Presided over by a legend of hair and despair, it's simply the best hole to sob in your beer.. So atmospheric it's almost not a dive, Lucy's seems more like a movie set from James Ellroy's L.A. than a pre-Generation-X Alphabet City joint. Doyenne of the downtrodden, Lucy scolds pool cheaters with vehemence, cusses malfunctioning video games like a drunken trucker and to this day can't be bothered to put a lock on the door to the can or to remove the sign out front calling the place "Blanche's Tavern." Since time immemorial, the babushka of the East Village has mothered every Quentin from Crisp to Tarantino. Come in, bubbelah, and tell her all about it.
I love Lucy. An unoriginal title, but true. My first time there, alone, within a matter of minutes Lucy was laughingly pouring me free shots of Polish vodka and jabbering away in her thick accent about God knows what. She is what makes the place, if you don't feel welcome there you're doing something wrong. I don't know if I'd hang out there all the time, I like something a little less quirky for that, but it's a definite must-visit.
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