Top 10 NYC Bars That Are So Much More Than Beer

After a few years in the city, when you’ve graduated from the 13th Steps and Bowery Electrics of the world, packed up your Murray Hill apartment and moved down 20 blocks to the East Village, it becomes time to re-evaluate things a bit. But even if dancing on the side-booths of 200 Orchard may have lost it’s appeal, innumerable treasures remain in some establishments that were once overlooked. Here are 10 of the best.

Ace Bar (East Village; 5th St. between Avenue A and B)

Why it’s more than a bar: Games galore

Pick your poison – with Skee-Ball, darts, two pool tables, Buck Hunter, pinball, a jukebox, and a perpetual balance between inhabited and packed, Ace Bar is an entertainment palace. It’s an unpretentious East Village bar with moderate prices and a wide range of clientele. Sure, I’m partial to the place because it’s where our 2013 NYC Skee-Ball Championship team was born, but it can hold its own with anyone.

The Gutter (Williamsburg; 14th St. between Berry and Wythe)

Why it’s more than a bar: Reasonably-priced bowling, full bar, and a concert venue all-in-one

Yes, this is the place that infamously led to social media’s coining of the term ‘Ebowla’, but after an extremely brief hiatus, they’re back up and thriving. Primary a bowling alley, this Williamsburg establishment also features a full bar with billiards, booths (you can bring/order outside food), pinball, and bubble hockey. They’re so hip the wood for the lanes was shipped in from an Ohio alley (and still features the original ads from the ‘70s), and they play host to local music for <$10 on the weekends in the Spare Room. After discovering this place, I’m done going to Lucky Strike to pay $50 to squint through strobe lights and stare at pins signed by Kid Rock.

Red Lion (Greenwich Village; 151 at the corner of Bleecker and Thompson)

Why it’s more than a bar: Live music every night, friendly staff, cheap

Now that we’ve graduated from Canal Room/Le Poisson Rouge, Red Lion is the go-to live music spot. Although Jersey Shore bands still play cover songs, the setting is at least more intimate and the average age is over 18. Basic beers are cheap and there’s even a drink kiosk set up off stage left. Plus, Le Poisson Rouge is only one street over if you still feel the need to wail out Jesse’s Girl and see the “special guest” of a disturbing modern-day Mr. Belding.

Comedy Cellar (West Village; 117 MacDougal between W. 3rd St. and Minetta Lane)

Why it’s more than a bar: Gut laughs and celebrity hangout for the price of a movie

They put on five shows a night (from 7:00 to after midnight), and every show features at least six sets in less than two hours. In the past three years I have seen countless A and B-list folks (Louie CK, Amy Schumer, John Mulaney, Jeff Ross, and Dave Attell come to mind), and walk-in guests are frequent (Aziz Ansari showed up to my show three times in a row). Plus, you get to hang out with the comedians upstairs at the Olive Tree Cafe afterwards, and most of them put on a smile like you aren’t even bothering them.

Foley’s (Midtown; 33rd St. between 5th and 6th Avenue)

Why it’s more than a bar: Spacious sports bar with friendly staff, celebrity sightings, and rare Midtown charm

It’s part baseball bar and part museum, and after doing it once, you’ll realize there’s no reason to do a fantasy draft anywhere else in NYC. The baseball memorabilia hung up in the place easily tops the seven-figure mark*, and the owner is often hanging around to throw some trivia at you and show you the gear and signatures of all your favorite players.

We like to rent out the basement (chock full of 1990s regalia – think life-size Shaq posters), even if sometimes there’s standing water on the floor.

It’s a popular hangout when professional teams are in town, and last time I was there John Fox sat at the bar nearby while Skip Bayless filmed a commercial.

Barcade (Multiple Locations; Williamsburg, Chelsea, East Village)

Why it’s more than a bar: Food – drink – arcade

You get to play NBA Jam, Turtles in Time, and Mortal Kombat while drinking craft beer. Oh, and every game is a quarter. Truly a step up from sneaking into Chuck E Cheese as an adult.

