Cheers to Dive Bars

At an alarmingly young age, I had this dream of patrons and bartenders hollering “Al!” when I walked into a local dive bar, the same way Sam, Coach, and Woody would holler “Norm!” on Cheers. Now, I settle for a hug from an aging Spanish-American who sits at the end of the bar his family has owned since before my grandfather was born. 

In San Francisco’s Best Dive Bars, Todd Dayton wrote that “dive bars are like pornography: hard to define, but you know it when you see it.” In the seven years I have been legally allowed to drink and the nine years I have been hopping from one drinking establishment to another, dive bars have always been my favorites. While somewhat unexplainable, to me they feel like my paternal grandma's house when my gigantic Irish-Catholic family would get together—loud laughter, dumb arguments, and sports playing on an old television in my periphery. 

Dives are some of the few places where a newly minted 21-year-old who thinks Miller High Life is the height of alcohol and a retired firefighter coming back to beer as their main source of inebriation can mingle naturally. In dive bars, working-class folks can spend an entire night for fairly cheap, finance guys can come as a first (and probably the funnest) stop before going to some cocktail lounge, lesbians can shoot pool and make grown men cry, and low-pressure first dates can occur simultaneously. It is a glitch in the nightlife matrix, possibly the last place on Earth where putting a right-wing conspiracy theorist and a socialist on neighboring stools leads to singing “Piano Man” together by the end of the night.  

Anything ordered with more than two ingredients is met with side eyes between the (usually) aging bartender and one of the old heads of the establishment. Beer, gin and tonic, vodka and soda, screwdriver, Jack and Coke, or a pickleback are the drinks of choice in a dive bar. They will likely come in a plastic cup.

With a cheap drink in hand, a pocket full of quarters, and a pool table nearby, you can feel like you’re back in one of those nights from your youth. It’s as if you’re back in a friend’s wood-paneled basement, drinking the same shitty cocktail, and slowly getting drunker while making jokes about balls and holes every time you make a shot on a shabby old pool table. The nostalgia of youth makes these dilapidated joints unique. 

There are a few undeniable characteristics that can make a dive bar, but it’s a hard thing to capture. Dives open early and close late; cash is king; there is a cast of regulars; they are not fancy; there is seldom food other than a bag of chips; and there is a jukebox filled with songs that would now be classified as dad rock. If there isn’t a pool table, there are darts. If there aren’t darts, there are dominos. If there aren't dominos, there is a drunk older man with whom simply talking can be a game. They are often a museum of decor from all the decades up to about 2004, when every dive bar wordlessly decided they are done with upgrades.

Going to a dive is also a cure-all. Dancing is fun and joyful, but you don’t go dancing for comfort after your dad dies or you go through a breakup. For whatever reason, comfort is stool at a bar that is sticky to the touch, and where no one will bother you. It’s a middle-aged bartender casually placing a beer in front of you with a small grin. It’s as close to a hug as you’ll get from a stranger. 

I am a regular dive bar patron. My favorite is Montero’s Bar and Grill (although they do not use the grill) in Brooklyn Heights. Built by the hands of naval officers, its nautical theme has vaguely stood the test of time. Montero’s is wooden throughout and has a non-operational phone booth. It is adorned with an assemblage of art, and it’s broken up into two sections: a bar in the front and an aggressively lit pool table in the back.

The owner is an old Spanish man whose wife works the bar as he sits and takes stock of his kingdom. Thursday through Saturday, it is a karaoke hotspot. Jukebox music gets replaced by a drunken flow of pop, punk, dad rock, jazz, and rap. Amethyst Valentino has been running the adult talent show for nearly two decades, and she is a force. With a voice that commands the room and a razor-sharp wit, she keeps the crowd hanging on every note. Her delightfully filthy humor and shameless innuendos make Karaoke night at Montero’s worth coming back for time and again.

At Montero’s, you’ll find me camped out by the pool table. I’ll be mean-flirting with medium-ugly men and acting the less-than-helpful pool partner to one of my friends who actually aims the ball—my approach is to shoot purely based on vibes. Back by the pool table, you will meet all types of people:

• Bushwick lesbians. There is always one designated photographer, constantly snapping away with her camera. One in the group can actually play. The other three are struggling to line up a shot they ultimately biff. 

• Middle-aged men. These men sing like angels, and are only mildly condescending when a woman beats them at a game of pool. 

• The classic girl-boy couple. The boy maneuvers the classic trick of “let me show you,” standing close behind his girlfriend, and helping position her arms. 

• Frat guys turned finance bros. These guys have names like Dave, or Peter.

