The Carriage House


Fun is a funny word. Actually, it’s not so much the word itself as the meaning behind it. It means so many different things to different people. After all, Jeffrey Dahmer used to have fun sticking dog heads on stakes in his backyard. To me, that’s no so much fun as it is the thing that nightmares are made of. That brings us to the Carriage House bar. While we didn’t see any decapitated mammals wandering around the joint, we certainly weren’t running around like ecstatic, sugar-infused eight-year-olds in a moonbounce either. Was it fun when the barmaid touched me on the thigh every time she took my drink order? Well, it was batter than a bag of jagged rocks to the head. Was it fun when our lady friends had to sidestep the slurring, touchy-feely jackasses by the pool table in order to get the woman’s room? Um, probably not, but it was funny watching them try. Honestly, there’s not really much of a choice in this area, and you could certainly do worse than this wood-laden, pseudo Irish/sports bar. We like any place we can hear our songs on the jukebox, not have to fight for drinks with assholes and actually hear ourselves think. Again, we weren’t swinging from the chandeliers like a roomful of Gremlins, but sometimes fun is just hanging with some good friends and eight or ten pints of Harp. [MF]

219 E 59th St.