I haven’t been to the Williamsburg one yet, but I can say the Chelsea location has the upper hand over the new one on St. Mark’s, with a wider selection of games, full food and liquor menus, and the fact it simply feels more like a real locale. East Village is good for old-school gaming, but it’s dark, crowded (I think the building’s a former karaoke joint), and is packed with NYU students and other youngsters lurking on St. Mark’s. Having said that, they are all great whether you go solo, with a friend, or in a group, be it for for 20 minutes or a few hours.

Royale (East Village; 10th St. and Avenue C)

Why it’s more than a bar: Great burgers, outdoor patio, neighborhood feel

This is a perfect spot when there is disagreement amongst the group on what type of day you’re wanting to have; it’s a full bar on the inside, an outdoor space with patio/garden/TV setup, and there’s an open kitchen grilling up NYC burgers (and not much else) that fall into at least the 90th percentile. It’s a solid option whether your’e wanting to watch sports, drink, dine, or any combination of the three. A bit of a trek down on Avenue C, but very worthy of being in the rotation.

Fat Cat (West Village; Christopher St. between Bleecker and 7th Avenue)

Why it’s more than a bar: Games, jazz, lounge

Yes, beverages are limited to just beer and wine, but they make up for it with a live jazz band and 10,000 sq. feet filled with ping pong, pool, and foosball. There’s also something about commingling with friends in rustic armchairs in a West Village basement that brings one back to how the neighborhood must’ve felt when beatniks roamed free. It feels like a venue where every 10-year-old would want their birthday party to be if they were old enough to drink. Which makes sense since it’s filled with of-age “adults” behaving like 10-year-olds.

Flight 151 (Chelsea; 8th Avenue between 17th and 18th)

Why it’s more than a bar: It’s not

In truth, Flight 151 probably doesn’t belong here. But as my favorite bar on the West side of NYC, it had to make the list. You can color on the tables like it’s Macaroni Grill, and the bartender Steve is a local legend. It’s cheap ($3 Rolling Rocks), still has non-flat screen TVs, and there’s trivia on Thursdays (no teams – yell out the answer and get a free drink). At one point I started going here so much that my friend threatened an intervention if my obsession didn’t subside. Once I started going for brunch, I knew it was too much.

Rudy’s (Hell’s Kitchen; 9th Avenue between 44th and 45th St.)

Why it’s more than a bar: Come on – it’s Rudy’s…defining Dive Bar one hot dog at a time

This legendary Hell’s Kitchen’s dive is also (appropriately) one of Anthony Bourdain’s favorite day-drinking spots. Pitchers of beer (Rudy’s has their own blonde and red ales) go for the price of a normal pint and come with free hot dogs. Park yourself in a duct-taped booth or venture outside during the summer to the courtyard. If you have time and aren’t an idiot, spend a few minutes talking to the Hagrid-type character hanging by the door – Tracy Westmoreland is a fascinating NYC figure and the only man who ever operated an underground bar in a subway station.

BONUS: The Rooftop of 62 Bloom (Apartment complex on Avenue B between 4th and 5th St.)

Why it’s more than a bar: It’s not even a bar, but it deserves to be on this list for many reasons…

There lives a place in the once-forgotten bowels of Alphabet City, where half-hipster 20-somethings converge on an expansive rooftop equipped with Adirondack chairs, gas grills, and friend-of-a-friend DJs. It’s an unsupervised palace, where the joys of a poolside Las Vegas club can be had at the expense of someone’s tenancy. Sometimes the DJs get arrested, and no one really knows who actually lives here, but this neighborhood nuisance is truly marvelous. The rooftop of Bloom 62, a two-year old contemporary ~~apartment complex~~ yuppie haven on 4th and Avenue B is as enjoyable as a night out at a club (and even more-so when you factor in the cost of drinking and free views of the Midtown skyline). Just hang outside the gate until you meet someone who lives there.

Honorable mentions: Croxley’s Ale House, Cienfuegos, Kettle of Fish, Rough Trade, Sing Sing Ave A, John Brown Smokehouse, Mr. Biggs

*Editor’s Note: The original version of this post estimated the value of memorabilia at greater than $500,000, but after hearing from the bar, it’s clear this this figure was vastly underestimated. Go to Foley’s and see this ridiculous collection for yourself.

