“Where should we meet?” I screamed into my cell phone to M who could barely hear me against the backdrop of a summer happy hour. He was at the SoHo Grand after work grabbing drinks with some friends and I was enjoying a casual dinner with Keri Cherry on the Upper East Side. “Let’s meet at Neary’s,” M suggested. Neary’s, an upscale Irish pub on 57th Street is M’s ‘go-to’ venue of choice when he can’t come up with something else. “Ok, see you there in 30 minutes.”
M likes convenience. New York is designed for people like M who prefer to live life within a 4-block radius of their home without sacrificing on quality or comfort. A dry cleaner, super market, fro-yo and countless amazing restaurants including Rosa Mexicana, Fucha, and Nish – allow M to live out his dream of never needing to take a cab for what he wants. But what our area lacks is what I had grown accustomed to when living in Murray Hill; good old fashioned neighborhood pubs. Joshua Tree and 515 were my second home in my early-twenties. Teeming with post-collegiate kids, my friends and I would flock there for after-work drinks or to watch a Michigan football game there on Saturday morning. It was close to home and felt like home.
“Those bars are too young,” M said sounding more a like a grandpa than a 30 year old. “I work very hard during the day. I want to go to a place where I can get away. Where I can always get a seat at the bar, without the loud music and without being elbow to elbow with some little punk pushing his way to the bar to get some shit two-for-one happy hour special. I want an adult bar.” In his head, I knew M was envisioning something like Cheers, where a cast of characters lingered all day awaiting M’s arrival and erupting in a loud cheer - “Norm”.
Instead, Keri and I walked into a senior citizens bingo parlor. Neary’s was packed – packed with a walker/cane crowd of octogenarians. No exaggeration, the tables were filled with silver-haired women and men in tweed jackets with suede arm patches with canes resting against the side of the table. “Is this the right place,” Keri questioned, assuming rightfully so, that no sane man in his thirties could possibly hang out here. “Yep. M likes it here.” And with that, M and Keri’s husband, Ron strolled in through the doors and bellied-up to the bar. The two of them have hung out at Neary’s countless times before, making it their neighborhood male-bonding watering hole.
“Hey, how are you?” M said to the bartender who recognized him.
“The usual?” the bartender asked as he filled a glass with ice, his white shirt and black tie a throwback to a bygone era. Also a senior citizen, the bartender has regaled M and Ron with stories from Neary’s past. “Forty years ago,” he would start telling his tales of Neary’s early years. M and Ron would listen intently, clinging to every word of the history lesson they received.
We closed the place. At midnight, we were the last people left in the bar. M and Ron swapped stories with the bartender while Keri and I marveled at the scene. “Somehow I feel like I missed a stage,” I said to Keri. “I went directly from the fraternity scene of Murray Hill straight to the retirement home. It’s sweet, but I think we need to find a place more our age. She nodded in agreement, “At least we know where the cool place to go is 40 years from now.”
M likes convenience. New York is designed for people like M who prefer to live life within a 4-block radius of their home without sacrificing on quality or comfort. A dry cleaner, super market, fro-yo and countless amazing restaurants including Rosa Mexicana, Fucha, and Nish – allow M to live out his dream of never needing to take a cab for what he wants. But what our area lacks is what I had grown accustomed to when living in Murray Hill; good old fashioned neighborhood pubs. Joshua Tree and 515 were my second home in my early-twenties. Teeming with post-collegiate kids, my friends and I would flock there for after-work drinks or to watch a Michigan football game there on Saturday morning. It was close to home and felt like home.
“Those bars are too young,” M said sounding more a like a grandpa than a 30 year old. “I work very hard during the day. I want to go to a place where I can get away. Where I can always get a seat at the bar, without the loud music and without being elbow to elbow with some little punk pushing his way to the bar to get some shit two-for-one happy hour special. I want an adult bar.” In his head, I knew M was envisioning something like Cheers, where a cast of characters lingered all day awaiting M’s arrival and erupting in a loud cheer - “Norm”.
Instead, Keri and I walked into a senior citizens bingo parlor. Neary’s was packed – packed with a walker/cane crowd of octogenarians. No exaggeration, the tables were filled with silver-haired women and men in tweed jackets with suede arm patches with canes resting against the side of the table. “Is this the right place,” Keri questioned, assuming rightfully so, that no sane man in his thirties could possibly hang out here. “Yep. M likes it here.” And with that, M and Keri’s husband, Ron strolled in through the doors and bellied-up to the bar. The two of them have hung out at Neary’s countless times before, making it their neighborhood male-bonding watering hole.
“Hey, how are you?” M said to the bartender who recognized him.
“The usual?” the bartender asked as he filled a glass with ice, his white shirt and black tie a throwback to a bygone era. Also a senior citizen, the bartender has regaled M and Ron with stories from Neary’s past. “Forty years ago,” he would start telling his tales of Neary’s early years. M and Ron would listen intently, clinging to every word of the history lesson they received.
We closed the place. At midnight, we were the last people left in the bar. M and Ron swapped stories with the bartender while Keri and I marveled at the scene. “Somehow I feel like I missed a stage,” I said to Keri. “I went directly from the fraternity scene of Murray Hill straight to the retirement home. It’s sweet, but I think we need to find a place more our age. She nodded in agreement, “At least we know where the cool place to go is 40 years from now.”
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