New York City: Subway Inn

Beloved of Manhattanites who abide in the inalienable right to buy a cold bottle of beer for less than $5, the Subway Inn is an anomaly. It sits between Bloomingdale’s and a couple of subway entrances, only a block from Central Park, its neon signage blinking like a broken toy. The interior is all checkerboard tile, flaking industrial red walls and sticky red leather booths bathed in the flickering cathode twilight of two small TVs mounted in the corners. There are no fancy microbrews on draft. No burgers. No credit cards accepted and no ATM. Somehow, the Inn has survived since 1937, which means it served the inebriated masses on V-J Day and the nervous afternoons after 9/11—not to mention countless Yankee victories. The clientele justifies labeling this an “old man bar,” and the old-school vibe hasn’t won a lot of fans among the ladies. This is not a stop for date-night slumming (unless you want a lecture from a crustbucket who probably stormed Normandy). It is, however, one of the last of its kind in a city all-too-willing to sell out its inglorious past.

Photos: Valerie Trucchia