A tarnished mockery of the khaki-clad suburban establishment, Bushwick Country Club lives up to its name with dingy chandeliers that barely illuminate worn leather sofas, while out back lies a trashy, nine-hole miniature-golf course, complete with a windmill barrier constructed from PBR cans. A reprieve for those sick of Stella and Brooklyn Lager, the bar serves up hard-to-find draft beers like Gaffel K and Dentergems Wit (wheat). A signature drink, the Buff Jimmy, boasts white-cranberry aquavit mixed with Jim Beam Black and ginger ale. Keen eyes searching behind the bar will also find sake and coffee-infused Patrón. Much like at the club back home, membership has its privileges—namely, daily drink specials from 5 to 8 p.m., ranging from select $3 beers to two-for-one deals. But a simple request won’t get every sucker a gold membership card. Keeping with the history of club exclusivity, a current member has to refer potential newcomers. In other words, if you want to belong, don’t piss off the jerks sipping manhattans.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on October 4, 2005