Agreed. I’m not sure there are any classic dive bars in Humboldt Park. Not really my neighborhood, though, and that’s the thing about a real dive…it’s known to the locals only, for the most part.
There’s a few run-down bars on 47th in my neighborhood that fit the description of a “dive,” but even I don’t go to them. The one I did go to before it closed down I went because it was the neighborhood tavern growing up and I knew that place before it basically ran itself into the ground. And that was borderline dive for me, by my definition. A couple blocks east of that bar, right next to the truck yard, is a bar I would never step foot in unless somebody I knew drank there and invited me with him. That, to me, is a dive. (And about ten years ago, someone was stabbed to death at that place, arguing about the Cubs and Sox or some stupid sport bullshit like that, so my reluctance to patronize the establishment appears to be well founded.) ETA: Yep, here’s the story. ETA2: And apparently not the first time something like that happened. Looks like somebody was shot there in 1996, too.
There’s an alcohol-free dive “bar” in my town called The Alano Club. “Alano” is, of course, an abbreviation for ALcoholics ANOnymous. It has worn carpet, peeling paint, sticky floor, is in a less than stellar part of town, etc. but they only serve food and soda, not alcohol.
I’ve gone in there a couple times because the meeting room is occasionally used for rummage sales and flea markets.
There used to be a bar in Bangkok called Moe’s Tavern. It had a heavy Simpson’s theme (and I’m certain no one was paying any royalties). This bar had the best motto, borrowed slightly from Cheers: “Where nobody knows your name.”
Ligonier, PA has Joe’s. I was there once when a customer was arguing with the barmaid. He said he was going to report her rude behavior to Joe. She laughed and said, “Joe died back when I still had my looks!” He’d obviously been gone a real long time.
Growing up, there was a bar at the end of our residential street called The Killarney. It was hated and reviled by the people who lived there. It was technically outside the city limits (probably how it ended up being in a residential neighborhood) and was a very rowdy place. Shootings and stabbings were not uncommon. It was a run down joint for as long as I can remember, roof sagging, looked like the whole thing would fall down in a strong breeze.
But it didn’t fall down, it changed owners to become a little less rowdy version of its previous self, but still a bit of an eyesore.
As far as I can remember, I never went into it during those two iterations. I was too young during the first ownership and just didn’t have any desire during the second.
Then a Mexican American bought it and now it was a Mexican bar, still called The Killarney. He played Mexican accordion polka music on the jukebox, the clientele was working class Mexican/Mexican American. I ended up working with one of the regulars and he said I should check it out and shoot some pool, 8 Ball and 9 Ball were the games of choice.
So that’s how I ended up hanging out in a Mexican bar called the Killarney listening to Mexican polka music and shooting pool with a bunch of guys who spoke about as much English as I did Spanish.
That was a dive bar.
Isn’t that the selling point for every bar in Bangkok?
Another thing about dive bars is the patrons/employees keep their mouths shut.
Stan’s wife stops by looking for him. Even if he is in the restroom, everyone says they haven’t seen him. Someone calls for Joe; the bartender checks with Joe and tells the person whatever Joe wants said.
Cops stop in looking for a local ne’er-do-well. Bartender and patrons all say they haven’t seen him lately even if he was just in.
I disagree that dive bars never have live music. In my experience they don’t have it regularly, but they’re more than happy to rent out the place to anyone. I recently played a punk/psychedelic show with a touring act, and the venue was a dive bar that catered to a Mexican crowd. It was the first bar where I noticed you could get cans of beer, but nothing was on draft. It appears that the go-to for everyone was Colt 45. I don’t know how the ladies behind the bar felt about the crowd that invaded their bar that night, but I bet they were happy to get back to their more sedate clientèle.
A few months later, I played another show run by the same promoter, in another dive bar. Both shows were fun, even though the PA was less than we have in our practice space (seriously, no monitors, we pointed one of the mains back at us).
Yeah, I wouldn’t disqualify a place as a dive for having live music.
There’s a small chain of cheap bars in Canada called “Warehouse” that bills themselves as a “Premium Dive Bar”. The billing cracked me up. It is cheap, but it is not a dive.
A friend of my family used to run a dive bar on Lake Street in Minneapolis. It was a hardcore dive, with a black and white TV hoisted in one corner, alkies who were there a few minutes past opening, and you could order burgers from a place down the street if you were really hungry, but otherwise, it was mainly popcorn and peanuts on offer. The bathrooms were hideous, or maybe just the women’s. I never visited the other one. This bar is the standard by which I judge low-class bars. Most are above the bar.
Unless you consider a boilermaker a “cocktail” of course.
Yeah, those.
Smells like cigarettes, serves boneless buffalo anything. That’s the sine qua non of a dive bar. Also your mother works there.
Also, the parking lot will have kids trapped in hot cars.
If you order a shot of tequila, the bartender says “you don’t need any of that salt and lime shit, do ya?”
It used to be you could tell a dive bar by the number of tattoos, but that metric hasn’t been operative for a decade.
That’s called training wheels…and they won’t ask. They assume you don’t need it. But if you DO ask, there will MUCH disdain in their tone as they look for a lime to cut that isn’t 1000% brown.
More anecdotes about my favorite dive that the tequila talk reminded. It was only a beer and wine bar. If you wanted a shot of tequila, you had to go to the parking lot with one particular regular who had his family’s brand smuggled in from mexico in the trunk of his car. Damn fine stuff.
I was obviously not a regular at the bar in particular, and the bartender was trying to suss me out/trap me I think. The way he leaned over and growled it, the only right answer was “nosir!”