Large cities’ dive bars becoming tourist treasures
Favorites combine history with lack of pretension
The dive bar's obituary probably has been written a thousand times, sometimes with an eloquence that would baffle the average coot who shuffles into these black holes, looking for a shot and a beer before the clock strikes noon.
And yet, the ratio of divebar listicles to dive-bar obits must be about 10 to 1. Either the dive bar's demise has been greatly exaggerated or the definition of such watering holes has become so loose and unmanageable that it encompasses just about any place that doesn't serve a $20 Manhattan. Over the months, as we've perched on countless stools to contemplate the State of the Dive, a few truisms have emerged, each as irrepressible as a barroom pundit: Gentrification has forced many dives to enroll in beauty school, where they have adopted a refined air that appeals to those who drive late-model Beamers and drink small-batch bourbon.
A dive's soundtrack may always feature the songs of the disaffected, but the music now leans toward punk, not classic rock or country, as aging GenXers grapple with their own disillusionments with a bottle of Bud in hand. And no dive bar, no matter how grotty, can survive anymore without at least one craft beer on the list.
So, can we characterize the American dive bar in a way that everyone agrees on the definition? In short, we can't.
Still, we needed a loose working definition as we cruised from bar to bar, searching for the most authentic dives in America. After arguing over their qualities, we agreed true dives possess a handful of basic attributes:
• They must have history. There is no such thing as an instant dive bar.
• They must have regulars. These loyal barflies will inevitably cast a suspicious eye toward strangers.
• They cannot be expensive. If you pay $9 for a draft, you're not in a dive.
• They cannot have craft cocktails. If the bartender makes his own bitters, you're not in a dive.
Little Longhorn Saloon
5434 Burnet Rd., Austin. 512-524-1291. thelittlelonghornsaloon.com
Beer and ticket in hand, the faithful gathered around the chicken coop at Little Longhorn Saloon to cheer on the contestants, a pair of colorfully plumed hens by the names of Loretta Lynn and Little Ginny. The birds were pecking away at the seeds scattered inside their pen, oblivious to the exhortations of the patrons all around them.
"C'mon, baby girl!" yelled one dude, urging the birds to strut over to square No. 38 on the bingo board, which serves as the floor of the coop.
"Drop the deuce! Drop the deuce!" shouted another as a band cranked out bootscootin' honky-tonk music in the background.
Rarely had so much been riding on a fowl moment. Every Sunday at Little Longhorn, patrons lay down their own deuce — $2, that is — to purchase a ticket for what the bar dubs, without a drop of euphemism, chicken s--- bingo. Winners take home $114 each, which isn't exactly chicken scratch.
This game of bird-drop bingo was first conceived by Dale Watson, the silver-pompadoured Texan better known for producing fine country music. In 2013, Watson and his sister, Terry Gaona, along with her husband, David, bought the former Ginny's Little Longhorn from Ginny Kalmbach and gave the place a much-needed facelift. The new owners built a stage for their full schedule of bands. They added beer taps. They even installed a window in the once sunlight-deprived honky tonk.
In 2015, Watson sold his share of the saloon to the Gaonas, preferring to spend his time on the road, not inside a dive bar. But Watson left behind his legacy of chicken s--- bingo. (Though he later launched a similar poop-based contest at C-Boy's Heart & Soul, causing a minor controversy in Austin.) "Dale brought up the idea," Terry Gaona said. "Ginny said, 'Oh, it's never going to last,' and here it is, 23 years later and still kicking."
Ronna Geisler, a first-time visitor to the saloon, was thrilled at her luck one Sunday. She was there to salute a friend moving to Ireland but became the toast of the Little Longhorn herself when Loretta Lynn dropped a load right on the line, between two numbers. A pair of patrons argued that the bird poop covered more of square No. 21 than No. 51. They had a point. They both also had ticket No. 21. But what they didn't know is that Terry Gaona sells bingo tickets to cover such controversial dumps: Geisler had one of the winning "line" tickets in her possession. "I might have to spend [the money] on myself," the surprise winner said.
Year founded: The standalone building that houses Little Longhorn Saloon dates back about 100-plus years, says co-owner Terry Gaona. Before becoming a bar circa 1940, the building was a farmhouse, a gas station and, briefly, a restaurant.
Interior: Family roadhouse. Portraits of Ginny Kalmbach and Dale Watson hang behind the bar, reminders of the people who have left their mark on the saloon. Likewise, framed photos of musicians cover the wall behind the bandstand. The chicken coop is located in the back, under a Lone Star Beer light that would typically hang over a pool table.
