Beer Garden

Last week, Heather and I went to Studio Square for the second time. Studio square is a huge beer garden in Long Island City with indoor and outdoor seating, a large contingent of German and Domestic beers, and an area where you can get food like sausages, burgers and sushi. The first time we went was a little crowded because it was on a Friday so this was the first time that we got to spread out and enjoy ourselves. On our first visit to this beer garden it seemed like there were lots of good places to sit, but when we would go to sit down, someone would inform us that the seats were taken. Damn it! High school all over again. Rather than assert ourselves and sit down anyway, (at one point there was a man saving an entire picnic table) we decided to piss, moan and write a scathing blog about it. Take that, guy in backwards mets cap who will never read this blog. Revenge tastes pretty sweet.

We did finally find a place to drink our beer. They have this area that’s about as high as a bar but there’s a fire pit in the center. This was really cool at times but I thought that if the wrong gust of wind came by, I would lose my eyebrows. We only stayed for one round so my eyebrows stayed intact. This past trip was much better. Heather and I are more of a low key weeknight crowd. We easily got a burger, sausage, beer, sangria and table.

The beer at Studio Square comes in unique measurements. They have pitchers—which are not that unusual—but they also serve beer by the liter and half liter. I found this strange because we don’t really use the metric system in the United States. I would say that beer by the liter would go over big in England, but do you know how they measure beer over there? By the pint. I hope the irony is not lost on the good people at Studio Square. I ordered a liter of Racer 5 IPA and man was this thing huge. It was served in a cartoonish large glass that puts a 22-ouncer from Fridays to shame. It costs thirteen dollars, but it’s a buck cheaper than getting two half liters. Heather said I looked ridiculous holding this mammoth beer but I didn’t care. I have so few pleasures in life. I wish it were socially acceptable to carry a liter of beer everywhere I go. I know that’s a thing that alcoholics say but hear me out. I don’t want to drink massive amounts of beer all day. I just want to have it as a crazy prop.

We’ve only been to one other beer garden in New York called Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden. This was not a great experience for us. There was a distinct lack of organization in this place. It took us a really long time to even get a beer because the line was so long. (Thank God there was a line at all.) We really wanted to get food too but the only way to get food was to get a table and have waiter service. We talked to a waitress and she said that there was a big table about to leave, but what she meant was that they were going to pay and stay for a really long time. There was no way we were getting a table. Why can’t we just line up somewhere and get the food. There seemed to be a window that was fully capable of dispensing food. In my opinion, the sign of a bad business is when the customer has a pocketful of money he’s willing to throw at an establishment and can’t for one reason or another. Heather e-mailed the place to complain and got no response so to hell with them I say. I’d rather go to Studio Square and not switch trains.

Dutch Kills

We Finally got around to visiting Dutch Kills last week. Dutch Kills is a bar that just opened fairly recently and takes its name from the archaic title of the area it inhabits (It encompassed most of what is now Long Island City.) It has a very old-timey theme—think early twentieth century, Gangs of New York—a couple of the bartenders have handlebar mustaches (see: last week’s blog) and it has a piano area in the back where I imagine patrons relaxing, sipping libations, and enjoying a peppy rag by new sensation Scott Joplin.

One of the most appealing things to me is that this bar models itself on prohibition speakeasies. First off, we had a little trouble finding the place because of its unassuming exterior. The whole area looks rather industrial [auto repair, wholesale carpet stores, etc.] so we were looking for some sort of giant sign. It’s a good thing we had the address handy because when we got there, there was only a modest placard that bore little more than the name of the establishment. There was no menu outside, no window sign, no posted happy hour specials. I was expecting them slide open a little eyehole and ask me for a password or a secret handshake. As I was coming up with likely passwords, Heather opened the door and walked inside.

As the hostess asked us how many were in our party, I started blurting out words that I would use as a password if I ran a speakeasy. “Rhubarb…President Warren G. Harding…Pantaloons…” The hostess looked at me funny and then frowned and then showed us to a table. Honestly I would think that this kind of thing happens all the time; it is a speakeasy after all. What's a speakeasy without a secret password? Once our eyes adjusted to the darkened room, we looked over the drink menu. Aside from a few beers and specialty drinks, the menu was pretty sparse. I suppose they figure if we’re savvy enough to find the place, we’re competent enough to order a drink.

I ordered the Queen’s Park Swizzle (see: last weeks blog) and it tasted remarkably similar to the one I made myself; at least I know I’m doing it right. Heather’s first round was a Separatist, a cocktail of bourbon, amaro ciociaro (a bittersweet digestif liqueur,) lemon juice, sugar and blood orange served in a highball glass. The result was a dark, fruity, rich cocktail that was right up her alley—right up to the moment she dropped the drink and the glass shattered on the table. As the great poet William Carlos Williams once remarked, “Condensation is indeed a cruel mistress.” He may not have said that, but he might have if he ever awkwardly dropped a spirited beverage. Think about it.

Fortunately for us, the staff cleaned it up in a timely fashion and brought her another one at no extra charge—score one for service. She apologized as the new one was brought out and the bartender said, “No problem, just don’t throw this one across the room.”—Score one for sarcasm. I must say, the staff was very accommodating, the bathrooms were nice (a stack of cloth hand towels; what am I, the Pope?) and the drinks were reasonably priced (nine bucks a pop, not bad for New York.)

For our next round, Heather got a Buccaneer’s Daisy, a blend of spiced rum, grand marnier, lemon juice and orange juice served in a cocktail glass. I, being the adventurous sort, challenged the bartender to surprise me. I am not the type of person who goes into bars and does that, but it was advertised on the menu so I figured it was a point of pride and not one of annoyance. I don’t know what the drink was called but I was told it was a daiquiri served neat and modified with apricot liqueur. It was sweet and chill and Heather actually preferred it to her own drink so we traded off. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. I capped the night with an IPA on tap (three drinks in one night, and it’s not even my birthday.) We live only one subway stop away so the ride home is a breeze.

I believe I am a fan of the modern day speakeasy. You get all the fun of sneaking drinks in a darkened room with old-timey and eccentric surroundings while not running the risk of a raid or having your drink fortified with varnish. If you want varnish in your drink, you have to go home and do it yourself.* I will say this though: We are experiencing a resurgence of an extreme economic depression and a renewed popularity of speakeasies. If history is any indicator we can look forward to the escalation of a global war and a robot that can smoke a cigarette. Drink up young people. It's going to be one hell of a ride.

*I probably don’t need to say this but we live in a very litigious society. Do not drink varnish. It is poison and will kill you. Besides, turpentine is where it’s at.**

**Also a joke.