‘Make Mine a Rum Runner!’

Our Mid-Atlantic man takes a not-so-shore leave, casting about bars, from Maine to Delaware. By all means, shave his belly with a rusty razor. (He likes it.)

Thanks to Discovery Channel’s “Deadliest Catch,” everyone must now know that good men die retrieving crab from the sea, when we could easily live without it (though not well). It behooves us then to be particular about crab cakes. The Lobster Dock, in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, for one. Re-opened Memorial Day this year, following 2007 renovations, it remains so seven days a week. Central Maine’s summer nightlife peaks before dark. But South on Route 95, Portland, Maine is open later, and they don’t mind so much if you’re “from away” —plenty of places claim to be Manhattan grade, god bless them. Downtown, The Empire Dine & Dance, just opened—recycled wood, brick, upright piano, easy but upscale food. Live bands upstairs there, or over at Geno’s, where things get extremely local, quickly. Try Pavillion, if size matters (large, booming with a reggae band, or deejays); Chandler’s and Charthouse Wharfs for drinks nearer water.

Take 1A south over the border into Massachusetts, to Gloucester. The supremacy among Italian-American summer fiestas of the town’s annual Feast of St. Peter, patron saint of fishermen, is unquestioned in New England. You could go to Halibut Point for the magic hamburger, or to new-ish Latitude 43 for sushi (watch for bones). But the whole marina area is exploding with Pabst and Baccalà, and heroic working class profligacy, the centerpiece of which, apart from the Holy Mass, is the Greasy Pole Contest. Intrepid high-functioning alcoholics capture a red flag from the top of a thickly lubricated telephone pole tipped out over the harbor, or else fall helplessly into the sea trying.

Cape Cod flexes into the Atlantic like Popeye’s arm, by Dalí. Inside forearm, just below the wrist at Cahoon Beach, is The Beachcomber, one of surprisingly few bars down the Cape actually on a beach, and it’s simply where you go. It’s also one of the even fewer places for decent live original music, including non-local color from the likes of Frank Black, Junior Brown, Yellowman, and so on. And “The Comah” is the only place we’ve seen a guy use Goldshalgah to rinse Jägameistah off his cocanut brar.

At Newport, Rhode Island, Pour Judgement—reflected in its musical ambiance—is a good place to warm up for a night of stealing dinghies. The Landing, colloquially “The Ding,” has a crowded outdoor bar, tended by Kayo, also an abbreviation—the more syllables coming out of your mouth, the less booze going in. From Newport (or Point Judith, R.I. or Montauk, N.Y.), ferry to diminutive Block Island. There, you’ll want to be among the clutter of local mementos at The Oar. Ballard’s is separated from the beach, by only a low, tripping wall. Club Soda, the Highview Inn’s basement, is an HQ. Yellow Kittens has music. Stand and be counted at Albion Pub—the census is taken here.

From the forward lounge of the Bridgeport-Port Jefferson Ferry ($15 on foot, $45 with car), you can stretch your sea legs, and, with a $20 bill, disembark to the faithful Tara Inn, at Port Jeff. Then flask on the Jitney all the way to Amagansett, and hunt around town offering your “ass, grass, or cash,” for a lift to Cyril’s Fish House. Owner/chef Cyril—wizard beard, sarong—doesn’t suffer lightly “airs,” or bullshit. That’s “The Hamptons,” in a nutshell, isn’t it: salt of the earth.
A natural progression, Montauk’s Memory Motel, which we like. Truth, Mick and the Stones didn’t, but it makes for a better lyric than their actual hang would have: “We spent a lonely night at the Shagwong Tavern… ” Next stop: The Montauket for sunset “BBCs,” Bailey’s Banana Coladas. If you passed out on the right part of Montauk’s beach (touchy, cop-wise), crawl up South Edison to The Gig Shack, and plant it at the patio bar for all the heartening modesty, understanding, and kick-ass Moroccan-spiced lamb sliders you can take. Unless you’ve awoken sandy and belt-less in jail, where you’ll have a much tougher time getting served quality paella. Try, of course.

Asking around about fashionable Jersey Shore hotspots this (ahem) season, came the response, “507. Bar anticipation.” Turns out these are abbreviations of the Shore’s clubs du jour—Belmar’s 507 Main, and Bar “A” at Shark River—not to be confused with Matawan Creek, and its shark-powered blood geysers of 1916. Down Point Pleasant, there is Jenkinsen’s boardwalk-supporting “megaclub” (or, “horrorshow”) Jenks; and, in fixer-upper Long Branch, you’ll find Le Club Avenue, whose glad-handing P.R. monkey tells us, “There are two things you can count on [at Le Club]. There’s going to be a line, and… ” Goodbye, monkey. Best off at Martell’s Tiki Bar, we suppose, if you can’t be at Red’s Lobster Pot, a secret kingdom nearby, across from the Coast Guard Station on the Manesquan.

The Cape May Ferry ($20 car, $10 feet), en route to Rehoboth Beach—its Chamber of Commerce assuredly does not dub it “the Mid-Atlantic’s Key West” but it nonetheless is—does its best to raise Delawareness (all yours, D.C.O.C.). The game in these parts is to figure out who’s the fey prep hetero with the Polo collar starched up and who’s just simply gay. This should be easy at Blue Moon Café, where upcoming cabaret acts include Carol Channing and that eldery flapper puppet from “Hollywood Squares.” But over at Double L bar, mistaken identity is a problem. The ramshackle, outlaw biker-looking retreat proudly calls itself the “only leather-bear bar” in the area. Grrrr. Chez La Mer, the salmon-hued beach house on nearby Wilmington Avenue, is where you’ll find the local “preps” in boozy plaid jackets swilling the obligatory Madras. But this just in: owner Nancy “Silver Wolfe” Wolfe has moved on after 20 years in the business. Remains to be seen if the bouillabase “for two” will become bouillabase “for none.”

South of Rehoboth, geographically and otherwise, is its homely sister enclave, Dewey Beach. It’s possible that “the Greatest Rock-and-Roll Bar in the World” need only serve beer, so maybe The Bottle & Cork (1807 Highway 1) is as it claims.  Maybe not. But the place becomes a scene right out of the Swayze oeuvre once the summer season kicks in.  Relive the night over brunch at Starboard (2009 Highway 1) as the sun and Pine-Sol rise. But if you go to the beach to actually sail or crab, like a gentleman, behind the two dives is the Waterfront Bar (125 McKinley St.), downsized of late, but no less self-explanatory.
Of course, gas—and lobster—prices being what they are, you’ll probably find us “relaxing” in our underwear in Tompkins Square Park with a Colt .45 and a lime wedge. A seasonal beverage.

Photo by Maddy Simpson