EAST RIVER BAR 97 S. 6TH ST. (BETW. BEDFORD AVE. & ...

br> 97 S. 6TH ST. (BETW. BEDFORD AVE. & BERRY ST.), WILLIAMSBURG, 718-302-0511

ON SUNDAYS I detox. After six days of pizza eatin' and no-sleep gettin', I stamp a moratorium on grease and booze, bailing my sinking ship with a bent teaspoon.

Last Sunday I capsized. I was strolling Williamsburg's southern waterfront, side-stepping construction rubble, when detox's death knell rang: an airy new bar ringed with steel, its doors splayed wide.

"Three-dollar pints! Free pool!" reads the sidewalk sign. "Come on inside!" I make several passes, watching a man in a black hoodie play pool, before fate is sealed by a wall: a nautical mural complete with dolphins and crustaceans.

I enter and sit at the empty bar. In front, a painted-glass mirror displays a cowboy driving a heifer toward a barbecue future. To the right, life-size Dick Tracy cutouts make word-bubble threats. Above, a static disco ball and pressed tin. Outside, a canopy-covered patio for puffers. All around, brick, brick, brick!

"What can I get you?" the pool player asks, stepping behind the dark wood bar.

Too many choices paralyze me, and I am immobile with possibility: UFO Hefeweizen, Blue Point Ale, Redhook Sunrye Ale, Flying Dog Pale Ale, Blanche de Brooklyn, as well as their low-brow brethren. A half-gallon of Bud is $10, and Tecate cans are just two dollars.

"Just…give me something light and delicious," I say. "Please."

"Would you like a sample?"

"A wha—?"

"Here, try this," he says, pouring a quarter draught of Blanche de Brooklyn.

It's summer in a glass. I order a pint.

"So, what's your name?" I ask.

"Fabio."

"Fabrizio?"

"No, Fah-bee-o."

I resist explaining the incongruity of a short, dark-haired indie-esque boy named Fabio.

Outside, delivery trucks drive past the South Side's quiet, industrial wastes. "So, Fabio, what's the attraction to the East River? Isn't this bar a little…ambitious for the neighborhood?"

"It's a weird mix to cater to. You've got the Puerto Ricans, yuppies, Hasidim and the Bedford Avenue hipsters all around here." Behind him, a Lenin wall pennant droops in the late-afternoon sun.

"Who's been coming?"

"Well, on Friday we got overflow from [the club] Bembe, which is right down the road. People would come in and be like, 'It's too hot and sweaty in there!' In here, people can breathe and be themselves without having to dance or flash."

"A neighborhood hang?"

"Yeah."

"But is there enough of a neighborhood to support a bar?"

"Artists do live around here and condos are coming in—it's just a matter of time," Fabio says.