Go west young man — (like practically into the Hudson River west) to this ancient hole of a pub that packs ’em in every night of the week. Another Manhattan pub where apparently Ben Franklin’s brother Tommy once puked his guts out and John Adams took a dart in the cheek, this joint relishes its history. Unfortunately the patrons wash about as often as the owner cleans the dust encrusted light fixtures and the tables are packed so tight, you can smell your neighbor’s chili breath and soggy flanel. For some reason management encourages customers to each light three cigarettes at a time and do his/her best imitation of a fire-breathing dragon. Maybe it’s an attempt to add to their famous dust or maybe it’s a foggy ode to merry old England. Despite the claustrophobic, smoky conditions, the many regulars are generally friendly, the beer is cold and there isn’t a suit in sight. [MF]
326 Spring St. (bet. Greenwich & Washington St.)
212/226-9060
theearinn.com
