B Bar


Oh to be in the B Bar in its hey day. Oh to be sassy or gay or both. The B Bar used to be filled to the brim with strapping young lads in tight, shiny shirts, loads of thumping disco and even the occasional second-rate celeb. Now, the joint is filled with, well, the likes of Mr. Hipster. This doesn’t bode well for the hip/chic factor of the place–The King isn’t exactly fabulous. We’re sure it’s not a horrible place to hang out, but its annoying reputation precedes it and the fuckin’ disco won’t die. The bartenders at the large oval bar were reasonably responsive, and the high-ceilinged space was packed with long tables filled with chattering drunks–creating a din that almost drowned out The Weathergirls. The drinks aren’t cheap, and we can only assume that the food isn’t either. All in all, there was something creepy about hanging out at this place. We can’t put our finger on exactly what it is, but there’s something plastic and scary lurking beneath its trendy facade. [MF]

358 Bowery (bet. Great Jones & E 4th St.)