Animal Attraction

Jimmy's

43 E. 7th St. (betw. 2nd & 3rd Aves.)

212-982-3006

Ahh, October: cooler weather, dwindling daylight and a time to laud Germans, or at least their gastronomy. 'Tis Oktoberfest season, those 31 days of pilsners and cylindrical tubes of grilled swine. Strap on lederhosen, bake some rope-thick pretzels?and open a bar-restaurant specializing in meaty cuisine and pints of knock-you-on-your ass beer?

Such is Jimmy's, the latest addition to the East Village's sudsy East Seventh Street. In the grand, narcissistic tradition of Jean Georges, Jimmy's is named after its eponymous owner, Jimmy Carbone, previously of Second Avenue's Patio bar.

His new joint's difficult to locate, but it's not La Esquina trickery as much as subterranean positioning. Jimmy's is half a block from McSorley's, beneath Standings, a ghost town of a sports bar. Open the gate, descend the stairs and enter an oompah-loompah canteen.

Various antlers line the low-ceilinged rooms (seating about 40), which are decorated with empty beer kegs. The color scheme is as dark and rich as the sustenance I will soon describe: wood fixtures the color of midnight, enough mirrors to appease a vain supermodel and a smidgen of brick. Candlelight makes the package as cozy and comforting as grandma's hug.

I visited Jimmy's twice. The first time, I sat at the six-person bar and sampled a $20-all-you-can-eat-and-drink special, which let the kitchen test and tweak recipes. When I say kitchen, I really mean Carbone. He stands in a watch-him-cook nook, sizzling and sautéing foodstuffs centering on beer and pig. Highlights included sautéed escarole with quarter-size bacon slabs ($7), a belly-stuffing beef stew flavored with Victory IPA ($10) and crisp addictive, skillet-fried beer sausages ($5) and a chickpea soup topped with spareribs ($12). The food was proudly utilitarian: My taste buds didn't do a conga dance, but the grub was affordable and ruthlessly assassinated hunger.

I slaked my thirst, until my tongue grew thick, on Chimay ($8), Six Point's Belgian IPA ($6) and Victory Hop Devil IPA ($6). The prices were a buck or two north of acceptable, which would've irked me if the beer wasn't limitless. Finally, after five hours of imbibing and eating, bartender Delia wised up: "I'm kicking you out now," she said. "No more."

I waddled upstairs with a sumo wrestler?like stomach, but I remained unconvinced of Jimmy's worth. Great times are a dime a dozen if booze is plentiful and uncommonly cheap. Last year, for instance, I spent three hours drinking stolen Jägermeister inside a phone booth.

So I returned to Jimmy's a few weeks later. On a Thursday evening, the restaurant was partly filled with parents, a baby or two and a pre-theater crowd. In the restaurant's rear there's an adjoining room called the Seventh Street Small Stage, which hosts plays and jazz acts. A captive audience. A brilliant conceit.

I root myself to a stool while Delia rests her arms on the bar. "Back so soon?" she says, smiling. "Didn't drink enough last time, did you?"

The answer, as always, is no.

"Well, we'll just have to do something about that," she says, passing me a menu as I grab a thick pretzel from a bowl. Friendliness, a bit of sass: this is a refreshing change. In fact, the rest of the all-women waitstaff is equally amiable and easygoing. They make you feel welcome, not a wallet with a pulse.

I select Six Point's smoked porter pint for seven dollars. Why seven bucks? I muse.

"We just invented the prices," Delia explains.

"Perhaps you could've invented them lower," I reply. She passes me my porter, which has a delicious chocolate undercurrent. I sip it like it's precious serum.

There are numerous precious serums on the menu. Jimmy's serves no liquor and no wine worth mentioning, but it features several dozen rarefied beers identified by bin numbers. Across-the-pond brew like Belgium's Corsendonk Pale Ale and Val-Dieu triple run about a ten-spot apiece. This is fantastic for experimentation, not Oktoberfest-style plastering.

So what: Jimmy's is no boozitorium. It's a rathskeller refuge, a comfortable sweatshirt, a faithful homage to Eastern European consumption. You are here to be cosseted by stewed animals and artisanal beers, not chicken wings and watery Bud. Sure, the culinary compass treads well-stomped territory, but wheels don't always need re-invention. Jimmy's is designed for a meaty nosh, a beer to relish and chats that stretch into the hours while upstairs, the city hums past, ignorant of another land lurking below.