Daniel S.'s Profile

A great place for having cheap beers and an existential crisis.

It can't be THAT fabulous if they let me in, yo'.

That said, I wouldn't suggest trying to come here unless you're a member of a celebrity entourage or have bulging pockets of cash.

The staff is rather nice.  I got trapped in the elevator with a well-groomed lady wearing nice heels and carrying some official work papers or something who guiltily told me they were clearing out the paparazzi.
Thanks, lady, but I'm nobody, you shouldn't make them leave on my account.  
The rest of the staff didn't seem bothered that I just slumped on the beige couch and drooled while everybody else stood around and talked about how "Californian" it all is.

Granted, I was extremely drunk, but, GEEZ, ordering just a beer here is REALLY HARD.  From what I could figure out, they only had one from some microbrewery in Darkest Peru.  It was...ok...I'm sure I must've misunderstood something.  Shocking, right?

Word of advice.  Don't ask the Clark Kent/James Franco look-a-like what he's carrying in his back pack.  It's just a portfolio...which he will make you look at...and don't say "Oh, hey, that's a great photo, I love the composition" for the first one, because there's going to be 20 more and it's a little tacky to have nothing else to say except for "geez, your pecs sure do look nice there"...not like I would do that or anything.

Let's be real here, though. It's far classier than any place I normally drink, (in other words, it's clean, it's nice, you won't run into too many ugly people, and if you do, they're guaranteed to at least be well dressed or have lots of money/connections) it's just not really (I love using this phrase) "my scene" or somewhere I'm exactly clamoring to return to...

...of course, after running out of the elevator with my arms spread making diving airplane noises...they're probably not exactly clamoring for my return either.

*oh, yeah, and WORST NAME EVER.

I love reviews that start with "Because I live in _______I'm a bona fied expert in _______ food."  Riiiiiiiiiight.  Let's just start with this:  anybody heading to the West Village looking  for authentic Mexican food is NOT an expert on where to find authentic Mexican food.

The good news is that they make a good margarita.  I headed here with the beginning stages of a cold and suspicious rumblings in my stomach.  I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it through dinner, but tequila does wonders to settle your stomach.  

Dinner itself was tasty and they have a killer salsa.  What Diablo does, it does well.  The thought as to whether it was authentic or not never even crossed my mind.  Who the fuck cares if it's authentic?  It's Mexican-style, their salsa isn't watery, the staff is friendly, the food was on the larger side, I've got no complaints.

Remains one of the few places anywhere that not only has Hendricks, but they actually attempt to make signature cocktails with it.  Bravo!

Anyways, given my rather low opinion of Aussies after my decidedly brief stint in Sydney, I was initially reluctant to give this place a try, but a friend lives nearby so we're always popping in.

Food is good.  No complaints.  The wait staff leaves you alone, which I kinda like, but I can understand the complaints that it's not exactly what they're there to do.  I guess they're supposed to be there to...wait...on you, or something.

I like the atmosphere, the crowd isn't too bad.  Very straight and business-y and not exactly WV fab, but, eh.  If you straight girls have a thing for Australian men on certain nights you can find them in droves here.

I'd say it's a good place for a low-key dinner, but I've never been here on a weekend, so don't quote me on that.  I don't go out much on the weekends anymore.  Normally I just stay at home and iron and watch back episode of Dexter.  I'm sure on the weekend it turns into an Australian-themed cluster fuck...

...but isn't that EVERY night in NYC?

Hideous and smells like a bad bad date's balls in high summer.

buuuutttttttt...that's not always a bad thing.

I would never (ever) suggest going here on a weekend.  It's liable to be packed to the rafters with creeps and fetish monsters, but, if you're looking for a place to mix with some sad sacks and have a low-key drinks-and-convo sesh with the boys, Pieces works.

Occasionally, they have beer pong here.  It's unbelievable to me that people would pick ping-pong balls up off the dirt-semen-and-HIV-crusted floor and then willingly let people toss them into their beverages, but, hey, I'm pretty vanilla, so what do I know?

They have karaoke, too.  I like singing in places like this because:
A) You can never be the worst.  That honor goes to the guys in his mid-fifties warbling out a tune from "The Little Mermaid".
and
B) Even if you DO turn out the be the worst, you can take comfort in that you're clearly not the least attractive or worst dressed.
and
C) You can take comfort in that even if you ARE the worst at Karaoke, can't sing and dress horribly, in this crowd, nobody is noticing.

It'll meet all your expectations...if you have none.

This is one of THOSE places.  You know the kind of place I mean.  The kind of place that everybody thinks is some kind of hip secret because there is no sign outside and, because it has some niche speciality, you immediately drag anybody here who might have once liked beer.

"Omg, my friend from London came into town, so instantly I took them here because people from London LOVE Belgian BEER.  Omgit'safactlolomgfart."

...and, Vol de Nuit is one of those places that, despite it's perpetually muggy atmosphere, is generally a decent place to elbow some desperately trying undergrads off a barstool and sit and have a chat with friends.  Decent selection of not your usual beers and their staff is generally on top of things.  Best time is early weekday before everybody gets outta work and descends on the bar like a bunch of shrieking harpies, but if you're unable or unwilling to hang out in bars pre-happy hour like the alcoholic moi, then prepare yourself to endure rubbing elbows with a lot of average looking people.

Just sayin'...

Better than I remember, and I remember it being just slightly average.

The patio is nice, especially for apres-brunch drinks, they're still open for that, right?

