A Good Sign: Old Town Bar

Can't remember if I've ever said so before. But the Old Town Bar has one of the best signs in the city.

The Old Town Bathroom

I've never before photographed the beautiful old men's bathroom at the Old Town Bar. (And, yes, judge me as you like, I've long wanted to photograph it.) This is because it is usually occupied, and propriety does not permit my taking photographs. Also, it's often after hours when I visit the ancient Manhattan tavern, and the light is not ideal.

However, recently, I happened to pay a call on the Old Town during daylight hours. The bar was sparsely populated, and I found the lavatory unvisited for many minutes at a time. Some old saloons in the city (P.J. Clarke's, McSorley's) still have their big, ceramic urinals. But the Old Town has the whole package. Every bit of the room, from the stall doors to the ceramic floors to the stained glass ceiling, has the look of the early 20th century. It's perfect.

Oh, and if you think my waxing rhapsodic about urinals is odd, consider this: just outside the men's room door is a framed proclamation from the Mayor honoring the 100th year anniversary, in 2010, or the urinals.

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The Mystery Buttons at the Old Town Bar

The details in a place as old as the Old Town Bar pile up over the decades. You can visit regularly and not notice everything on the walls, ceiling and floor.

Recently, I was having a burger at the Old Town, taking a side table with a fine view of the old wooden phone booth, when I noticed a series of doorbell-like buttons along the chair rail. What the hell? I pressed one. Nothing happened, at least nothing I could see or hear.

I asked the waitress about the buttons. She said they once worked, and they were used by customers to get the attention of the wait staff. The wiring broke years ago. Who would have thought service was once so civilized at the ancient tavern?

Two Messages for Spitzer

The Old Town Bar, which usually goes for one long hand-written message of urban wisdom for its street-side window, had opted for two short messages this week, both aimed at New York State's fallen governor.

Wooden Phone Booth Sighting: Old Town Bar

I've been holding off on featuring this particular booth in the Old Town Bar, because it's always so goddam dark in that joint and I can't get a good shot of the thing. This isn't a good shot, either. But let the record state: there's a working wooden phone book in the Union Square-area tavern.

Old Town Bar: Sign and No Sign

Some time ago, I complained about the Old Town Bar's classic neon sign, and how the tavern didn't take proper care of it, letting more of its letters go dim (see above). Perhaps they took my gripe to heart, because the sign is currently missing, sent to the shop for repairs. (Of course, I know they didn't pay any heed whatsoever to my bitching, which is just how they and I like it. The Old Town shouldn't care what anybody says about it.)



The saloon must get regular inquiries as to the whereabouts of the sign, which hung over E. 18th Street for all to see, because the owners have placed a notice in the window saying "Sign is in rehab! Be back soon. Better than ever." I asked the bartender if he knew when, exactly, it was due back. "It's due!" he replied. "When I don't know." (Whoever's repairing it better handle it with care.)

As if knowing that patrons might be missing the neon beacon, the owner has trotted out one of his occasional paper rants for the entertainment of passersby. In case you can't read the below photo, it says:

Please New York Times, stop glorifying the bums who call themselves the Abraham Lincoln Brigade (Lincoln would have sued for defamation). They were a bunch of Commies who couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag, the only action they saw was when three of four of them, after some opium pipes, would get up the nerve to jump and rape a nun.

I imagine this missive is in protest of the Times' recent article about the death of Moe Fishman, the Brigade veteran. Leave is to an reactionary old beer hall to resurrect arguments about the Spanish Civil War.

Old Town Bar Strikes Again

We were heartily amused at the recent hand-lettered, impromptu sign taped in the window of the Old Town Bar lambasting Vanity Fair publisher Graydon Carter and his clubby celeb hangout Waverly. The note was reactionary, knee-jerk and borderline offensive, and we applauded it all, because it was all aimed at fatuous, flip-haired Carter, who wouldn't give his own mother a banquette.

But does the Old Town Bar harbor a serial crank? Strolling into the glorious old watering hole for a beer the other night, we noticed this message, attacking our city's young fatties, had supplanted the Carter character assassination.



The bruised feelings of our "little dumplings" aside, it's still pretty amusing, as is the sometimes sloppy grammar (just like mine, sometimes) and spelling ("Williamsburgh" with an "h" seems a distinctly less cool neighborhood.). But, all things considered, I'd rather he lay off the daily missives and pump some fresh neon through the only sign at the Old Town Bar that matters—the classic hanging over the outside sidewalk.