Max Fish


If there is a place with Mr. Hipster written all over it, it’s this serious den of unpretentious pretension. All tatts and indie/punk/out-there music, Max Fish is the kind of place where it’s okay to order an ice cold Bud (not in the construction worker kind of way) and chill in your jeans, ratty t-shirt and Pumas. The crowd ranges from your lower eastside hipster to your low-rent runway model (if there is such a thing) to your burned-out forty-something former guitarist for a NYC cult band. There is no holier-than-thou attitude, but there’s still a strong anti-dork vibe about the joint. The space itself reminds me of a horrible multi-camera shoot we did in college, with our flats leaning at thirty-five degree angles, overly-bright lights, and whatever artwork we could dredge up from the prop room adorning our saggy set. It can certainly get crowded at times, but come early, plug some cash in the juke and you’ll be in dive bar heaven. [MF]

178 Ludlow St.