Um, uh. Ehem. Like… *Cough* So… Very very young girls in bikinis serving grown men beers in a joint that looks like a cross between the dark warehouse in I am Legend and the dripping cell of like every Hannibal Lecter rip-off ever committed to celluloid makes for such a creepy, unsettling experience that my usual wit and wisdom has completely turtled. The whole schmegegge had the feeling of a weird Thai kiddie sex ring that I remember being stunned by on Dateline, but instead of giving out sexual favors the little girls provide the big bad men with Bud Lights under the watchful eye of “daddy.” There’s also a subtropical heat index of about one trillion in its cement innards that makes even the few non-pedophiles in the place sweat like one. Deno’s is yet another bar in which we declined to even imbibe a single gulp of alcohol. I mean, this is what I can only imagine spring break is like in Chechnya–and I have no intention of having a grenade forcibly taped to my chest or being garroted while chugging domestic swill. I’m not sure who the audience for this place is (aside from the aforementioned kiddie-touchers), but anyone with an opposable thumb and frontal lobe might think about walkin’ on by. [MF]
393 8th Ave.