Music: A busted Wurlitzer jukebox sits by the door, right across from the stage where bands assemble six nights a week. Signature drink: Wine-arita, a line of wine-based cocktails, such as a combination of wine, margarita mix and "a couple of other things in it to give it that extra yumminess," says Gaona. The drinks launched in November. Draft beers: Six taps, including ones dedicated to such Texas classics as Lone Star and Shiner; the bar also offers 50 to 60 other brands, including craft beers.
Nancy Whiskey
2644 Harrison St., Detroit. 313-962-4247. www.nancywhiskeydetroit.com
Nancy Whiskey's history is a microcosm of Detroit in the 20th century. The Irish bar, a converted general store tucked away on a side street of the historic Corktown neighborhood, got its liquor license in 1902. It survived Prohibition, allegedly as a speakeasy. When the city's economy roared, it became a hangout for Teamsters, including former union president Jimmy Hoffa, who used a phone booth near the front door to conduct private business. Members of the Detroit Tigers baseball team used to come in after games to drink until the wee hours, since the bar was only a 10-minute walk from Tiger Stadium.
When Detroit began its well-documented decline, Nancy's did, too.
"When I first started here, around 1992, this was a really bad neighborhood," says bartender Sheryl Grogan, who grew up in the neighborhood with her brother, Gerald Stevens, the bar's current owner. Things got worse in 2000, when the Tigers moved to a new stadium across the city and a neighborhood full of large, vacant parking lots began to languish. "But this is a big city cop-and-fireman bar, so this bar would be full all the time, with the shift changes," Grogan says. "Through the rough times, I think that's what kept the bar."
Boarded-up windows and caved-in roofs appeared on houses on surrounding streets. Adevotion to R&B, blues and Motown, with jam sessions and live bands on Fridays and Saturdays, continued to bring crowds to the bar, propping up the slow nights. And during the past few years, as Detroit has begun to rise, Grogan says, she has begun to see a change.
"All the young people are moving back, buying up all the houses, redoing them," she says. "Our night business has changed. It's young professionals, hipsters — just a big difference. We sell more craft beer now."
Drop in to Nancy Whiskey on a Tuesday and business is brisk, with regulars greeting friends as they walk in the door and groups meeting at the bar to watch baseball. Visit on a Saturday, and the whole place is sipping whiskey and grooving as one to a Temptations cover. Whether you're a 20-something newcomer or a 65-year-old with memories of Briggs Stadium, "everybody loves cheap beer," as Grogan rightly points out.
Year founded: Nancy Whiskey's liquor license is from 1902, and the bar boasts that it's the oldest continually operating liquor license in Detroit. The building is actually a few years older, having opened as a general store in 1898 before turning into a saloon.
Interior: Standard unpretentious Irish bar, with walls covered with signs advertising beer and whiskey —including an award for selling the most Tullamore Dew in America — and old photos. Look for the shot of former owner Nancy McNiven-Glenn posing with a Tommy gun during the filming of "Hoffa."
Music: An Internet jukebox plays a lot of Irish music and classic rock, but R&B, blues and Motown bands take over on weekends. Signature drink: Tullamore Dew Irish Whiskey. First-time visitors to the bar are given a free shot as a welcome gift. Draft beers: Guinness. (Well, it is an Irish bar.)
Subway Inn
1140 Second Ave., Manhattan. 212-758-0900. No website.
When the Subway Inn was forced to leave its home of 77 years for new digs two blocks east, its owners tried to make the new spot feel like the old one. The large neon sign, a landmark near the corner of 60th Street and Lexington Avenue, was cleaned up and hung outside of 1140 Second Ave. The Salinas family copied the black-and-white checkerboard floor and brought over parts of the bar and some tables, including the booth where Marilyn Monroe and her husband Joe DiMaggio would sit in the 1950s. They even covered up a wall of windows, so that the bar would retain the dark, divey atmosphere that drew celebrities, working stiffs and barflies for generations.
For all of their hard work, the new location isn't quite the same.
"It's a sanitized version of the old place," says John Holmes, an Irish bartender who was a regular at the original before getting a job at the new location. "The old one was a bit dingier, with holes in the ceiling, and if you went in the bathroom . . ." He breaks off into a laugh, remembering how the men's room at the original bar didn't have a door. But the lack of grittiness is fine with co-owner and bartender Steve Salinas. "It took 77 years to get to that point," he says. "We just made it to our second year. That dirt and grime came with time."
The original Subway Inn was never a fancy place — it faced the side of Bloomingdale's that is pockmarked with loading docks instead of display windows — but it was a piece of old New York. It was evicted in summer 2014 to make way for a condo tower planned to be almost as tall as the Empire State Building.
Owner Marcelo Salinas, who worked his way up from busboy over four decades at the bar, and his family fought their landlords, gathering thousands of signatures (including one from singer Tony Bennett) on a "Save the Subway Inn" petition. They received stays from the courts but eventually moved the Subway Inn in March 2015. Marcelo passed away 19 months later, in October 2016.