Destiny’s (Step)Child

“90 feet, man.” I looked up. “90 feet.”

A guy a couple years younger had approached me sitting alone at the Milwaukee airport, en route back from KC on Thursday afternoon. He saw me lounging in my ironic “Always October” pullover and a Royals spring training hat that hadn’t left my head since August. I needed the interaction. The once adrenaline-pumping allure of Basement Jaxx’s “Never Say Never” and DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win” no longer infused me with energy, and I had been searching for respite in a depressing realm of alt-J remixes before he came by. We traded sob stories about our experience at the game, the (mostly) highs and lows of the playoffs, disbelief that the whole thing even happened, that Bum, and Salvy’s final at-bat. It was an outpour of emotional build-up for both of us. But, in that conversation we also talked about where we were from in KC, where we were going, and everything in between. I’m sitting on the plane now realizing that one year ago this never would’ve happened, and that the most I would’ve gotten from someone while wearing Royals gear in a Milwaukee airport would’ve been, “Thanks for Greinke,” or “How’s Yostie?”

This was one of the first realizations, or even coherent thoughts, I had been able to have since the end of the game. Upon Sandoval’s catch, before the Royals chants began, it was as if a big mute button was instantaneously pressed upon the stadium. Packs of men jumped and hugged in seeming silence, and for hours after the game this was how my own mind felt. Blank. Silent. Not able to understand or comprehend the night, much less the last month.

And what I’m starting to realize, I think, is that the two sides to this whole thing (in the most obvious sense, and to no sports fan’s surprise, the pain and the pleasure), don’t have to be equally weighted.

The part of me that’s so sad and upset about losing Game 7 knows that right now, this is the pain at its most extreme. I wanted to win that game, and part of me will always have wanted to win that game DEARLY. Part of me will always be tormented by all the double-plays, Pablo’s HBP and unlucky infield single, the brilliant HDH bullpen, Gordon’s potential ITPHR (at the fault of Gregor, no less), Salvy’s embarrassing first-pitch swing, and that one guy on the news who throws baseballs for SF.

And I’m scared we don’t realize how incredibly lucky we are to have gotten to the World Series. I don’t mean lucky that the Royals were “good enough” to have gotten there – I really mean luck. The odds of things falling into place the way they did are extraordinary. Beyond the comeback against the A’s, every ridiculous defensive play made and clutch hit and misstep by opponents culminated into the Royals entering the World Series undefeated in the playoffs. If the odds of winning a playoff game were an even 50%, then the chances of us going 8-0 to open the post-season would be 0.39%. So of all the times the Royals make the playoffs (let’s say, for argument’s sake, once every 29 years), 1 out of 256 times things will start this same way. Hey, we saw it in 5610 BC, and we’ll see it again in 9438! I realize, of course, you don’t have to win 8 straight to get to the World Series. But if you do, how much worse does it hurt if you don’t seize that opportunity and win the thing?

“You might be 70 the next time they’re there!” someone said to me Thursday. And it’s a statement too plausible to laugh at.

There were times I felt baffled. I didn’t believe what I was seeing. I had nervous thoughts of “self”-doubt, thinking that we really weren’t this good, that it just seemed too easy, and that it was going to come as a straight smack in the face when we lost 0-4 in the WS and went the way of the 2007 Rockies. Well, there was no swift smack, but oh was there a final blow.

Everything happened so quickly and then it was all over. Then I’m on a flight back to NY to live those forgotten pre-April days where I didn’t have the solace of a Royals game at night in the back of my head.

But when the pain of the loss starts to subside just a little, here’s what we can think about:

This really is about so much more than Game 7 or winning a World Series this year. This is about baseball being back in KC, where it’s been absent my entire life. It’s about the excitement I felt in the second half of the season and during the wild card game. And when we won that wild card game my excitement wasn’t that we were seven wins away from the World Series – it was that we got to play at least three more games! That happiness, bliss, elation, that euphoric aura that’s been following me around has nothing to do with Game 7. It has to do with an inherent change in baseball in Kansas City. For many of us this is brand new, and for many this is bringing back flashes of baseball three and four decades ago.

