The Bar Belles agree on most things: Margaritas should be frozen, martinis should be shaken and a cream-liqueur nightcap after a day of downing Bloody Marys is a bad idea.
But we can’t help playing favorites when it comes to drinkin’ in the ‘hood.
Megan recently moved to Brooklyn, while Chelsea resident Libby can’t imagine why anyone would ever cross the river to find a cool bar. Whose neighborhood wins? You decide.
CHELSEA
The lush in me was worried when I moved to Chelsea from the Lower East Side, a neighborhood where you can’t throw an empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon without hitting a bar.
I assumed that as a straight girl living in gay Chelsea, my drinking and, more important, flirting options were limited.
Well, they’re not. In fact, there’s a bar in my nabe to fit my every mood and I’m one moody chick.
If I’m feeling fabulous and just a wee bit bitchy, I put on my skinny jeans and hit Man Ray (147 W. 15th St., between Sixth and Seventh avenues; [212] 929-5000), Chelsea’s latest celeb drinking ‘n’ dining mecca.
Man Ray is ground zero for Chelsea star sightings, and its clientele is as pretty as its vibrant Asian-inspired interior. And, best of all, its sake-based cosmos are a taste sensation. (The vodka gimlet made with fresh lime juice isn’t bad, either.)
If I’m in a slightly more laid-back mood but still want to see stars early in the evening, I go to The Park (18 10th Ave., between 17th and 18th streets; [212] 352-3313). It’s a gorgeous spot, with tall ceilings, a great roof deck for VIP parties and a tree that shoots up from the middle of the ground floor dining area.
My very favorite part of Park’s interior, however, is the area behind the downstairs bar a glass-backed wall lined with shelves of liquors from A to Z. It’s a beautiful sight.
Passerby (436 W. 15th St., between Ninth and 10th avenues, adjacent to the Gavin Brown Gallery; [212] 206-7321) strikes my fancy because it’s got a pleasantly artsy scene of folks who would never think to seek out the aforementioned hotspots.
The crowd there is cool not the sort to stare me down if I were to turn up in a creatively deconstructed dress. Hell, I could come in naked and still not get as much attention from the cute, import-drinking painters who hit the multicolored dance floor a la “Saturday Night Fever.”
No, Passerby’s not the place to go if you’re feeling particularly romantic.
For that, I hit Ciel Rouge (176 Seventh Ave., between 20th and 21st streets; [212] 929-5542). It’s sexy the ultimate local spot for getting gooey, preferably over a cognac while tucked into a red-lit corner table.
That’d be a second date, though.
In my opinion, first-date bars shouldn’t be all that fancy. They have to be fun cheap, lively and, preferably, dive-y.
Luckily, Chelsea has several good options.
I’ve done flaming tequila shots and fed the snapping turtles that muck around the tanks at Village Idiot (355 W. 14th St., between Eighth and Ninth avenues; [212] 989-7334). And it’s more fun than a stick in the eye.
But I usually sate my bottom-feeder jones at Flannery’s (205 W. 14th St., between Seventh and Eighth avenues; [212] 229-2122), where the bar is long and the patrons are an amusing mix of the down-and-out and upwardly mobile.
Who cares that the decor is dingy, that they play ESPN on the big-screen TV and that the stained-glass light fixtures look like they were salvaged from an abandoned Pizza Hut.
Flannery’s has cold Bud in a bottle for $4 and plenty of Skynyrd on the jukebox, which is all this Chelsea Belle really needs from a bar.
CARROLL GARDENS
I can’t claim to be among the first wave of prescient Manhattanites who gazed out across the East River and saw the future.
But one begrudging visit to a friend’s Brooklyn pad was all it took. Quicker than a New York minute, I was on the F train, bound for a cheaper, bigger apartment in Carroll Gardens, where the mood is sane, the natives are friendly and, darn it, if the bars don’t kick the butt of those in my old SoHo ‘hood.
Scoff all you want, island residents. I’ll have the last laugh on you other bridge-and-tunnelers, snuggled up in a chic banquette at the stylish new martini bar Quench (282 Smith St., at Sackett Street; [718] 875-1500), knocking back a Manhattan Bites, the bar’s aptly named, tart vodkatini.
Remember the term neighborhood bar? Well, we’ve still got ’em places with great, old-school jukeboxes and cheap brews where everybody knows your name.
Sparky’s Ale House (481 Court St., at Nelson Street; [718] 624-5516) has just been voted the best beer bar in New York by Zagat’s “2002 New York City Nighlife” guide, but Carrollers don’t need some fancy imprimatur to know this dog-friendly beer house rocks.
Sparky’s doesn’t sell hard liquor, just an ever-changing selection of beers from around the world about 30 on tap and 100 in bottles. This Bar Belle had just managed to work her way through a boast-worthy percentage of them, when they rotated the list. C’est la vie!
I’ll just have to make a return visit between trips to my personal favorite for brews, The Brooklyn Inn, (148 Hoyt St., at Bergen Street; [718] 625-9741). Guaranteed, you won’t find anything like this saloon in Manhattan. It has enormous antique mirrors, high ceilings, exquisite dark wood paneling, and bingo! sparse crowds.
That’s not to say Carroll Gardens doesn’t have its share of hip, of-the-moment bars. They don’t come much cooler or kookier than Sherwood Cafe (195 Smith St., between Warren and Baltic streets; [718] 596-1609).
The leafy, gravel-strewn courtyard hidden behind the Robin des Bois antique shop is the perfect spot to sip sangria on a warm afternoon. And there’s plenty to look at. The outdoor cafe continues the shop’s retro-kitsch theme, with oddball touches like giant twin Shell gas-station signs, mismatched chairs and my usual table a glass-topped bathtub housing a family of bobbing wooden ducks.
I’m looking forward to winter evenings cuddled up in front of the fireplace at Angry Wades (222 Smith St., between Butler and Douglass streets; [718] 488-7253).
But for now, stopping by for a $2 happy hour Bloody Mary at Wades on the way to check out the eclectic new arrivals at the boutique Storm Mortensen on Court Street has become a fixture on my weekend to-do list.
And I’ll always find time, between stoop-sale hopping, for a watermelon martini at Uncle Pho (263 Smith St., at Degraw Street; [718] 855-8737. At Pho no matter how modish it gets you know you’ll never be confronted by a velvet rope.
Take that, Manhattan!
