Scary Bar Project: Cordato’s Deli and Bar
I like scary bars as long as they are not brothels, my easily spooked friend Aaron tells me.
Dont worry, I lie, its not a brothel. I omit the bit about bump-n-grindin ladies. And how an off-duty cop once shot a bargoer over spilled beer.
My half-truth, however, entices him and another friend to Cordatos Deli and Bar. Its a seedy oddity on a stretch of Greenwich Street near Ground Zero that, the day following our visit, The New York Times branded Sodom South. The block houses the Pussycat Lounge strip club, Thunder Lingerie and More peep show (a reputed brothel) and Cordatos, a seemingly mundane bodega-cum-pizzeria. Construction workers grab carbonated beverages, while secretaries gobble folded slices. Past beer coolers, though, theres a wooden door. Consider it a barrier between a world you know and a world you shouldnt.
Beyond the pale lies a grungy, white-walled shoe box decorated with shamrocks, a boxy TV, video-poker machine and an ATM. HOT 97 hip-hop rumbles from the jukebox. The scarred bar is manned by tired-eyed women who serve Corona, Heineken and Budweiser bottles for $4nearly quadruple the deli cost. This amounts to an ambiance surcharge.
That woman just did a 90-degree split onto that guys lap, my other drinking companion says, mouth agape. We eyeball the duo beside us, who are exploring the many wonders of friction. They have company. About eight beach-ready ladiesa United Nations of diversitywear brightly colored bikinis and micro skirts. Theyre entangled with paint-splattered day laborers, baggy-pants gangstas and Wall Street suits, performing seventh-grade dry-humpingand enacting seventh-grade fantasies. One gleeful man wearing a syracuse sweatshirt is the writhing meat in a bikini-girl sandwich.
Its the worlds most chaste orgy, my friend Aaron says, quickly ordering a second, then third round of beers. Were at Manhattans lap-dancing epicenter.
Given our locale, Id say were at lap-dance ground zero, but this observation could be tasteless. Then again, tasteless ably describes Cordatos. After chafing sessions finish, some men slink to the toilet. A girthy guard, prone to knocking on the bathroom door, ensures gentlemen complete fluid release in a timely
Would you like a dance? asks a diminutive dancer, barging in and caressing my lower back.
Uh uh no, I say. I uh uh
Whatever, she says, walking away.
What I meant to say was, No, this is too artificial. Fake smiles, fake breasts. Why are naked women the peanut butter to scary bars jelly? By visiting my third bikini bar in two months, Im a grade-A depraved hornball.
But at least Im not that deviant. In a Will Ferrell–worthy scene, a dude in a brown sweater sits on a stool. A Mexican girl laxly gyrates on his lap like shes stirring pancake batter while they jointly peruse a glossy celeb mag. She flips a page. Oh, Angelina! He rubs her legs. Oh, Brad! Then they speed to a conclusion best kept behind closed deli doors.
Perceived Scariness (scale of 1 to 10): 7 Actual Scariness: 8 (Stick to bodega beer, and skip the sticky lap dances.) 94 1/2 Greenwich St. (at Rector St.), 212-233-1573
Scary Bar Project ideas? Contact bars@nypress.com.