The Most Interesting Thing at Our Bar Is You

Classic Food. Better Ingredients. That's who we are, that's what we do, and the same goes for our bar.

We would rather spend time getting to know the person sitting at our bar than putting on a $25 show for them. Because around here, the most interesting thing at the bar should be you.

I'll say this loud and clear: we're not trying to become the world's greatest craft cocktail bar. That's not who we are. And that's not a knock on craft cocktail bars. There are people doing amazing things with drinks that I wouldn't even begin to know how to do. That's their art. I respect it. It's just not ours.

What we're trying to do is serve honest, classic drinks made with ingredients we genuinely believe in. Better spirits. Fresh juices. House-made syrups. Thoughtful details. No smoke guns. No drinks that arrive looking like a science experiment. Just cocktails that feel timeless and familiar.

I was a bartender for about ten years before owning a restaurant, and back then I never touched a jigger or a smoke gun. I'm not saying that out of pride. It's just a fact. The craft cocktail world isn't something I know particularly well or ever cared that much to know. My heroes were Hemingway, Bukowski, Robert Johnson and Dallas Winston. Not exactly guys I imagine ordering a clarified margarita.

Like with our food, we put out what we know and what we like. We want to be that everyday spot. The place where you come to unwind and have a taste of something timeless and familiar. That's the school I come from.

The busiest day I ever worked behind a bar was September 11, 2001.

At the time I was bartending at Teddy's Bar & Grill in Williamsburg. Teddy's was an old-school neighborhood bar, the kind of place that had been there forever. This was before Williamsburg became what it is today. Things were already starting to change, but there was still some of the old neighborhood hanging on.

After the attacks, I called the bar and asked the obvious question: "Do you still need me to come in today?" The answer was basically: "Come in early."

The trains weren't running, so I walked across the Williamsburg Bridge. There were throngs of people walking in both directions. It almost looked like a parade, except everybody was in shock. One thing I remember clearly is how nice everybody was to each other. Whatever bullshit normally separated us seemed incredibly unimportant that day.

When I finally arrived at Teddy's, I had never seen the place so packed. The television was turned all the way up and everybody was staring at it, listening to every word being broadcast.

Then I learned something that made what was happening feel even closer to home. The firehouse on our block had been among the first responders sent to the Twin Towers. These weren't strangers to us. These were guys we knew. Guys we served. Teddy's was their neighborhood bar—the kind of place where firefighters, cops, artists, old-timers and whoever else lived around there could sit next to each other and have a drink.

The news coming back was devastating. The chatter around the neighborhood was that we had lost most of the firefighters who had responded. And now people from our neighborhood were gone.

That night became the busiest shift I ever worked. I poured drinks nonstop, and I don't think I ever made more tips in my life. But nobody was celebrating. People were sitting together because nobody wanted to be alone.

Over the next couple of months, we hosted official and unofficial vigils and wakes for some of the firefighters and others who had died. Many were young, married, with children. Their friends would come in carrying grief, survivor's guilt and things I don't think any of us really knew how to talk about yet.

It took New York a long time to recover from that day. I'm not sure we ever completely did. And somewhere in that experience I learned something about this business that I've never forgotten.

Bars and restaurants are more than places to eat and drink. They're places we go to feel safe and connect at our most vulnerable moments.

That's what interests me about a bar. Not the show. The people.

And maybe that's why our new cocktail menu is a love letter to classic New York bar culture. Neighborhood bars. Jazz clubs. Little downtown spots where people sat together for hours because there wasn't a phone on the table demanding their attention every thirty seconds.

Before social media. Before everyone became a content creator. Back when going out wasn't about documenting the night. It was about living it.

That's the feeling we're chasing. A great cocktail. Good conversation. Music that lets you hear the person sitting across from you. A room full of people actually experiencing the moment together.

We want to make a great Manhattan. A great Old Fashioned. A great Margarita. Use better spirits, fresh juice, make the syrups ourselves and give a shit about what's going into the glass. Then get the hell out of the way.

Because the cocktail shouldn't be the most interesting thing sitting at our bar. You should be. The person next to you should be. The conversation should be. The music should be. The night should be.

We don't know if we'll ever make the perfect drink. That's probably not even the point. But if we can pour you something simple and delicious, put on some good music and help create the kind of night you remember years from now, we'll take that every time.

Life is complicated enough. Our cocktails should be simple and delicious.

Peace,
Dave