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February 9, 2008 This was one of those nights when I didn't want to go anywhere, I just wanted to get there. I was sitting on the bus to the PATH train in the pouring rain, on my way to Fat Baby (112 Rivington St). My friend Jen had invited me to a party for someone I never met who was moving to Hong Kong. I was really looking forward to hanging out and was hoping to get to talk to this person. I've always been fascinated by great escapes and life altering change. I would not get the chance as the night progressed. Serving as entertainment on my commute, the bus driver and a passenger discovered that they actually grew up in the same neighborhood. It all started with a joke when the driver noticed the passenger's 'Super Bowl Champions NY Giants' jacket. "Yeah, now everyone is a Giants fan," he quipped. The passenger snapped back, "I was a fan back when #10 was Fran Tarkenton." Which led the driver to brag on how he used to watch the team practice at nearby Roosevelt Stadium. From there it was a barrage of, "do you know so and so?" "Yeah I do, do you know this and that?" "Oh my God, yes." And so on. By the time I got to Fat Baby, some fears began to come to life. Earlier I had thought about how this place can get crowded and there tends to be a line to get in. Sure enough, here in the pouring rain, was a line of umbrella toting hopefuls. Then came my next fear; the 'Velvet Rope'. As folks scurried in past the I.D. check point, I was given an awkward look by the bouncer. "Have you been here before?" I thought he was just making small talk. Instead, he went on to say that hoodies and tee-shirts were not allowed and if he ever saw me here without a proper, button-down dress shirt again, he won't let me in. This time, he'd give me a break. I wanted to say something clever. I wanted to play the journalist card. I wanted to say, "Dude, I've not only been here before, but I've written plenty of articles about the place. Please don't make your idiotic claims of a dress code be the reason for me to give Fat Baby it's first bad review." Instead, wanting to get out of the rain and into the party, I just smiled at the lunacy of it and walked in. Once inside, I was shocked to see so many tee-shirts and hoodies in the exceptionally crowded lounge tonight. That's when I realized my problem at the door had little (or nothing) to do with my outfit. I was a guy flying solo with no hotties on my arm. Oh if he only knew the vast array of hotness I was here to meet. Sweating and thirsty, I maneuvered my way thru the hipster sardine can that was the top bar to the sunken area where the party was being held. By the time I made it through, I was pooped. I somehow managed to score a seat and ditched my heavy winter coat and umbrella. I never did get a drink though. Not ten minutes in, the rumblings began about leaving. Don't get me wrong, this was a fantastic party. Everyone was having a great time and I did show up very late, but was I happy to hear that a small group wanted to hit another bar. Just around the corner from the mayhem is an unassuming, darkened glass door plastered with photocopies of warnings regarding theft of personal items and such. I've walked past this place many times and never even thought to go in. After all, it hardly even looks like a bar from the street. As I walked into The Whiskey Ward (121 Essex St), I wondered if the outer facade was there to scare the fashionable bridge and tunnel types.
This is a saloon, plain and simple with peanut shells on the floor, high ceilings and plenty of room to mingle or play pool. Their name says it all when deciding what to drink. Their whiskey selection is massive, but I was wiped out from my earlier experience, so without wanting to really think I went with a simple Knob Creek bourbon, neat and a Guinness. Another sign of a great bar--in my humble opinion--is their ability to pour a pint of Guinness. So it's usually what I order first as a test. This place definitely passed. Free of that hipper-than-thou pretense so prevalent in NYC, I had a great time being able to talk with friends and listen to some great music. The DJ tonight was seriously impressing me. Him playing Killing Joke I thought was just fun happenstance. Then came a clever segue of The Cure into The Glove. All the while mixing in classic soul and rock, this guy was good. I felt like a giddy little kid as I kept going up to shake his hand. I requested some Oingo Boingo, but left before he had a chance to play it.
In the end, the moral of this story is, if there is a line and a velvet rope outside of a bar on the Lower East Side, you're probably better off moving on to the next place. Of course I still think Fat Baby is one of the best small, live-music rooms in NYC and the velvet rope doesn't seem to apply if you are there to see a band. Still, I can seriously do without the false sense of snootiness they've adopted for the upper lounge area. And if you are in the area and feel the need to move on to a real bar, by all means check out The Whiskey Ward. Links:
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