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Barrow’s Pub

463 Hudson Street (Barrow St and Morton St) Transit: 1 to Houston St; A, C, E, B, D, F, M to W 4th

(212) 741-9349

Is there anything more inspiring than a shrinking old man flirting his ass off? The resident google-genarian at Barrow’s Pub sports one of those caps that snap in the front—the kind Jeff Tweedy used to wear—and a shirt that says, “You Know You’re Getting Old When Happy Hour Is A Nap.” He drinks Bud from a brandy glass and plays that lottery game involving grids of numbers on the television. Both are mainly excuses to chat up the freckled, blonde bartender.

Still, Barrow’s is no old man bar. The music see-saws from Jamie Foxx to Fleetwood Mac to Modest Mouse, and the night I was there the place was full of late twenty-something and early thirty-something women in mini-dresses. They came in a rush with their gay male friends and a pizza. (Barrow’s sells pies itself, for six dollars, but no one seemed to care.) To the tune of Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer,” a light-skinned crew member gyrated, strip-tease style, for one of the guys. Quoth the codger: “The dancing girls are here!”

A pint of Grolsch is $6.50, and PBR is a little cheaper. (It’s the West Village—what can you do?) In any case, Barrow’s is surely the diviest spot in the neighborhood, much divier than Johnny’s Bar or Julius. It’s got quirks galore, like the secret wooden panels that reveal the air-conditioning controls and the sign that says “Finish your beer, there’s sober kids in India.” The TV showing the Yankees game is almost impossible to see because it’s blocked by the pool lights, and the words “We Now Carry Mich Ultra” take up the entire mirror behind the bar. Big news, indeed.

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