Farrell's Bar and Grill
WITH MANHATTAN LOCKED up tighter than a protestor on Pier 57 and cops doling out disorderly conduct arrests like discount-mattress flyers, it was a fine time to get blotto in Brooklyn. Keeping that in mind, my girlfriend Adrianne and I hopped on bikes and pedaled deep into Windsor Terrace, far from Madison Square's maelstrom, intent on a beer and burger, hold the handcuffs.
On Prospect Park West, her tires squeak to a stop.
"Jackpot. I'll buy you one loaded with onions and pickles," she says, pointing to a green and red neon sign winking, "Farrell's Bar and Grill."
I de-bike and examine the storefront. A police notice commends Farrell's for unflinching allegiance. Patriotic posters support troops with words like "God" and "bless" in blue and red. Inside, a man's shirt features 9/11's holy trinity: American flag, eagle and World Trade towers standing strong.
"Well, we'll either get drunk or punched, but our odds are hardly worse than in Union Square," I say.
"Agreed."
We lock our bikes and, bellies rumbling, enter a misconception.
Near the entrance rests an L-shaped wooden cubby, typically reserved for menus and a restaurant host. But hosts and menus are bygone memories. Instead, a shlubby patron in a rainbow-striped shirt peruses a Post. He's sipping beer from the largest Styrofoam cup this side of Greenpoint Tavern. There's nary a french fry in sight.
Standing at the stool-less bar, however, are off-duty policemen on a golf outing: khaki shorts and rumpled collared shirts tucked over stout stomachs. Most rest a shoe on a well-worn wooden foot stand and drink seven-ounce Bud goblets. They're watching the World Series of Poker on tv.
"That guy's a fuckin' wuss," the bartender, a white-haired man with a bristly moustache, shouts at a perspiring poker player. "He's a turkey, too."
Khaki'd customers-greeted with first-name familiarity-chuckle and shout "stinkin' moron." I resist the urge to click my Converse three times and vanish, and instead shuffle to the bar. If I can't eat dinner, I may as well drink it.
"Uh, could I have one of those Styrofoam containers and a pint?" I ask.
"Huh? You wan' a what?" the bartender asks, mistaking polysyllabic for hieroglyphic. He moves aside, revealing a Guinness can in front of a cross.
I alter my tactic. "One of 'dem," I say, pointing toward the Styrofoam. "An' a pint."
"Oh, okay." The bartender grabs a frozen glass and Styrofoam cup and pours my Brooklyn-by-way-of-Ohio request.
The price is right. Just $7.50: $3.25 for her pint, and $4.25 for my landfill-clogger. (Not that I'm suggesting anything improper, but to-go lids sit nearby.) Beers runs $.75 more than Greenpoint Tavern, but the surcharge keeps hipsters at bay. And women. Until the 70s Farrell's, like the East Village's McSorley's tavern, was off limits to ladies. The circa-1933 bar was a Windsor Terrace boys club. Manly men flocked-cops, firefighters, construction workers-to escape the female influence.
"I used to lay down beneath my car, work on it, watch a girl go by, then-bam! Chase after her," says a goateed man in a muscle shirt. He gulps foamy brew. "I don't do that anymore."
"I hear that. Wives'll do a number on you if you let 'em," says his friend wearing a backward Yankees cap, the bar's unofficial dress code. Not to mention code of honor. Woe the Mets fan who makes his allegiance known. Come October, the bar is as raucous as Yankee Stadium. Cracked tile floor teems with rabid fans, letting everyone know-warranted or not-precise sentiments on Steinbrenner.
In a way, it's refreshing to kick back a cool one at Farrell's. Old-school Brooklyn represent, right? Still, if customers wield neither hammer nor badge, the bar can be unnerving. With slant-eyed stares shot our way, I suspect young liberals are about as welcome as women once were. I glance at the framed American flag, then finish my beer. Adrianne leaves. I head to the bathroom to confirm a quote.
"Farrell's Bar in Brooklyn had urinals so large they looked like shower stalls for Toulouse-Lautrec," actor Joe Flaherty once said. True to form, the ice-filled urinal could easily fit the stunted French painter. Not to mention a litter of puppies, several days of dirty laundry and, most importantly, the end product from 32-ounces of Budweiser.
As has been custom for 70 years, and will continue so when I step outside, I take aim and watch the ice melt. o