ode to my pub

Vasmay Lounge, the only bar in Manhattan worth frequenting, closed its doors.

Most of you have never heard of the place. It’s (I refuse to talk about it in the past tense) situated on Suffolk and Houston, down on the Lower East Side. Getting there ain’t easy. There’s only one subway in those parts (the F), and you’re facing a semi-hefty walk if you opt to trek from Union Square. For that reason (among others), Vasmay is never overcrowded. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen more than 15 people present.

Not to bore you, but I want to describe the place. It oughta be turned into a museum or something. First off, the exterior is brick wall, painted an alarming red. Dozens of sun-whitened polaroids (mostly of the barkeeps, the clientele, and Jimmy—more on him later) adorn the inside of the windows, images facing the street. A sidewalk easel advertises the happy hour:

We’ll Drink You Pretty

2-for-1

Any Drink

5-8

Let’s move inside. Five or six swivel stools at the bar. A wide booth padded with red patent leather, puncture holes pock-marking the material—very Steak ‘n Shake. Creaky wooden chairs. Two standard bar tables. Hey, an old 70s-style pleather carseat next to the pool table, that fits. Few more throne-like wooden chairs, almost as tall as the juke. An outhouse bathroom door with “men” scrawled on the wood in sky-blue chalk. Peanut shells on the floor. Red candles. Curious satanic décor. A small shitty television over the bar broadcasting B slasher flicks. Full-sized silver Chevrolet hood above the aforementioned carseat, painted and mounted. Cheap-ass oscillating floor fan in the corner. Jennifer Connelly's look-alike behind the bar, sporting an inked arm. She’s slugging Budweiser on-shift. The juke pains the ears.

And then there’s Jimmy. Jimmy bears a striking resemblance to David Crosby (pictured at left) of CSNY and Byrds fame. Long white hair, fairly indistinguishable features, significant belly. The pink skin of a drunkard. He’s there EVERY SINGLE DAY. Jimmy occupies a stool in the right corner of the building, near the second television, and reads newspapers with a flashlight (the place is freaking dark). The only drink I’ve ever seen him consume is bottled Budweiser. Based on loose observation, I’d guess he imbibes ten a day. So let’s see:

10 x 365 = 3650 bottled Budweisers a year. At 4 bucks a pop, the going rate at Vasmay, that’s somewhere in the vicinity of $14,500 bucks a year spent on booze. Tips not included.

Well, now, I’m probably not being fair to ol’ Jimmy. Taking into account the happy hour special, he probably spends more like $11,000 or something. Still a hefty chunk of change. Jimmy's in the bottom left of the attached pic. A spitting image, no? I can't get over it.

I’ll share some fond memories of the place in a later installment. Too many to post in one entry. For now, it’s only fitting that I briefly describe Vasmay, Pt. 2.

Yesterday after work I walk southbound thru Alphabet City and into Vasmay’s neighborhood, hoping for a few games of pool and a cheap beer. I’d been in a bit of a Vasmay drought: nearly a month had passed since my last visit. So I’m two blocks away on the north end of the street when I see (what appears to be) a gate over the main entrance. My heart sinks. I tear ass across Houston as fast as my legs can carry me, make for the window and prop on my toes to peer inside. Nobody. All the neon signs have been turned off. I feel like Neddy Merrill in Cheever’s “The Swimmer.” Dumbfounded, terrified, I think to myself, “what now?” Leave New York? Swallow a bottle of aspirin? I make some calls, not knowing what else to do. Jes picks up right away. I unload the awful news on her with quivering voice and walk to Stanton.

Then a miracle:

I’m dragging my carcass in a westerly direction, eyes on the pavement, when something in me initiates a turn onto Essex. I come across a place called Essex Ale House and think, what the hell. All right. The bartender, a bubbly Polish girl named Hania, takes one look at me and asks what in God's name is wrong. I can barely get the words out. They’ve closed Vasmay, etc., I adored that place, etc., what now and who cares. She laughs. Check the sign outside, she says. Sure enough, there’s a small handwritten message in block lettering:

VASMAY STYLE

Turns out they’re only relocating. Vasmay lives!
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