This past weekend I spent my Saturday evening in the Financial District at a bar called The Patriot. The Patriot is a large two story dive bar located on Chambers and Church St. Upon walking into The Pat, you’re met with the typical All-American pub garnish: flags, wood tables, jukebox, etc. Nothing too surprising. However, once you walk up the stairs onto the second floor you realize this is no ordinary bar as your eyes cannot help but be immediately drawn to the…wait for it…six bras hanging off the light fixtures. Now, I’m not saying getting six women to give up their unmentionables isn’t an accomplishment in itself, but I’m assuming the brassieres were most likely tossed up to the ceiling on separate occasions. Meaning, at one point there must have only been a single C or B-cup hanging off a light bulb. Therefore, you’d think after spotting the second or third isolated bra, the owner might have felt compelled to buy some more simply to provide a little balance. Bra balance. I mean, you can get like, five for $10 at Filene’s Basement. No one said ceiling lingerie needed to be nice, just trashy.

Along with the questionable undergarment decor, there’s something to be said about The Patriot’s jukebox, and how it sucks. I think it held about 40 cds, all of which were country. But that’s to be expected. But what’s not to be so expected is that only five or six songs actually get played. I’m not sure if it was the jukebox itself or the people paying for the songs that decided to run “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and “Sweet Home Alabama” in rotation, but either way, they should know that those songs, if heard more than once in an hour setting, will cause someone to go on a blog and whine about it.

And to my friends who are reading this right now (hi, guys), I know you’re probably saying to yourself, “But flung bras and ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ were both featured in your favorite Adam Garcia film, ‘Coyote Ugly.’ How can this not be your favorite place on earth outside of the $5.50 DVD bin at Wal-Mart?” My answer to this question is: I do not know. It’s a mystery to me as well.

But I must say, though The Patriot has its faults, it has some good points too. Well, really just one: $6 pbr and $9 bud pitchers. This means everyone can buy their own pitcher of beer and take swigs right out of them, like when people used to use those head-sized coffee cups. And last time I checked, people who get incredibly drunk off of cheap beer are really pleasant, especially when they’re frat boys who end the night with some pool cue dry humping.

Suggested Beer Glass

So in conclusion, while I wouldn’t give The Patriot my highest rating, I wouldn’t give it my lowest either. Overall I’d give it 1 1/2 Bubble Yums (out of a pack of five).

PS. Just so you know, this place would work well for any hipster looking to hang out somewhere that would give them the “ironic” bar cred.

Bon Vivant Diner: located on Broadway b/w 11th & 12th Streets

This diner is pricey. Probably too pricey. It’s decent though. But nothing to scream and shout over. Though, their milkshakes are tasty. Recklesley was so taken by the chilled drink she proposed there be a way to, “inject [the] milkshake directly into [her] veins.” We Brooklyn Skeptics prefer sugary treats over liquid heroin. We feel you just get more out of it.

As for the service, the waitstaff seemed pretty competent, for the most part anyway. At one point during the meal I, the author, asked our waiter for the location of the (women’s) powder room, and my question was met with the response, “yeah, sure.” Hmmm, interesting answer. Interesting and not at all helpful. (No need to fret, I eventually found the restroom on my own. Because I am a champion.)

There isn’t really anything more to be said about Bon Vivant Diner (English translation: Good [Something] Diner). It was pretty mediocre in all respects. My overall opinion: Nay-ish.

*I should point out that this diner is not in Brooklyn. Sorry.

Royale
506 Fifth Avenue @ 12th Street
Park Slope, Brooklyn

Royale might actually be the polar opposite of Jackie’s 5th Amendment. It is a real cool bar. There are no old people here. There are only track jackets and hoop earrings as far as the eye can see.

When Brooklyn Skeptic hit this place up, we were fortunate enough to have staked out a prime piece of real estate in the back room at an enormous booth, only made cozy by the fact that we had seven or eight people sitting in it. From this slightly elevated point, we had a tactical advantage in assessing the crowd. They were, for the most part, very hot. They danced on the tiny, illegal dance floor. They flirted while wearing enormously tall stilettos. They drank Manhattanly-priced drinks. The DJ was wearing an Elmo tee shirt, and that was weird, but notwithstanding… Upon reading that over, the crowd sounds super-douchey and downright Midtown. This is not the case. What I’m trying to say is that this is a cool bar with hot people. They dress well. They dance well. But you don’t get the impression that they’re total assholes. Can you even imagine such a place?

The bouncer, though, made the bar. I loved him. At just a shade over 400 pounds, he perched on a stool just inside the door. He wore a three-piece suit and a fedora. And he had a lapel pin which was – get this – delicate silver handcuffs. He winked at me when I left. Classy!

I hear there’s a good happy hour until 9pm. We’ll check that shit out and get back to you.