Ah, so this is where all the depressed, 60-year old divorcés hang out. Nothing says fun like four old dudes in Irish snap-brim caps holding cigarettes that are burning down to their knuckles and nursing small glasses of whiskey on the rocks that became half water about two hours ago. All this while murmuring at the small TV about the damn Mets and the cost of the bus. While all this sunshine is being spread at the bar, the back room (which resembles your parents’ half-finished basement in Paramus) may be teeming with teens looking to escape said dungeon of suburban bliss. After the elder set slinks away to sleep off the rest of their lives, the bartender has been known to get wacky and breathe the occasional fireball of 151 and even distribute the much-maligned buyback. We assume all this effervescence is a side effect of shedding the dinosaurs and getting down to why he bought a bar to begin with–to make people happy. At Reif’s it seems to all be a matter of timing. [MF]
302 E 92nd St.