And that emotion is here to stay. It’s permanent. That emotion is something that’s gradually been building up for the past few years, growing larger as we picked things up in the second half, overpowering us as we made the playoffs (albeit just a one-game guarantee!), and then consistently bombarding us for the past month. And good Lorde, what a RIDICULOUS MONTH!

I got to watch the Royals play in OCTOBER in my apartment with a KC crew, the Village Pourhouse, my apartment with my parents, a friends until he fell asleep (and then my apartment), at Camden, at Camden, at home, at home, at Pourhouse, at Pourhouse, at Pourhouse, at John Brown’s Smokehouse, at home, at Stag’s Head, and at Kauffman Stadium. It was like a video game of levels, and we just happened to lose to the final boss when it would’ve taken just one more blow to knock him out and beat the game.

In one 24-hour period my friends and I hung with Jeff Passan, were quoted on his front-page Yahoo article, chatted with Tim Kurkjian, and were up 2-0 in the ALCS. And things didn’t slow down.

I got to reconnect with friends from high school, family in NY, and others from KC I grew up with who I didn’t know lived blocks away from me. I “liked” posts of high school acquaintances I hadn’t seen in eight years, and it was because I actually liked their posts!

While Kansas City is still my home, I’ve often felt removed from it for the past few years, and it wasn’t until the recent consistent interaction with fellow KC folks that I became truly reconnected again.

Having said that, I’m quite jealous of everyone who got to experience this back in KC and see the city come together. Within 30 minutes of landing on Wednesday, I saw blue fountains, Royals logos mowed into beds of grass, and a TSA agent and elderly woman walking next to one another wearing the same t-shirt. Blue. Everywhere.

It’s become popular for comedians (Billy Eichner and Seth MacFarlane come to mind) to poke fun of the absurdity of fandom – that it’s silly to dedicate time, energy, pleasure, and pain to a group of adults because they were hired to work for your city. And it is kind of funny. But it’s also kind of amazing, because it’s not just about going crazy over grown men sliding around in the dirt; it’s much more about them representing a place – your place – and the people you’ve surrounded yourself with your whole life. It’s about community and embracing life through the insane talents of a few. And the problem is that for my generation, until now, it didn’t feel great that the Royals represented our place, and when the team seldom brought us together as fans, the conversation was often mockery rather than communal excitement. But all of that changes now.

Part of me wonders what it would be like for the average bandwagon fan if we had won it all. What would expectations be like moving forward? Would losing in the ALDS next year be a disappointment? To go from nothing to the World Series is a ridiculous thing, yet somehow we got so caught up in it that it just whizzed by. If we had won, the victories might be expected going forward, and that would be a horrible thing.

Regardless, there are real expectations now, and if they are not met, the pain will be tenfold what it was. We’ll have money saved from free agents, cash from the playoff run, upcoming season ticket sales, and Glass’ wallet, which now must be forcefully opened by the Royal claws of success echoing throughout KC. There will be plenty to do this offseason, and for the first time, everyone is watching.

For years I’ve had to accept apologies and condolences from others when explaining how I’m from Kansas City and root for the Royals. Now I’m accepting them because my team lost in the final out of the final game of the World Series. So thanks for all the texts, calls, and awkward in person “apologies”, and for those of you too scared to approach, I don’t blame you either. I really didn’t know how to respond to any of you or even myself until now, so consider this my answer.

Let’s just say I don’t think Mo’ne Davis is the only one who had “the best summer of their young life”.

Back on the Throne

It can’t be captured on paper. It probably can’t be captured in words. The Royals – baseball – Kansas City – it’s all part of me. It’s part of who I am, who I was, what I’ve become, and something I think about every day. Each of these things has aided in my passion for life, and the payoff of the playoff has finally happened. And trust me, I know we’re not done.

