While jellyfish and shrimp flourish in its still-toxic canal, Gowanus welcomes other unexpected life. Moored beside the Carroll Street bridge is Empty Vessel, a Naval boat morphing into an art venue. A water-fronting grain silo is now the Project Room concert hall. And on Third Avenue, a quick jog from the channel, is an upholstery shop reborn as the rockabilly-flavored Canal Bar. It’s as alluring as the water.
Seriously. During summer evenings, I love biking to the canal and watching the Technicolor sunset. Football stadium–ish skies and scant foot traffic become a mental Quaalude, an antidote to this speed-freak town. My bike ride is a ritual. And like most rituals—attempting to seduce women, spending holidays with my family, getting dressed for work—it’s best aided by alcohol.
Luckily, Canal Bar was built for serious drinking. Similar to Holland Bar or Cherry Tavern, Canal mimics a train car: long and narrow, with little seating beyond the dozen or so bar chairs. Remaining space is consumed by a pool table (sometimes moved aside for twangy-musician performances), and the room is rounded out by haphazardly kitschy decor: a hammerhead shark painted like a hot rod, deer heads wearing birthday hats and vintage beer signage. It’s an irreverent yet cozy space with easy-on-the-wallet pricing.
Brooklyn Lager, Guinness, Stella Artois and Pilsner Urquell pints run four or five bucks. Well drinks are equally priced to sip ($4). Three heavy-handed gin and tonics or whiskey and Cokes make the world seem downright beautiful. Yet when I visit Canal Bar, I favor a shot of Evan Williams whiskey (fancier than engine-cleaning quality) paired with a cool Bud pint ($6). This is how my evenings start and, quite sloppily, end.
“Another motherfucking special?” the surly yet sweet bartender Jess (a sassy mouth seems to be a Canal bartender prerequisite) asks on a recent Friday night. It’s 11 p.m., and I’ve already downed two specials.
“Yesh, please,” is all I can say as another self-destructive round appears before my blurring eyes.
The shot-and-beer union presents itself as a delicious notion: Twice the liquor, half the cost, baby. But the special’s ecstasy is its agony. Liquor absorbs at a slower rate than beer. A half hour later, when shots rampage through your bloodstream, it’s too late: “Remember me, asshole?” the whiskey roars, gobbling brain cells and common sense like Kobayashi in a hot dog–eating contest. “Pay the piper.”
This problem is exacerbated by Canal’s generous buybacks. Tip well, and expect every third or fourth round to be on the house. It’s dandy while swilling Pabst. But when the bartender simultaneously comps shots and beer, which leads to craving another shot and beer, well, bye-bye night. If you own any restraint, however, stay lucid enough to speak without drooling. The pleasantly rough-edged crowd of rockabilly types, neighborhood folk and twenty-somethings (guys and girls) is genuine and honest, refreshingly lacking Bedford Avenue smarm. One evening, a customer brought in still-warm brownies for all to munch.
“They go great with whiskey,” bartender Jess said knowingly.
All I can say is: Chocolate is a poor substitute for a chaser.
Thankfully, Canal offers other items better matched to whiskey. Sunday finds free barbecued meats. And similar to the Cake Shop and Park Slope’s Great Lakes, the jukebox spins customers’ homemade greatest-hits CDs. The mix of funk, soul, country and punk are ideal for drunken sing-alongs, a perfect soundtrack for this post-industrial neighborhood.
Gowanus’ grittiness is also a detriment. Yeah, the Union Street R train is two blocks away, but after midnight the walk can be sketchy and the cabs infrequent. While drinks are cheap, pool costs $1.25 per game (like the $1.50 pizza slice, $1 pool is disappearing). Plus, on Friday and Saturday evenings, several dozen drinkers make the bar too snug for comfort. And you better not be a short-attention-span, bar-hopping boozer: The sole nearby bar is Fourth Avenue’s female-friendly Cattyshack.
Complaints, smimplaints. Who cares about an extra quarter? Or nonexistent taxis? It’s Brooklyn; catching cabs is impossible for everyone. What’s important is this city needs more back-to-basics saloons like Canal. Here we find antlered deer! Good tunes! Bubbly beer! Gallons of whiskey! And the best part? The bar’s located on a desolate block, so if you make a fool out of yourself, no one’s around to point and laugh.
Canal Bar 270 Third Ave.
(betw. President & Union Sts.)
Gowanus, B’klyn 718-246-0011
