A few weeks ago, my band was fortunate enough to be asked to
play musicin Tompkins Square Park. The four of us arrived punctually (an
impressive feat for an old-school punk rock band like ours).
The sun was blazing but standing in the shade brought sound
respite. Having consumed copious caffeinated beverages in transit, I headed for
where I knew the public restrooms were located.
The men’s room was locked. A nearby restroom was marked for
use only by children. It was also locked. Park workers admonished men looking
to use the boys’ restroom, and referred people to the closed men’s room even
after being told it was locked. A Parks Department employee told me to use
bathrooms at a nearby Starbucks or 7 Eleven, and acted as if she were doing me
a favor.
Nearby on Ave. A and 9th Street, there was not a
Starbucks or 7 Eleven in sight. Doc Holliday’s
was open though.
Even though I long ago left the drinking life, I had the
good fortune to drink at many of New York’s most excellent bars before I did. Doc
Holiday’s is one of the East Village’s surviving dive bars that did not sell
out or lose its character, and has stayed the same quality dive bar that it was
meant to be.
As the name implies, Doc Holliday’s could be called a
country bar. While by that measure it could easily be lumped in with other
“country” bars such as the now-defunct Hogs & Heifers, it’s a bit more subdued
and nowhere near the same kind of tourist mecca. It may be a far cry from where
David Allen Coe
would drink (if anyone knows where David Allen Coe goes to drink when he’s in
New York, please tell me), but it’s the closest thing to a country dive bar
surviving in the city today.
When a cheesy movie came out about rival bar Coyote Ugly in
2000, Doc Holliday’s celebrated the fact that its name was not associated with
such a flop. They had several drink specials and posted scathing moviereviews of Coyote Ugly on the walls of the bar.
For a while when I worked in SoHo, I would bring coworkers
to Doc Holliday’s for beer—after the after-work beers we had at work, of course,
and it never disappointed me then. I would be one of the last of my party to
depart, stepping strongly buzzed into the bright twilight of a New York Friday
night, ready to conquer the world some more.
About 10 years later, when I decided to leave the bogus
“secret restaurant” located in Crif Dogs rather than take off my hat, I went to
Doc Holliday’s where friends were waiting. Three boroughs and many, many drinks
later, I made it through that night with few memories but few regrets.
But now I was returning to Doc Holliday’s as someone gone
from the drinking life nearly a decade, a frustrated park goer unable to find a
decent bathroom. Would I be welcome back to this hallowed place where I had
spent so much quality time in the past?
The bartender was chatting with three people at the bar and
the place was otherwise empty. There was no crowd to blend into if I pretended
to be a customer. She looked to me, expecting me to order a drink. I decided to
come clean and admit I was there just to go to the bathroom. I explained my
situation to the bartender. Could I use their bathroom?
The bartender told me yes and thanked me for asking. I
walked back to where the bathrooms were to find that Doc’s had done some
remodeling and the restrooms were not in a state of filthy disrepair. By dive
bar standards the new men’s room was pretty luxurious. I left a five-dollar
bill on the bar in my way out and got a friendly smile.
I returned throughout the day and was warmly greeted. It was
good to be welcome and enjoy the dive bar scene again. Even removed from the
drinking life, our bars are cultural markers that can offer a guide to the
state of society. Doc Holliday’s confirms there are some pockets of righteous
goodness left in our city.
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