Nancy Whiskey

 Nancy Whiskey, perched stubbornly at the border of Chinatown, wouldn’t be the same without Barry, the weathered Irish gentleman who looks oddly like Christopher Lloyd. He’ll not only try to reduce your tab accumulated over hours of tippling to a fraction of its original size, but if you tell him you’re taking the subway he’ll give you cab fare. It’s essential that you sit at the bar in a place like this, in which free drinks are handed out less than democratically; you’ve got to earn Barry’s respect, but once you do, he remembers you, and his memory is infinitely longer than that of most New York bartenders. For larger parties, there’s a ramshackle second floor and a few tables crowded around the shuffleboard table, that elusive Dodo of the bar world. Be warned, however, about entering the bar in a large, drunken group, especially of the Greek variety: Barry has been known to kick customers out before they get through the front door.

Another bonus of this comfortingly rustic pub is the greasy bar food served late into the night, with a spectrum running from the good (cheese fries) to the disturbing (the ‘pizza’). Generally, the jockier crowd takes their hot wings and pitchers of Bud Light upstairs and leaves the true alcoholics downstairs to inevitably start a sing-along to the Irish classics Barry complains about but never takes out of the jukebox. The mix of generations and backgrounds is similar to that in most Irish dives in New York right now, but somehow there’s a friendlier vibe at Nancy Whiskey. Just don’t ask for a whiskey sour.

 Sad note: Shortly after writing this article, I received the terrible news that Barry had left Nancy Whiskey and become a bartender somewhere else, but I still don’t know where.  Nancy Whiskey is still a great place to drink, but it just ain’t the same.  Sigh.