photo: Andy Kropa more nyclife most popular most commented The Whitney Biennial: Art Sucks, Let's Go Shopping by Lynn Yaeger New Nigerian Rocks on Hendrix in East New York Counter Culture by Robert Sietsema How Chefs Are Dealing With the Tanking Dollar Fork in the Road by Sarah DiGregorio Trapped in Wedding Hell by Lynn Yaeger Tamil Nadu Bhavan, a New, Strictly Vegetarian Indian Restaurant in Curry Hill Counter Culture by Robert Sietsema NYPD Inaction Over a Missing Black Woman Found Dead Sparks a Historic Racial-Bias Lawsuit by Sean Gardiner Why Can't I Leave My Boyfriend Tied Up While I Go the Movies? Savage Love by Dan Savage Speed Racer by J. Hoberman The NYPD's Secret Crusade Against Marijuana Furthers a Racist Agenda by Nat Hentoff Mass Arrests at Sean Bell Protest NYPD Inaction Over a Missing Black Woman Found Dead Sparks a Historic Racial-Bias Lawsuit (9) Sean Gardiner Former Scientologist Actor Wants his Confessional Files Back (8) Tony Ortega Dirty Blonde: Brooklyn, a Place to Impress Strangers (4) Dirty Blonde: Annie Fischer Runnin' Scared: Deep South of Houston: Is a Soul-Food Restaurant Too Black for Soho? (3) Runnin' Scared: Chloe A. Hilliard David Mamet: Why I Am No Longer a 'Brain-Dead Liberal' (3) David Mamet

On a recent Tuesday night we wandered through the establishment's garage-like, retractable door that effectively erases the boundary between bar and sidewalk (though the smoking crowd would disagree). Stepping over the threshold into the ocher-colored room was like breaking the fourth wall on a stage set. We quickly performed the mandatory dive test: Dim lighting? Yup. Pool table? No doubt. Dusty beat-up board games? Bingo.

There was no crowd to speak of—that's the beauty of dives-—just some dudes in cargo shorts shooting stick in the back and a gentleman sipping merlot at the bar with his pooch in the next seat. Yet, unlike some bars that strain to achieve the same insouciant mood (here's looking at you, L.E.S.), the pieces all fit. The spot just has that slow, scruffy charm of a stoner pal: "Hey buddy," it inquires amiably, "How you been?"

In one corner sits Big Buck Hunter for your blood-lust fantasies, while decorations from various holidays gone by dangle from the ceiling. Twin television sets frame the bar like single quotes, and the jukebox is loaded with go-to standards like Oasis and Dolly Parton, as well as homemade mixes with their tiny hand-scrawled track-listings. Nothing new perhaps, but counterculturally speaking, there's nothing wrong with that.

Things stayed mellow as folks drifted in and out, a starving artist type clearly taking a creative break dropped in to kick back a few while chatting with the barman. Taking a cue from the lazy atmosphere, we settled in. For $5 we selected our personal soundtrack for the evening—T. Rex, Avalanches, The Clash (twice)—and planted ourselves at the bar. There are no surprises (we like it like that) to be had in the generic draft selections: Red Hook IPA, Brooklyn Lager, and Harpoon—although they did come in mug and pint sizes ($4 and $5 respectively). Inspired by the warm weather, I opted for a can of Tecate ($3) doctored up with a bit of salt, a spritz of lime, and a few dashes of Tabasco. It tasted just like Spring Break, minus the sunburn and mysterious bruises.

The evening unspooled at the same leisurely pace. We enjoyed the end of the 2-4-1 Happy Hour, which stretched from 5–8 p.m. The bartender greeted newcomers like regulars and even comped a couple rounds—that's just what friends do. By the way, it was Mark Twain who said that thing about familiarity and contempt, but he bankrupted himself, so what the hell did he know?