The painful luck of the aging hipster wannabe is his craving for cool—co-opted, pre-masticated, and served on some crazy-ass Lucite plate that’s also an art project. But as DUMBO chins out for a Baudrillardian hook, Pedro’s remains oddly, pleasantly real. Outside, it splits the difference between a frontier watering hole and a south Florida shanty. Inside, it’s low-ceilinged, decorated with inverted sombreros, haphazard photos, and a print by Colombian humanist Fernando Botero. Beers come from the fridge, just like home, but you probably don’t have 15 kinds to choose from (the usuals, plus Presidente, Sol, and Carta Blanca, among others; $3). You also don’t make chicken burritos this big and good ($6, and enough for two). Lysistrata 100 ($6), a blend of Limón, grenadine, Fanta Pineapple, and drops of hot sauce, goes down easier than you’d think, but its bearing on Aristophanes’ gender comedy’s a mystery, especially after a few of the self-proclaimed “best margaritas in town” ($6). Strong but taste-considerate, they come in regular, Purple, Passion, Sunrise, Tropical, and Sour Apple. Happy hour’s till seven daily ($1 off everything), and a jazz band plays Thursdays, but there’s party music most every night, a friendly crowd—casual enough for a game of chess, inclined to spontaneous dancing—and other proof that some things can just be what they are.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on April 20, 2004