What assholes dreamt this place up? To call this place a library is an insult to books everywhere. One moldy, paperback copy of The Client doesn’t turn a shithole into a place of higher learning. Lots of smoke, pretentious East Village bartenders and the stink of dry-heave doesn’t make a cool bar either. The library theme here goes about as far as the bartender’s counting abilities. One $5 beer plus one $4 beer doesn’t equal $16 in any universe I’ve ever been in. So the belly-shirted beer slinger tries to take advantage of male customers because they can (after all, what semi-drunk, 22-year-old jackass is going to question this statuesque beauty’s adding abilities?) Us late-twenty-something married guys have no problem calling them on it though. Oops. To further confuse things, this place plays music at decibels not heard since David Lee Roth’s bris and shows awful, fuzzy kung fu movies on a beer splattered screen. I couldn’t tell you what my college library looked like on the inside, but if it was anything like this, I’m glad I stayed the hell away. [MF]
7 Avenue A
212/375-1352
