Then and Now
Futile resistance is almost always romantic, which is why I checked in on Boxcar Lounge this past Sunday to assess its struggle against Alphabet City's gentrification. So what has changed at this subway car-sized bar since the late 1990s, when "Hey frat boy! Keep walking!" signs reportedly hung in the window to preserve its fringe legacy?
Outwardly, almost nothing. Wednesdays have been christened "iPod Night" and customers can plug in and program the soundtrack for 30 minutes. Other than that, two-for-one happy hour continues 6-10 p.m. Monday-Thursday, 6-8 p.m. Friday-Sunday and every weekend is still BYOB-"Bring Your Own Brunch"-to the ivied back patio for drinks and smokes.
Moreover, the bartenders still look like folks who know how to read sheet music, the clientele still out-style the window mannequins modeled after them at Urban Outfitters and the best drinks remain tart and sweet, chilled-sake combinations. In other words, finding differences between Boxcar "then and now" is like a particularly tricky round of Photo Hunt, where the changes themselves are invisible.
I had an identically priced $6 "Sake Gimlet" with limejuice and "Sake Cocktail" with plum wine to stir my skill for parlor games and conversational reportage. Who were these seemingly unchanged patrons in this seemingly unchanged bar?
A broad-limbed old tradesman with a perpetual tear sparkling at the end of his nose seemed an original denizen beyond reproach. He might be an ironworker, or a retired piano mover or a large installation painter. But brushing past him to the comparatively bright and spacious back patio revealed weeds of new money and urban professionalism: a tame engagement celebration was in full swing. People clustered in social bouquets of three and four, sipping $7 mojitos. Yet the energy hovered between that of a quiet financial conversation and a roast at the Friars Club of the Upright Dead.
The food spread consisted of a modest cheese and meat platter that might have been mistaken for cheap if not for miniature picket signs in the cheese cubes describing the vintage. I swiped a block of aged Irish cheddar, then another, before catching the host's eye. We glared at each other wondering who was the prankster, or the moron. A prim blonde woman with a probable history of tattling ran inside to inform the bartender of my border crossing. I retreated inside to avoid citizen's arrest.
One wall of the eponymous "boxcar" is corrugated aluminum and the other is red-painted brick. Two or three matchbook tables, a stubby bench, a lover's nook, and maybe 10 bar stools are the only seating arrangements. Even on a slow Sunday, it's impossible to fire an arrow through the narrow corridor without striking a hip-looking drinker. None of this is new.
Two women with ragged sweatshirts and delicate faces look like regulars. Maybe they're holdovers from Alphabet City's days as a glorified tent city, but in fact they're daytime soap opera producers from Ohio. They inform me Young and the Restless is filmed in Brooklyn, which I find absolutely delicious. Next to them is a well proportioned advertising professional in an "antique white" polo shirt. His claim to fame is coining the "Across the Road from Ordinary" slogan used by a certain popular hotel chain.
In the end, what it all adds up to is success. Boxcar remains just about the chillest place in town for an affordable drink with successful locals. The difference today is fewer people seem to care what it is they are successful at. Ownership's new sign should say, "Hey frat boys! Free Irish cheddar!"
212-473-2830