I've never had to wait in line here, normally I just nonchalantly breeze past the cover charge guy as well.  I'm not sure why they're so lax with me, but, hey, I ain't complainin'.  Nothing exciting, but since it seems to be one of the few remaining bars in the Castro that hasn't completely jumped the shark, they get an extra star.

Plus, last time I was there they had the most-hottie-McHottiepants-hot-hot-heat-flames-on-t he-side-of-my-face bartender that I've ever seen in MAH LIFE. No, REALLY. I almost tripped and fell twice because I was watching him.

3.5 stars, kiddos.

WHAT THE FUCKING HELL?

So, maybe I'm a bit biased, being as Bar on Castro was the very first real gay bar I ever went to, and I've been going back once or twice a year when I'm in San Francisco.  It's a bit of a tradition with an old friend.  I pick her up, we take the Aunt and the Grandma out to dinner, than hit up gay bars until the sun comes up, with BOC always being our starting point.

(oh, wait, the G-ma doesn't come for drinks, but back in her more mobile days, she probably would have.)

Fuck.  Now it's called "Q Bar"?  Whatever.  So they changed the decor.  I liked it better when it was all dirty and red.  Now it looks like the interior of a tacky French discoteque.  All of this I would be cool with...except...

We order our drinks.  Few of the same bartenders...one is wearing a tank top and has obviously hairy shoulders.  Barf.  This isn't the East Village, buddy.  But, whatever, same quick, friendly service, and the awful trash cans under the bar have been removed...okie dokie, I can live with this...

...we slide over to the dance area.  Within five minutes some obnoxious straight guy comes up and grabs my girlfriends boob.  I do the one move I remember from my years of karate and snap his wrist behind his back until he apologizes and limps over to go hit on some lesbians.

The busboy comes through.  I understand that it probably becomes a hassle to deal with fetching dirty glasses between hordes of drunks all night, but that's why they hired you, small little twink, to do it.  It's so you can slip through them easily.  Barreling through with your elbows spread out and stomping on people's feet and sighing SO LOUDLY that I can hear it over the pulsing dance music and the inane chatter of a bunch of queens is hardly fostering a welcoming and entertaining environment, buddy.

So we edge over to the dance floor.  Some kid has his shirt off and is dancing intently to the beat.  Too intently.  His flailing arms are smacking hats off lesbians heads, fruity drinks out of the gays hands and then he stumbles up behind me and attempts to rub his sweaty torso on me.

NOT COOL.  People are audibly complaining.  Where the fuck is the bouncer?  The guy remains on the floor for a good 10 minutes, knocking in to things, drool coming out of his mouth, molesting people.  I mean, I realize this is San Francisco, but Come ON!  Finally, hairy-shoulder-bartender to the rescue, they kick him out.

After all that sheer brilliance, we edge over to the bathroom where some prepubescent kid "accidently" humps me while I'm washing my hands.  By the time we emerge the place has gotten so packed that there is literally, no way to even dance on the dance floor.  People just kinda stand awkwardly crushed up against each other and jerk back and forth.  

It's too hot.  The crowd is full of college-aged kids.  Q Bar lacks the diversity of people that was always at BOC.  It's beginning to make me feel like a grumpy old man...not even a faded old queen, just a grumpy old man.  How sad for a place that gave me some of the best times back in the day.

...

To be perfectly honest, the entire Castro felt kinda' dead.  It's because for a brief, glorious moment we all grew up and got married, isn't it?

Well, now...

I choked down my fear of drag-queens for a night because it was Jeffrey's birthday, it was karaoke night and lord knows Liz and I can't resist the opportunity to serenade the world with Aerosmith's "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing".

It was everything I was expecting.  Insert the usual adjectives: dirty, tacky, rundown, faded...the karaoke machine was in grayscale...the barmaid had a lazy eye...ya' know.

What I didn't expect is to eventually find myself strutting down the catwalk removing my shirt  and wriggling drunkenly around on the stage while Annie sang "Torn".

What I didn't expect was Damien up on stage warbling "Footloose".

What I didn't expect was to give the nice big drag queen hostess a peck on the cheek and tell her how fabulous she was.

What I didn't expect was to get so drunk off of cheap drinks I don't recall much from the rest of the night except for winding up behind the bar in Via Matta...again with my shirt off...

These things happen.

I never went to Jacques in the year and a half I lived in Boston.  With all the hot-mess bachelorette parties these people see on the weekends they seem pretty well conditioned to handle just about any crowd.  Refreshingly free of attitude (and I LOVE attitude!)  Check it out with your  friends some night.  It just might be a little more than you expected.

I don't really know what constitutes "good" or "authentic" Philly food.  To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure that a stinky pile of ground beef with onions and cheese whiz could ever be considered "good", but oh, my, dear, sweet, fucking, jesus...

IT IS.

Sometimes you just need a lunch that consists of a gigantic cheesesteak sandwich, a Bud, and an order of waffle fries.  Sometimes you feel like you need to puke afterwards, but that's probably just because I polished all that food off in about five minutes, so sometimes you order another beer with lunch to wash it all down again.

Anyways, it's near-ish to my hood, the staff is friendly without being obnoxious, they're always open, and sometimes when you're sitting at the bar and a slight gay hipster (gipster?) wafts up to the bar and orders a basket of wings, a beer and some fries, it's just nice to know that you aren't the only faggot in the world chowing down on whiz and grease.

Of course, some would say that "chowing down on whiz and grease" is ALL us faggots do.