NO IDEA 30 E. 20TH ST. (BETW. B'WAY & PARK AVE ...
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I AM NOT a Fred. Or a Letitia. And I am far from a Romban, though it sounds exotic. I am a Josh and, in a brick-walled bar located several blocks from Union Square, this occasionally means something.
Each night, No Idea (and sister Soho bar Antarctica) selects a name. If that name matches yours (backed up with ID, of course) then, for six hours, you roam wild in free-draft-beer land.
No Idea, which opened on a then-deserted stretch of 20th St. in 1992, claims its night is "legendary among Manhattanites young and downwardly immobile." Or the cheap and opportunistic.
On a recent Tuesday night, "Chris" is name du jour. The bar-airy and spacious, with dark wood and tvs broadcasting ball-based sports-is crammed with celebrating wage slaves. Chrisses of both persuasions sip beer from 12-ounce gray cups.
Nearby, a bearded man wearing a tiny, pointed "Happy Birthday" hat is demonstrating the best defense of the cabaret law. "Whass colder than bein' ice cold?" he asks his cake-eating acquaintances. He raises his upturned palms skyward-then gyrates in time to OutKast.
"Ice col-d-d-d-d!" he screams, breaking into a move likely outlawed by Arthur Murray.
I buy a $3.50 pint of Budweiser and drink deep.
The jukebox flips to the Stones, and I leave the breathless dancer behind. The rest of the bar provides equal parts surprise and the expected.
The archway leading to the pool table is decorated by a 17-year-old art student's psychedelically enhanced Alice in Wonderland riff: a Cheshire cat, a Picasso-cracked man and a mushroom-covered chess board.
I pass on pool and walk into the rear room. Long benches and tables are splayed beneath neon signs. Looking for conversation, I approach a young couple splitting a foamy pitcher.
"So? Why did you guys come here tonight? What's the draw?" I ask a t-shirted man with a closely shaved head.
"There's really nothing else around here very cheap," he says, introducing himself as Aaron.
"What do you think of?all this?" I ask, sweeping my arm across a sea of men with striped button-down shirts hitting on women with plunging necklines and inviting bosoms.
"They're definitely pre-yuppies," says Aaron. He scratches his skull.
"Nu-uh," says the brunette with a mess of tight curls, "They're failed yuppies. Why else would they be drinking here?"
"Because they're pre-yuppies," Aaron says. "They can't afford to go to Gramercy Tavern."
"Pre-yuppies," I agree. "They're still sporting facial hair." I point toward a red-goateed man pulling hard on his pint.
We nod. OutKast spins again. Sweaty tv athletes chase round balls. And, all around us, Chris upon Chris drink their free draft beers.
JOSHUA M. BERNSTEIN