• Woo Girls on a night out. They all dress in cute little dresses and have high-precision makeup. This group was likely dragged here, less than willing, by their one more alternative friend.

The list could go on and on. That's the charm of this Brooklyn Heights establishment — you could meet anyone there!

If you are like me, and you want to spend time somewhere that feels like a wood-paneled Midwest basement, Welcome to the Johnsons is the place for you. It feels like a spot where Eric Forman and his friends in That ‘70s Show would sneak off to. The beer here is served from a fridge that is straight from Y2K.

There are many great spots in New York where the drinking stakes could not be any lower. In a city known for its fine dining, clubs, cocktail bars, jazz joints, and sports bars, dive bars still have a hold on the night. 

The oddity of the New York dive scene is not a surprise. A city whose nightlife resurgence was built by freaks in the 1970s and 1980s is bound to have bizarre joints, and there’s something for everyone. You want a dive with dancing, burgers, a photobooth, vaguely tiki-inspired drinks, and pool? That exists. Abe’s Pagoda is the spot for you. The place is made up of three spaces where drinking, dancing, and pool to coexist with ease.

Turtles All The Way Down is your spot if you want a bar with a unique, bizarre activity. The activity? Turtle race betting. On the first Sunday of the month, any patron can walk in and place a bet on Ashanti or Ja Rule, one of two turtles that live in the bar. You can win a free drink, and yes, before anyone asks: they are well taken care of and beloved.  

The rest of this country is similar only in that its dive bars capture the unique feel of each community's people and culture. Tapping into my deep network of Midwest Irish drunks, East Coast millennials, and West Coast cool guys, I have a list of tried-and-true dive bars well worth the visit.  

In Chicago, IL, dives are historic in part because they were born from the old taverns, pubs, and cabarets that made up the city’s unique brothel culture in the late 1800’s. The Chicago Tribune reported in 1881 that “there are over 500 saloons in Chicago which do not deserve to be called respectable.” To me, that is exactly the type of description a dive bar should aspire to. Jake’s Pub is ninety-one years old and has no doors on the men's room stalls. It has one window. It has a pool table. They also serve Schlitz in a can. The bartenders pour heavy, the stories get taller with each round, and the only thing that matters is the next drink in your hand.

Like Chicago, Boston, MA, holds its own in the long history of American drinking. Some dives have been operating since prohibition, and many are found on ground-level floors or in basements. A friend once told me that it's not really a neighborhood in Boston without a bar. O'Brien’s Pub, specifically the one in Allston—in Boston there are multiple O’Brien’s—offers live music from different genres every night of the week. It’s a no-frills joint where the beers flow as easily as the conversation and nobody is in a rush to leave. 

Philadelphia, PA, is a city with as rich a history as the last. It feels as if it were laid out to house dive bars. At Bob and Barbara’s, known for Philly’s longest-running weekly drag show, you’ll find college students mingling with locals over a great shot-and-beer combo. It is still cash-only; the crowd is loud; the drinks are simple. In Philly, the good times don’t need anything fancy to keep on rolling.

When I lived in San Francisco, CA, I learned that dive bars are not this city's specialty. Beautiful, gay, flamboyant bars and dance spots are what the city is known for. Still, dives have managed to stay true. Noc Noc is “lower Haight’s most unusual bar.” Full of creepy, cozy corners to drink beer, wine, or sake, the bartenders here will shame you for ordering Bud, Coors, or PBR. They don’t stock them, and they don’t have much liquor either. The lighting is low; the décor is questionable. At Noc Noc the best nights end without a clear memory of how they started.

Raleigh, NC, has always had a gritty, no-nonsense streak. Its dive bars reflect that spirit. The city may be growing fast, but like the establishments at the bedrock of America’s other urban scenes, Raleigh’s best dives keep things simple: cheap drinks, good music, and a crowd that doesn’t ask for anything fancy. Slim’s is proof. The city’s oldest rock ‘n’ roll bar is a tight, dimly lit squeeze of cheap beer, stiff pours, and walls that have soaked up decades of sweat and sound. Don’t come looking for craft cocktails or pretense—Slim’s is for drinking, headbanging, and losing track of time.

Simple, yet hard to define—why write about dives? Think about dives? Dive bars are the backbone of American nightlife. While they are rare in New York and other major cities, they can be the entirety of small-town nightlife. They are the last haven for unlikely community and inclusivity. Talking about politics with someone who might have differing political views is easier when you are five beers in. Maybe I am a lunatic, but it’s thrilling to say something liberal to a very conservative man on the next stool, not knowing if you’ll get clocked or get an arm thrown around you with a laugh and a “you crazy sonofabitch, someone get this gal a drink.” Can you think of a place where that would happen, other than a dive?