ED-Bernstein H29 323 SMITH ST. (PRESIDENT ST.), BROOKLYN 718-246-1321 I BET YOU'RE HAVING ...
323 SMITH ST. (PRESIDENT ST.), BROOKLYN
718-246-1321
I BET YOU'RE HAVING a PBR, aren't you?" asks Jen the waitress, who's wearing yellow running shoes and a black tank top.
Perhaps it's an obvious question at the Gowanus Yacht Club. Here, before 7:30, a Pabst is a hundred cents. But what tipped my beer hand? Torn jeans? Dirty t-shirt?
"Nothing, your friend said you only buy specials," she says, nodding at Alex, "and that's the only special. So a PBR?"
Of course, I say, plopping down at a shaded picnic table. It's 7 p.m. Around 79 degrees. And the sky is a slate of Pantone blue. What better way to savor the open-air bliss of the Gowanus Yacht Club than with frosty American suds?
Since opening two summers ago, Gowanus Yacht Club has fooled no one with its nautical motif. Sure, the courtyard is festooned with faded life vests and splintery boats, but the bar is blocks from the Gowanus' toxic aqua, located smack above the Carroll St. subway stop.
This is ideal stumbling distance toand fromyour liver's demise. Fight thrift-pocketed Brooklynites for a seat in the fenced-in patio, then go bonkers: Rolling Rocks are two dollars, as are 16-ounce cans of Ballantine Ale and pint cups of "Duff"Budweiser masquerading as Homer Simpson's favored inebriant. The costliest drink is a cup of Jever, a nod toward upscale Carroll Gardeners who fancy spending a fin on beer.
Tonight's crowda melange of baby-accompanied moms and flip-flop-wearing 20-somethingssavors the expected: copious Pabst, paired with buck-fifty hot dogs and three-dollar burgers. I order several dogs and settle into conversation.
Alex sits across from me, sipping a PBR. A fern the size of a small child rests beside him. It's his ticket to sex.
"My apartment's too lonely," he says, "so I bought a spider fern. I figure, after I get this plant I'll get a woman. You've got to have an order."
"An order of what?"
"An order. It'll happen. Plant, then sex."
"What happens if the plant dies?"
"No sex."
"No sex?"
"No sex."
My hot dogs arrive, and mustard-covered nibbles save me from feigning comprehension. I swallow the last crumbs and head to the bathroom, located down a flight of steps in a dim red basement.
The door is locked so I wait, warding off leg-crossing by examining a Mr. Peanut sign. Several bladder-expanding minutes later, the door flies open.
"This is the worst bathroom ever," says a woman wearing tiny terrycloth shorts and a hemp choker. "Just just horrible."
She stomps upstairs and I enter. Yet again, I'm thankful for my Y chromosome: There's no lid on the toilet, and toilet paper has seen drier days. However, the facilities are immaculate when compared to Mars Bar's bathroom, where toilet paper is a suggestion, and a door is a blessing. Besides, Ms. Horrible should be thankful: Any toilet is better than GYC's initial bathrooma Port-O-Potty.
Back at the table, the patio approaches capacity. Empty seats are snagged, and by 8, every bench and chair is filled with communal beer-drinkers and conversation. Combined with the Rolling Stones, it's quite a commotion. Which could be problematic. As an al fresco establishment, the GYC may become a victim of Mayor Bloomberg's Mister Softee sound vendetta.
"We recently got reamed out by the neighbors for being too noisy," Jen says. "After all, it is a residential neighborhood." She gestures toward a tree-lined brownstone block, which has been catered to with kid gloves.
When the bar opened, owner Alan Harding (of Patois and Zombie Hut fame) shuttered GYC by 2 a.m. and kept the radio quiet when the clock passed 10. Harding was so conciliatory that, after a complaint about a late-night dishwasher clinking glasses, he instructed the dishwasher to temper his vigorous cleansing.
But noise precautions may be for naught.
"We just have to play it by ear and keep the radio turned down," Jen says. "But if [Bloomberg] starts cracking down, well, who knows what will happen." o