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On the cusp of each new year, when millions of Americans are poised to make well-intentioned, if unrealistic resolutions in an attempt to make their lives better, I make one promise to myself that I know I won't break.
I pledge to imbibe at least one alcoholic beverage every day during Christmas break. (One, two, seven...who's counting?)
Friday, December 21, 2012. I assumed finding a place to get trashed cheaply would be easy on my first day of vacation. Hey, it was the day the world was supposed to end; what difference would it make if a bar gave away its entire supply of alcohol? Repent for your sins, then commit a whole bunch more while under the influence.
Quite a while ago I had basically threatened Dave that if he didn't meet me in the city for drinks that night he may as well sign the divorce papers immediately. This year my drinking streak held extra special meaning, since I've started a new job in a public school in Bushwick that pretty much drives me to drink on any given weekday. The Knicks were playing the Bulls and I headed for the L train dressed in my (early) Christmas present, a Tyson Chandler jersey.
"Where do you want to watch the game?" he had asked.
"Anywhere with heat, beer, and Christmas lights," I had replied, without missing a beat.
We decided to meet near MoMA, thinking we could inject a little culture into our drunken stumbling, since the museum is free on Friday evenings. Apparently the entire population of New York City had the same idea, including the barrage of tourists that had decided to descend upon the city the weekend before Christmas. (Have I mentioned how much I love tourists? Yes, people who stop dead in their tracks to take pictures of parking meters are delightful.) The line stretched around the block.
"Screw modern art," I muttered, against everything I believe, but sensing the wait could really put a dent in our drinking time. "Let's hit the bar now." Dave, who had only agreed to the museum in the first place to placate me, was all too happy to oblige.
Now, I must admit a strange problem plagues me when walking around Manhattan. (Besides the tourists.) On days I walk around aimlessly, when I am not in a position to eat or drink, I will find dozens of cool-looking bars with sandwich boards on the sidewalk advertisting irresistible happy hours ("Omigod! It's Omegong for $4!" or "Whine over $3 Wine." C'mon! Who could pass that up?)
But when I'm actually looking for a good place to chill, it's like all the awesome bars in Manhattan were suddenly abducted, blindfolded, and transported over the Williamsburg Bridge. Maybe finding the perfect bar is like what people say about finding true love: stop actively looking, and when you least expect it, it'll find you.
And speaking of true love, trying to agree on a bar with your spouse will make you wonder how in the hell you ever got married in the first place. No matter how much you think you have in common (and Dave and I do, more so than most couples, I believe) trying to find common ground to satisfy your respective appetites will bring out the worst in you. My simple parameters of beer, heat, and Christmas lights exploded to include the sublime, and mostly, the ridiculous.
"That place has a girl bartender," I complained, peering into the ninety-second bar we passed. "I really would prefer a guy. Girls never give buybacks." We also argued over watering holes for appearing too cold, too hot, too empty, too crowded, too cheap, and too expensive. We were both behaving like freaking Goldilocks--but when would we find the barstool that was just right for both of us?
We had started out near MoMA which, for all you tourists out there, is on 53rd and 6th. We wound up on St. Mark's Place and 3rd before we found somewhere we could agree on: St. Mark's Ale House, one of the only sports bars in the East Village and one of Dave's favorites because of its proximity to Crif Dogs, and one of my faves because of its proximity to East Village Books, my mainstay for cheap editions of obscure Kurt Vonnegut novels.
So you'd think once inside, we'd be okay, right? Wrong. All the barstools were taken, so we were relegated to a table, and the barstools assigned to the tables were about six inches too short for the tables. "I can't eat wings like this! My chin is practically on the table," I bitched, after we had already ordered $4 Killians, another perk of the Ale House.
Exasperated, Dave threw up his hands. "Well, what do you want to do?"
I glanced over at the bar. "I think those guys are about to get up." I pride myself on being able to read the faces of last-callers. "Let's move to the bar. It'll be easier to see the game anyway." I stood behind the man in question as he guzzled the remainder of his Jack and coke. He slammed the glass down on the bar and, to my horror, took the bar coaster and placed it on top of his glass. "Sam!" he called to the bartender. "I'll be right back. Goin' out for a stogie."
Deflated, I returned to my lilliputian stool, four-buck Killians, and loving husband. "Good going, Eagle Eye," he greeted me. "Just sit the hell down." I obliged, albeit sulkily. Our wings arrived shortly thereafter (which sucked anyway--I will forever refer to them as the One Napkin Wonders) and soon enough, I found something else to complain about. Every time the door opened, a huge gust of cold air seeped in.
"It's freakin' December!" I carried on. "Why do they have to have that outside door open?"
"Oh God," Dave moaned. "Here we go. We'll, there's no room at the bar. What do you want to do?"
I checked my phone for the time. "It's a quarter after seven. The game hasn't started yet. I say we just bail. There's a sports bar down the block here that I've been wanting to try anyway. Let's just get the check and go there."
We did just that, and three minutes later we were at Bull McCabe's. You know what I said before about how all the good Manhattan bars must have been kidnapped and taken to Brooklyn? Well, Bull McCabe's looked like it was picked up from Bay Ridge by a crane and dropped right in the middle of the East Village, right down to the cheesy Christmas lights strung onto the cheap wood paneling and unpretentious fifty-ish Irish male bartender, who immediately informed us upon inquiry that "the Knicks game will be all over the bar" as soon as it started.
Bull McCabe's boasted no kitchen, an electronic dart board, and good-natured, if intoxicated, patrons who commended our Knicks affinity despite their embarrassing loss to Chicago that night.
"Well," Dave sighed. "It might not be fancy. But it does have Christmas lights. And beer. And it's hot as hell in here."
"True." Bull McCabe's had found us when we least expected it. I surveyed the scene at our new digs, positive we would return sometime soon. I then looked at Dave, who must really love me, proven especially by tonight's escapades, if I didn't already know it.
Because, at the end of the day, there aren't many people who would schlep around the city with you, bypassing all the drafty doors, stingy female bartenders, shitty wings, and deceptive barflies, making sure you don't settle for something that's not just right.
Plus, on the way home, I scored a gently used copy of Hocus Pocus, while Dave scored the Redneck, a bacon-wrapped chili cheese dog.
Needless to say, we both went home happy.
