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Life & Arts

Columnist scratching head over NYC dive

Bottoms Up 

Sarah Tressler

After a day of shopping along Fifth Avenue and nearly getting run over by taxicabs and irate New Yorkers and hearing "Yes, cars do kill people," from an angry woman driving a Lexus SUV as I crossed the street at Union Square, I was looking forward to spending an evening with my friends at a few New York nightclubs. After all, when it comes to sophisticated, state-of-the-art, painfully cool clubs, New York City is second to none. Just ask the staggering, slurring Lindsay Lohan. 

Maybe that's why I was so disappointed by Mona's, a dive bar my friends insisted was, "soooo fun. You'll love it!"

After cruising down Avenue B in SoHo between 12th and 13th streets, we finally located a spot that appeared to be our destination. No sign, no line, real small. 

My friends had been raving about this place, and once I was inside, I couldn't figure out why. Narrow, dark, and crowded with men who had appeared to have lost their razors, Mona's was equipped with one pool table lit by a fluorescent light -- you know, like the one your parents have in their kitchen. Not flattering light for anyone. 

The only music available was played off a jukebox. Apparently, this so-called Mona frowned on hiring someone to do the work when it came to music, so patrons were invited to do it themselves, to which my friend Aubrie happily complied. 

A self-confessed DJ Nazi, Aubs instructed the indecisive would-be jukebox operators to give her their jukebox money -- she was playing the beats for the night. Some of them actually forked it over, much to my amazement. And so we were stuck listening to Depeche Mode all night, a band that, like fluorescent lighting and dive bars, should be taken in moderation. 

I couldn't figure out the draw here. I mean, were the drinks cheaper? (It's not uncommon to pay $11 for a vodka and soda in NYC.) Places like Mona's are all over Houston; if I wanted to drink at a dive and listen to a jukebox, I didn't have to hop on an airplane and stay at a pricey New York hotel. I've got several establishments of this kind within walking distance from my house. 

So the next night, I met up with Aubrie and some other friends at Schiller's, another SoHo bar. I was reacquainting myself with Johnnie Walker Black when Aubrie announced that we were going to Mona's. 

"Again?" I asked with thinly veiled frustration. 

Apparently, a few members of our group had been hearing about this place for weeks from my buddies, who were excited to share their favorite bar with any willing victim. 

"Oh, it's soooo fun," I reassured them with phony enthusiasm. "You'll love it." 

Then I paid my tab and hailed a cab back to Manhattan, where the dive bars are a little harder to come by -- for a reason. 

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