Ode to the NYC Dive Bar

Ironically, one of my first posts won't even be about a place in Chicago. It's here and now, that we pay homage to one of the most interesting dive bars that I've ever had the pleasure of walking into. Everyone has a favorite, local haunt, but I can see why this downtown hole in the wall (Houston & Mulberry) is home to Crazy Jack (pictured) and Ms. Heathernin (who's Irish superstition barely allowed me to snap her photo, dare my Cannon Powershot steal her soul), the Irish bar keep who has manned the rotting mahogany pub for nearly 30 years.

I stumbled upon Milano's, when I was in New York this past week and did a double take because the I thought that the front door lead to a dark, narrow staircase. Instead the doorway lead to an impossibly narrow bar. When sitting on a bar stool, drinking the Brooklyn Lager, I had a couple of inches between  my back and the wall (which was chock full of tarnished brass picture frames of old New York). I made friends with Jack, or Crazy Jack as he called himself and after I sum up this train of thought, I'll be emailing him the same picture that you see here.

It was 11:30 am when I walked past Milano's and other than Jack (who was drinking a double Stoli and coca cola, interesting...) and his sidekick, who I'll call Bob, because I wasn't able to get his name because he was slurring his words so badly, there was a polite English man who had flown in from the UK the night before. It was this kind-hearted, altruistic English man who saved me from walking in on some dude who was passed out on the only toilet in the bar (with open, swinging bar doors like in western movies). What was going on behind that swinging door, I can't bring myself to write on this blog, but I'm happy to share the gory details via individual email per you request. Wow. 

That's the best thing about New York, or really, any dive bar in the U.S. There's always a story to be told and someone to meet.