1st Stop: Lucy’s
135 Ave A
Ave A and E 9th St
My assignment is to write a story about bar hopping in the East Village, the writing part being the only qualifier distinguishing this from what I’d call just another weekday. And here, my starting point is Lucy’s on Avenue A and East 9th Street. Lucy, the bar’s namesake and proprietress, is in tonight. Her Polish accent and high-pitched voice are always redolent of a young girl trying to please her mother. Before I have a chance to order, Lucy has plops a lager in front of me saying, “This one on me. I ’member you. Last time you leave before I buy you one.”
I fucking love Lucy. The last time I was here was weeks ago and the warmth she bestows upon us lonely bar-sitters makes me want to smack a big kiss on her cheek. I’ll bet she smells like chalky make-up, beer, and gardenias—just like my grandmother.
Lucy likes me, I think, because I wear a hearty beard and dark trench coat and carry myself like someone who always keeps a dinner roll or two in his pocket. I think anything faintly Communist makes Lucy feel safe. Anything, that is, unlike what just blew in the door clopping up alongside me. It’s a gaggle of pretty, sparkly-eyed girls, dressed rather smartly, their hair meticulously arranged and their excitable chatter relentless. When Lucy materializes to take their order the girls shriek and they call out her name in unison, fawning as though they’d just come across the missing captain of their cheerleading squad.
Lucy darts her eyes, looking a bit panicked, but still smiles albeit uneasily at the girls.
“Well, I can’t decide,” one of the girls says. “What do you recommend Lucy? Hey! Let’s do a shot together, Lucy!” Since Lucy is wearing a moo-moo and is old enough to be their grandmother, this informality grates the ears of anyone within earshot. But Lucy smiles.
There’s another bartender here tonight who I often see. She’s younger than Lucy with straight blond hair and a small, attuned face. I call her Magda. I’ve never seen Magda smile, blink, or unfold her arms except to pour a drink. Her disinterest is intense and grants the kind of odd celebrity power usually reserved for flight attendants and drag queens. It’s the ability, when she addresses you, to make you feel both flattered and embarrassed. Magda stares sternly at the televisions and as far as I’ve witnessed she only knows one word of English—’nother?—which she says when your glass is empty and, granted, isn’t exactly a complete word.
Lucy’s is filling up. And although I could happily stay here all night, there are three other beer-hawkin’ broads of Alphabet City I’d like to visit first. So I make my way to Mona’s.
2nd Stop: Mona’s
224 Ave B
between 13th and 14th Streets
The crowd at Mona’s skews younger with decidedly more angst. It’s certainly not your trust-fund, art-school, do-these-skinny-jeans-do-anything-for-my-ass? sort of crowd. One gets the impression that people here work as hard as they drink. They’re a bit of a hodge-podge: some wear dress-shirts and have pseudo-professional jobs while others leave the impression that they give themselves tattoos with safety pins and broken ballpoints.
I slither up to the bar and am confronted with a no-nonsense blond (the best sort of bartender to have, aside from an aged Polish woman) and order my drink. The blue neon lighting in here is so eerie it even wigs me out. But I find myself a bit bored as everyone is paired off in twos and talking about work and I can’t see a damn thing in this seedy blue neon so I make my way over to Heathers (as in, more that one Heather like the title of the 1989 film staring Christian Slater and Wynona Ryder, and not “Heather” in the singular possessive).
3rd Stop: Heathers
506 E 13th St
between Aves A and B
Heathers is that flat-assed, ar- school crowd I mentioned earlier. (And, lest any of my readers get the wrong impression: Yes, I did study liberal arts and yes, my ass is impossible flat. In fact when viewed in profile, it’s actually concave.) The crowd is rollicking here at Heathers which irritates this fuddy-duddy nightlife reporter as I’m out drinking alone and want to be around other miserable, lonely people. I order from a bartender who, by the emptiness in his eyes and the slight gape of his mouth, would be the first to let you know that he doesn’t really need this job anyway, so here’s your drink and fuck off.
Heathers is a great space. White subway tiles cover most the walls while a video is projected onto the one in the back. The lighting is remarkably perfect; one is able to see clearly, yet, no matter where one is stands, one still looks hot. No deadly columns of overhead lighting to avoid for fear of the craggy shadows they may cast. The name alone informs of Heathers’ devotion to nostalgia. The music, if not fun ‘80s sing-a-long (or fun ‘80s obscure) is fun, indie, and pop-y and everyone, for the most part, seems to be having a great time.
Sophie’s
507 E 5th St
E 6th and Ave A
I head to Sophie’s where I’m confident no one is having a great time. Sophie’s is a true dive, having been at East 6th Street for over 25 years. There’s no sign marking the location, a solitary light looms eerily over the pool table and when I brush open the door all faces alight in my direction. I in tuck my chin and put on a haggard expression in order to not stand out. Elvis is on the jukebox, the bartender is about as personable as they come, but I drink quickly and decide to pay another visit to Lucy’s.
Last Stop: Lucy’s (again)
The stretch of Avenue A between Houston and 14th Street has 56 liquor licenses. And during my brief hiatus a few blocks eastward a peculiar sort of suburbanite has descended upon the street, as tends to happen around this time of night. They are an over-dressed lot. They travel in roving herds, speak in passé catch phrases, and any attempt to overtake them on the sidewalk is always done in vain. Many of them make their way to Lucy’s. But somehow within those walls I tend to not mind them so much.
The romanticism I feel toward Lucy’s, and all my other East Village favorites, is not without a nagging paranoia. Buildings get bought and rents go up and, although business seems good here, I always fear it’s in danger of succumbing to the same fate as many other places in the neighborhood that I once loved.
By the time I return to Lucy’s I’m admittedly drunk. The crowd has filled in. The bar counter is lined with a half-dozen gruff, solitary men and a lesbian couple who I intuit is on their first date. Eruptions of cheers and jeers indicate a game of pool is being played in the back. Gathered behind me other patrons are boisterous and happy. And although Lucy is not unaccustomed to stepping out from the bar, hands on hips, to order a troublemaker outside, I’m always surprised at the cohesiveness of the mixed bag that hangs out here. As I pull up my stool Lucy smiles and motions toward the tap.&nb
