BlackBook Magazine

Manhattan mostly snubs the time-honored suburban tradition of discounted drinks at the appointed (read: dead) hours of late afternoon. But that isn't stopping our budget-challenged bard from finding where 'the ladies' (or bums in drag) drink for free! (Echo that last word like they do at monster truck shows).

Happy Hour, we’re told, has naval origins, referring to on-board entertainment—USO and so forth. Over the years, the phrase has evolved from denoting a civilized evening at the end of a respectable day to—according to some authorities—a havoc-inducing and dangerous promotional scheme, a common booze-frenzy. Where sense and taste have failed there are regulations these days, such as moratoriums on buckets, and the whole thing is banned outright in otherwise reasonable states; and for bars where it matters, discounted liquor doesn’t exactly keep the riff-raff out. “Happy Hour” seems to be disappearing.

In New York, where the $13 well margarita lurks, a cheap drink is appreciated as much as anywhere else—more, in fact. We went looking for some spots where happy hour is alive, and, well, happy.

Chinatown Brasserie (380 Lafayette St., 212.533.7000) makes our life better even in the middle of the afternoon (we can stare at the koi pond for hours). But from 5 to 7 p.m. select premium dim sum is half price (pork buns, pot-stickers, life-affirming) in addition to the generous break on the cocktails; and this is one of the only places on earth we’ll order off a specialty drink menu—a Ginger Dragon, a frozen Mai Tai (in the right tumbler) for our money.

Tuesdays from 4 to 7 p.m., Acme (9 Great Jones St., 212.420.1934) will give you “Acme Homebrew,” a red ale, for $2 (it tastes like it costs at least $3), $4 Hurricanes on Thursdays, and Wednesdays are two-for-one for “ladies,” in case you know any. And daily, lest we forget, this New Orleans holdout (live music club down in the dark cellar) also cuts the already cheap fare of Old Bay crabcake-type appetizers in half. Les bon ton roulet!

The Lakeside Lounge held off the simpering hegemony of the Lower East Side (162 Avenue B, 212.529.8463), a Rorke’s Drift of Lower Manhattan. Two-for-one drinks from 4 to 8 p.m., paintings by “Assembly-line Picasso” Steve Keene on the wall smell like indie rock, and the most abused photo booth on the planet waits; loud Van Halen plays over fuss-less, professional-grade drinking. 2A (25 Avenue A, 212.505.2466) is where anybody who’s almost somebody is drinking when they’re done drinking at the recording studio—the record player stacks and drops vinyl (Louis Armstrong, Sonny Terry, later on some Alex Harvey maybe) and two-for-one drinks flow (one well drink is $5, call is $6.50) from 4 to 8 p.m., every day; and just a few doors down at The Library (7 Avenue A, 212.375.1352), every book is a drink, and every drink is a book—two books, in fact, from 5 to 8 p.m. weekdays.

At the Bull’s Head Tavern (295 Third Ave., 212.685.25890) someone long since cut off tries to buy our ten-dollar vodka-soda from us for five dollars, unable in his condition to say “dollars,” or count them, obviously. It’s “Happy Day” here from 1 until 7 p.m. Six full, liver-pounding hours, if you must, of $3 drafts and $3 frozen margaritas, until Bettina says “zat is all for you.”

Spring Lounge (48 Spring St., 212.965.1774) is affectionately known as Shark Bar. The two dusky sharks looming above the horseshoe bar were hooked and mounted in 1978 (both still lick-able in a nicotine emergency). And the back room’s hammerhead was found on a city trash heap, and lugged in by a noble regular on his way there—we’re not surprised. 5 to 7 p.m., a buck off everything; Wednesdays add a free hot dog, and Sundays from noon to 2 p.m., there’s a gratis bagel arrangement. (Often pizza pies just sort of land on the bar by the door.) The game is on, but the Stones and Sinatra are on louder.

We were in the mood for something fancy, uptown, so it’s surprising that somehow we ended up smearing on a fake tan and drinking $2.50 Budweisers at the midtown Hooters (211 W. 56th St., 212.581.5656) from 4 to 7 p.m. Orange-hued Dolphin shorts take us back to Bruce Jenner’s pre-plastic surgery days. Big, fat troglodytes dripping with barbeque sauce while ogling breasts—we decline a menu, wince at fake y’all Southern accents, a sense of… lube, and out.

Considering the potential of fern bar chains—we have in fact visited Hillsborough County, Florida—we followed a “tip” by peering into TGIFriday’s (484 Eighth Ave., 212.630.0307), to see about their evening deal, beyond the usual fried dread, girl drinks, and an overall sense of being screamed at by John Madden. We might have ordered a half-priced appetizer and a half-priced beer (margaritas too, from 5 to 7 p.m.), if we’d been in Omaha, or were someone else.

Immediate antidote to that sort of savage hokum? The all-encompassing darkness of Mars Bar (25 E. First St., no phone, no anything except drinking). The East Village verminarium is crammed with fake Satanists, drinking since brunch as usual. Every hour is happy hour here, if you’re into cataclysm. The drink you buy isn’t discounted specifically, but by inhaling, you get about five for one, roughly. Drinking’s equivalent of a doomsday machine. Chin-chin.