New York City: Nancy Whisky (December 2012, August 2012)

At the best dive bars, misery and dread are balanced by elation and poorly reasoned optimism. The patrons and the help relate to each other like dysfunctional family members—bitter and defiant one moment, gentle and supportive the next. At Nancy Whiskey Pub, some of the help is accommodating, like the bushy-bearded bartender known as The Pirate. Others, like a younger, female, brunette barkeep, do things to annoy the aging clientele, like blast Arcade Fire at ear-splitting levels. When one of the old-timers requests she switch the big television to the US Open, she refuses to comply. She's watching soccer on that screen, she claims, though when pressed she can't name either team playing. Perhaps one reason folks are touchy is because the place smells of cheap french-fry oil. The kitchen's greasy grill spawns foot-high flames. Also, the ceiling is extremely low in some sections—less than six feet high in the loft, for example—and every inch is cluttered. A shuffleboard table dominates the main floor; one of its primary functions is providing storage for cases of beer below. Yet Nancy's inhabitants maintain a Gorilla Glue bond. Maybe it's the cheap drinks, or the house T-shirts for sale, which are worn by the cook and some customers. Or maybe it's the simple revelation that, as ugly as things may be in here, they're downright disfigured outside.