Irish Haven

5721 4th Ave. (58th St.) Sunset Park, no phone

While I pride myself on knowledge of Manhattan's brackish alleys, Brooklyn's less-gentrified locales befuddle me.

Like Sunset Park. Roughly speaking, the neighborhood begins where Park Slope ends and ends where Bay Ridge begins. Sunset Park was a sleepy nabe until a wave of 1850s Irish immigration. Soon after, the Polish put down stakes, soon followed by Danes, Swedes and Finns. Shipping and manufacturing boomed, then busted. And by 1990, tamales overtook shamrocks: The 'hood was nearly 50 percent Hispanic.

Constant reinvention is NYC's calling card: The Lower East Side gone Hispanic gone hipster, for example. But the interesting story is when establishments hold down a crumbling ethnic fort in the face of upheaval. In search of such a stalwart, Travis, José and I board a southbound R train. We exit at 59th Street into a cloudy winter afternoon and soon stumble upon the Irish Haven.

The neon-lit bar abuts desolate, traffic-whizzing 4th Ave. The facade is gray and awningless, reminiscent of a World War II bunker. Perfect. We open the door and enter beneath a taxidermied deer's head.

At 4:30 p.m., it's a crowd of 15 or 20 paint-splattered, crewcutted and otherwise thick-muscled white men drinking bottles of Coors Light and whispering in conspiratorial tones. They look up when we walk in, strangers in an unnamed social club.

"I am not taking my coat off," says José. "I'm wearing a purple sweater."

Normally, I'd call José emasculating names, but he has a point: The regulars' garb leans toward sidewalk: gray, with splotches of black and suspect dark colors. Bar decorations include a Budweiser mirror covered by a green map of Ireland, a photo of Bill Clinton and a Family Feud?showing tv.

Frank the bartender wears a blue, tucked-in short-sleeve shirt and a red nose: "What can I do for ya?"

We order a Guinness, Coors Light and mug of nearly extinct Schaefer beer. The total is a pleasing seven dollars. We sit at a table while the Stones' "Start Me Up" plays so quietly it sounds like a funeral dirge. So much for Irish cheer, I say.

Well, Travis says, it is cheer if you consider cheer escaping from the job and wife to suck down an afternoon beer. And this isn't such a bad thing. "Neighborhood dives like these are dying," he says, draining foamy Guinness.

"Yeah, but I'm afraid to talk any louder than a whisper," I say. "Let's go play pool."

We enter the back room. Several banquet tables are covered with green plastic. A dried-out dartboard and poster featuring Irish cottages hang from walls. A construction worker with a mullet drinks Coors next to a late-40-something with a walrus moustache. I start to inset quarters into the table.

"Dude, you've gotta give that table a jiggle," says Moustache, who quickly identifies himself as Mike, an Irishman with Jeff Bridges' Lebowski cadence.

I jiggle, remove a full rack of balls, then watch them remain on the table. José is a pool newbie, and shaking hands mean he shanks every shot. Travis is a B-grade player, but every José miss blocks Travis' shooting lanes.

After 20 minutes, Travis, finally, needs an eight ball for victory. He misses nine straight shots. "You guys, no offense, fucking suck," Mike says. "I'm on your team now." He takes Travis' stick and starts aiming at the eight ball. We stare, gape-jawed.

"Dudes, don't you think I know what I'm doing?"

Answers, luckily, escape us.

"Whatever, dudes. Nice glasses," Mike says to me, lining up a shot. "They look good on your face. Match your eyes."

While I chew homoerotic subtext-or macho compliment-Mike takes aim. After several minutes, the air pregnant with potential doom, Mike harrumphs and shoots. The eight dribbles into the black pocket. Game. Set. Love?

"I'm sorry it had to end this way," Mike says, his 'stache drooping. "I'm so sorry."

He steps toward José and wraps his arms around him in a two-seconds-too-long clinch. Then Mike's arms slacken and he moves to Travis. "Dude, I'm so sorry. Do you understand, dude?"

Travis nods his bald head and shimmies from Mike. His eyes lock on my chest. I ponder a door dash, but when you've made the effort to taste a new neighborhood flavor, why not fully embrace it, even when this flavor goes by the name of Mike?

"I'm giving you a head rub," he says, tousling my hair like I'm a T-ball player who just struck out. "Now put your hood on," he says, pulling my black hoodie over now-messy hair and nudging me toward the door. "I'll turn out the lights behind you."