While the Subway Inn's theme and cheap drinks have relocated, not all of the customers have. Steve Salinas, Marcelo's son, estimates that only about 40 percent of the lunch crowd still regularly returns. Things are better at night, when the vinyl bar stools are full of couples chatting loudly over drinks.
More than the grime and weird vibe, Salinas says, "the heart and soul of the Subway Inn was that it brought everyone together, whether you were a celebrity or just a plain old New Yorker. Nobody felt uncomfortable. No matter where you worked or what your status is in life, we're all the same at the Subway Inn."
Year founded: 1937 (60th Street and Lexington Avenue); 2015 (60th Street and Second Avenue). Interior: An attempt to recreate the Subway Inn of old: vinyl booths and a checkerboard tile floor, with neon beer signs and diamond- shaped mirrors hanging on the walls.
Music: A mixed bag during the day — anything from "Volare" to classic rock. At night, there are up-tempo tunes by the Clash, Prince and '80s rock bands.
Signature drink: A draft beer and a shot. The bar's policy is to keep highballs around $5 and draft beers around $5 or $6.
Draft beers: A dozen, including local products Brooklyn Lager and Sixpoint, as well as Bud Light and Stella Artois.
Bob and Barbara's Lounge
1509 South St., Philadelphia. 215-545-4511. www.bobandbarbaras.com.
A recent Thursday night at Bob and Barbara's Lounge starts like any other night at the landmark 48-year-old bar on Philadelphia's South Street. Some sun peeks through the stained-glass front window, shining onto the huge, diamond-shaped bar. At happy hour, a diverse crowd of regulars chats in groups, greeting familiar faces as they walk through the door.
"I can't tell the number of friends I've met here," says Lauren Mulhill, who started coming to Bob and Barbara's while a student at Temple University and now lives around the corner. "If you're having a bad day at work, you come to Bob and Barbara's and it makes it better."
Music from the Ohio Players and R. Kelly thumps from the speakers; some customers snap their fingers and dance. Standing at the end of the bar is Barney Richardson, a dapper 78-year-old who was born a few streets away. He boasts that he's been coming to this bar (and its predecessors) for 60 years, including Boots House, which had a separate "ladies entrance" and "a trough on the bottom of the bar here, where people would spit in it." Naturally, Richardson knows everyone, joshing with the bartenders and the guys on neighboring stools as they buy each other "the Special" — a shot of Jim Beam and a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
A few hours later, only the decor is the same.
"Put your hands together, pussycats!" yells the emcee before host Lisa Thompson, better known as Lisa Lisa, bounds onto the stage to the sounds of Natalie Cole's "Mister Melody," then whirls around the floor in front of the stage, lipsynching and collecting dollar bills from the outstretched hands of patrons.
Since 1994, Bob and Barbara's has hosted a Thursday night drag show, which owner Jack Prince says is the longest-running one of its kind in Philadelphia. It started low-key, with performers changing behind a curtain and dancing behind the bar, but it has grown into something much more.
Lisa Lisa has the crowd — a mix of gay men, lesbians, bachelorette parties and college students — in the palm of her hand: She brings birthday boys and girls up to the stage, where she encourages the audience to wish them both happiness and things that can't be printed in a family newspaper; she introduces an array of "entertainers," who perform to the music of Natalie Cole and Macy Gray. Jill Scott's "It's Love" turns the bare-bones room into a dance party.
Year founded: 1969, named after owner Robert "Bob" Porter and bar manager Barbara Carter. Current owner Jack Prince purchased the business from Porter in 1994.
Interior: Pabst Blue Ribbon memorabilia covers the walls, including globeshaped lights and pre-Prohibition signs, framed ads from Ebony magazine and posters featuring Rosey Grier, Joe Louis and other sports icons. The bar counter itself is unusual: Its edges are cushioned by a thick upholstered red pad, which is perfectly placed for you to lean into. Or, after too many drinks, crash into. Music: On Friday and Saturday nights, the house bands play funky soul-jazz cuts driven by the bar's original Hammond B-3 organ. The jukebox (when it's working) is stocked with Teena Marie, the Spinners, Charles Earland and Motown compilations.
Signature drink: The Special, a $3 pairing of a PBR can and a shot of Jim Beam, which is known elsewhere in Philadelphia as "the Citywide Special." Prince credits music promoter and bartender Rick D. with the original idea, back in 1994. These days, Prince says, they can go through 400 on a good Saturday night.
Draft beers: None, even though there are two old PBR tap handles poking up from the bar. "Just decoration," Prince says. "I tried it, but it didn't work out."