hacker-Pschorr Hefe Weiss and crisp Pilsner Urquell. This beauty’s reachable by the Staten Island Railway (get off at Richmond Valley), but I recommend bringing a bike.
From the terminal, it’s a hilly, hour-plus ride. As a reward, you’ll pass by the boat graveyard (located in Rossville, it’s the final resting ground for rusting, disintegrating vessels) and rough-and-tumble Big Nose Kate’s Saloon (2477 Arthur Kill Rd. at St. Lukes Ave., 718-227-2833), where the beer’s cheap, and the bar-top-dancing women are even cheaper.
For another wallet-friendly outdoor adventure, I venture to Williamsburg’s heavy-metal cubbyhole Duff’s (28 North 3rd St. at Kent Ave., B’klyn, 718-302-0411). This squat, former check-cashing joint head-bangs wildly with copious metal memorabilia and horror kitsch, contributing to the claustrophobic, creepy feel—especially when bartenders play XXX flicks starring overweight ladyfolk (“That looks like rotten roast beef!” was once uttered). I favor commandeering the coffin-decorated wooden deck and draining icy $1 PBRs (6 p.m.–9 p.m. daily), staving off eventual intoxication with free hot dogs.
Still, my favorite mix of meat and inexpensive outdoor inebriation awaits at Moonshine (317 Columbia St. betw. Woodhull St. & Hamilton Ave., B’klyn, 718-422-0563). This free-peanuts honky-tonk has Johnny on the juke, bulldogs roaming and a righteous backyard outfitted with grills primed for sizzling flesh. A fiver purchases an icy pail of four crappy beers, including Stroh’s, Schlitz and my sweetie, Genesee Cream Ale. Liquor lovers can sip 50-odd whiskeys, ranging from George Dickel to Woodford Reserve, but screw that: Come summer, you’re sucking canned beer. It’s a rule. I read it somewhere. I swear.
“What the hell!” you’ll wail when trying to acquire picnic tables at Franklin Park (618 St. Johns Pl between Classon and Franklin Aves., Crown Heights, Brooklyn; no phone), a 12-draft beer garden fashioned from a former garage that’s become infuriatingly popular. Unless you arrive by 5 p.m. weekdays or 2 p.m. come weekends, you’re S.O.L. for a seat.
There’s always a seat at Cavo Lounge and Café (42-18 31st Ave betw. 42nd & 43rd Sts, Queens, 718-721-1001), containing a verdant, 4,000-square-foot garden, sprightly sangria and even a waterfall. There’s little opulence but lots I love about Trophy Bar (351 Broadway betw. Keap & Rodney Sts., B’klyn, 347-227-8515). Past the charcoal walls and artsy chandelier fashioned from gramophones you’ll find a peachy-keen backyard with plentiful tables and, eventually, a sculpture garden. I come to hide from the world and nurture my drunkenness with $3 pints of Sixpoint and Hennepin (until 8 p.m.), while crunching corn nuts by the fistful.
Of course, such salty goodness is hardly sustenance. When I need outdoor-dining options, I need Bedouin Tent (405 Atlantic Ave. at Bond St., B’klyn, 718-852-5555) or Olive Vine (54 Seventh Ave. betw. Lincoln & St. Johns Pls., B’klyn, 718-622-2626). They’re upscale falafel spots with breezy backyards and BYOB. But enough about Brooklyn; some of you, I suspect, do not care to leave that sweatbox island in search of alfresco excitement.
It’s a tricky rub, readers: Some nights, Boxcar Lounge (168 Ave B betw. 10th & 11th Sts., 212-473-2830) is swell, especially if you take advantage of two-for-one 20-ounce beers until 10 p.m. I can also tolerate the sunset-perfect pier at microbrew-Mecca Chelsea Brewing Company (Chelsea Piers, Pier 59, 212-336-6440), and when I want to get my romance on, the tree-strewn Cloister Café (238 E. 9th St. betw. Second & Third Aves., 212-777-9128) is a winning ticket for Italian staples and boatloads of romance—if that’s your thing.
My thing? Why, it’s praying for endlessly sunny days all summer so you can fight for seats outside—while I drink alone indoors in the comforting, forgiving dark.
