Dark Room

Dark Room whispers in my ear. It says thing like, “you’re already drunk; why not spend some time inside me?” and “it’s only a few steps down, my friend, come indulge your darkest yeast-related fantasies.” Why a bar would spend its time seducing a perfectly willing schmendrik like me is only another one of its mysterious draws. Before you get the idea you’re about to embark on a trip to Houdini’s special Loch Ness Monster cabal or something, let me tell you that this place ain’t nothin’ but a good, old-fashioned subterranean lounge. But as far as dives go, this one’s beyond stanky reproach. It is a space not unlike that shady fraternity’s basement that always smelled vaguely of weed and date rape. It is truly a dark room. There are some big booths and tables spread around the periphery of the interior–perfect for drunken chats and canoodling whatever it is you canoodle. There is a funny slumming hipster vibe going on–like LESers and Brooklynites on holiday from their lives where they can drink Budweisers and Jack ‘n Cokes incognito, while a deep track from Rush plays on the juke. And their slim-jeaned friends are none the wiser. [MF]

165 Ludlow St.