Gut Instinct: Bikini Kill Me
Heres the wrong way to inform your girlfriend youre visiting a bikini bar.
Baby, Im throbbing with curiosity.
Wrong choice of words, she replies.
Pulsating with intrigue?
Wasnt that topless breakfast enough? Recently in Montreal, I ate runny eggs at a dingy diner where waitresses bared their boobies and poured burnt coffee.
That was in a foreign country. It doesnt count. While traveling, I believe vacationers are allowed licentious leeway. That would handily explain Thailands thriving ladyboy trade.
Fine, she says. Just dont come home late.
No problem, captain. I prefer happy hour, pigeonholing weekday drunkenness into a tidy 6–10 p.m. slot. Its time enough to transform into a slurring heap and snag a seven-hour siesta. Im a smart adult!
So at 6 p.m. one late-summer eve, I stroll down randy Eighth Avenue. Sandwiched between buff Chelsea and turista Times Square, the sleaze zone is primed with squalid gaming dens that draw construction workers, low-rent office toilers and beefy Madison Square Garden–goers. Ive sucked many a Miller at daytime-boozer dive Walters Bar (389 Eighth Ave. betw. 29th & 30th Sts., 212-502-4023), whose slogan is We are a place to get drunk! But the blue ribbon for sordidness goes to Denos Party House USA (393 Eighth Ave. betw. 29th & 30th Sts., 212-695-1814).
Why, Josh? Why? my friend Aaron wonders. Were standing outside Denos, aka Bikini Bar. A row of plants prevents prying eyes from peeping inside.
Because were bikini-bar investigators, I explain. In the holy name of research, weve partaken of pizza parlor–cum–grind hall Cordatos Deli (94 1/2 Greenwich St. at Rector St., 212-233-1573). And seaman hangout Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge (200 Flushing Ave. at Washington Ave., Bklyn; no phone). Oh, and Port 41 (355 W. 41st St. betw. 8th & 9th Aves., 212-947-1188), where skanky gals serve free franks. Bikini bars, Ive deduced, are classier than a cubic zirconium wedding ring.
But heres my hypothesis: Does pseudo-nudity portend a Puritanical streak, an enduring Giuliani hangover? No show vajayjay, but you wear a seventh-graders string bikini. Nah. Entrepreneurs are exploiting a salacious loopholeby keeping tenders and servers attired, they can sell spirits, beer and grub. Hello, Hawaiian Tropic Zone bikini contest.
At least theres no cover, I tell Aaron as we enter Denos and sit beside men with sunken eyes and perspiring Buds. We grab potato chips and a bathing beautys attention. She sidles over, belly ring reflecting red neon. Her smile reveals Chiclet teeth with a field-goal gap.
You want beer? she asks, her Russian accent thick as borscht. My heavens, is Denos staffed by mail-order bartenders?
I inquire about happy hour. No happy hour. Three-buck Buds are only available until 4:30 p.m. Least. Happy. Hour. Ever. Since cocktails cost $9, and Amstel Lights run $7, we order $6 Bud pints. Theyre brimming with golden joy. Less joyful are the half-dozen swimsuit sweethearts, half-heartedly shimmying to piercing pop. The scene is less erotic than a proctologists appointment.
Though its sketchy, its still safesort of, Aaron says, pointing to a duct-taped security camera. The broken equipment is an urban scarecrow to deter the twitchy men, who glare at fellow scabrous bar-goers. Smiles are scarce. Cocktails are consumed like water. Why do breasts always signal danger? Like bumblebees yellow-and-black coloration, areolas must be natures method of saying, Stay away from here, wussy boy!
Because the music inhibits conversationlouder does not equal betterAaron and I order a second round. You like shots? the bartender asks, smiling. Please marry me and rescue me, whispers her body language. She leans over the bar, demonstrating how underwire defeats gravity. No, no shots tonight. Her shoulders slump. I couldve told her Im no savior.
In the abstract, Im stoked that dirt holes like Denos exist. New York City needs more sleaze, fewer condos and nail salons. But not all grubby establishments are created equal: Theres good sleaze (Mars Bar, Welcome to the Johnsons) and bad sleaze (Big Easy, Cheap Shots). Theres a certain je nais sais quoi to sleazy bars, an ineffably gritty trait born of whiskey, vomit, rock and roll and 3 a.m. mistakesnot pert Russian ta-tas and too-expensive brew.
More beer? the waitress inquires, as we drain our pints in a Usain Bolt instant.
Yes, I reply, but no, not here. We then decamp for Holland Bar, Daves Tavern and other murky alehouses where clothing is required.