The Royals are the base of the glue that holds me to my childhood friends. It’s the way us rare Midwest folks in NYC communicate with one another. And it’s traditionally come with a lot of venting, what-ifs, and genuine frustration.

I don’t really have KC bars in NYC. I never had fellow fans in college. Hell, I spent last night at Foley’s screaming, dancing, and poppin’ bottles with an ad man from Olathe, a teacher from Garden City, and ~~Rex Hudler~~ a kid from Dodge City, and I couldn’t have cared less that I had never met them before. The unabashed thrill we shared reverberated throughout the bar and was met with such raucous applause and an understanding of what had happened that it proved what we felt was real.

I don’t want to write about what was going on in 1985 or what this means for Kansas City. Journalists everywhere (thankfully, I might add) will be doing this for days. I want to keep this short and simple and put a few things on paper so I can savor this day. So this is what flew through my mind last night while I witnessed history and thought about what it meant to me:

I have gone through three years of pre-school, six years of elementary school, three years of middle school, four years of high school, four years of college, and four years of “adult” life, and every year prior, September meant only getting ready for the Chiefs to thrill and to disappoint. But at least we sometimes got a winning season and a playoff game to come with the pain.

This is about my dad writing a letter to Royals management and canceling his season tickets after the 1994 strike, when the Royals had won 14 straight and were closing in on Chicago for first place. Here’s hoping another letter is written after the post-season this year.

It’s about every trip to the the practice field or the batting cage and angling myself at the plate like Dean Palmer and Jeff King when the rest of the world stood like Griffey and Sosa.

It’s about Willie Wilson living down the block from me serving as a constant reminder of the Royal days that had preceded my generation. So much, in fact, that I couldn’t even brag about it because my classmates didn’t know who Willie was.

It’s about seeing George Brett at the old 7-11 next to Dairy Queen down on 103rd and Roe and getting his autograph on a used Keno card.

It’s about watching at least 1,500 Royals games, for 4,500 hours, or half a year, or almost 2% of my entire life. I’m scared to calculate in the time spent reading, researching, talking, or writing about them.

It’s about screaming and jumping on the living room sofa after a Johnny Damon home run in the first inning of a meaningless 1998 game, and every other celebration that “didn’t matter”. But that emotion was real – and every time they let me down – each bit of that negative energy built up, if only to make last night’s victory that much more powerful.

It’s about making my screen name as a kid Brn4bsbl32 and wanting every other middle school student to know I was born for this. I guess it just took a while to grow up.

And yeah, it’s about every trip to Kauffman, every drive down Sni-A-Bar Road past Feed My Lambs International and the nitrogen tanks, and every pre-game rib while I watched LC doze off to the soaps on his 1992 Mitsubishi big screen.

And it’s about always being a baseball card junkie. And not like Guy Fieri being a kimchi junkie – I think I have problems worse than him. Hoarder is more than an appropriate word. I own between 30,000 – 50,000 cards. My parents have a storage facility in Kansas City 50% dedicated to my boxes of cards. My entire closet in my bedroom in KC is filled with marked, numbered boxes from over the years. In high school I would stop by Target to check for new packs in the trading card section, which I would run my thumb through to “feel” for the jersey cards. I once went to eight Rite-Aid stores in one day because trading cards were 75% off. I cleared every shelf. I started buying and selling cards on eBay in 5th grade under my mom’s name. I had Beckett’s all around the house, gnarled and faded from months of wear and memorization. In first grade my dad took me to a flea market in downtown KC where we bought unmarked boxes of 5,000 baseball cards for me to dive in and sift through. Yikes, I digress – what matters is that every single pack I ever opened, and every card I every bought – all I wanted were for them to be Royals.

But really, it’s about the unbridled optimism and enthusiasm that (Stupidly? Shamelessly?) never left me – when all the jaded fans out there who saw it all in the 70s and 80s kept grunting and looking away, my generation looked on, waiting and wondering, if and when it would ever happen.

I know they’re not done. Not this season, this year, or this decade. But finally, finally, it’s really happening, and I’m proud that I’ve always been proud to be a fan.