The Manhattans

Photograph: Lizz Kuehl

The dive-bar formula that once worked so well in Manhattan does not fly at the Manhattans, a contrived Prospect Heights watering hole from the infamous Tracy Westmoreland. His now-closed cult den of inebriation, Siberia, made its name as an anything-goes meeting ground for journalists, chefs (notably Anthony Bourdain) and even Jell-O wrestlers. A red lightbulb announced the bunker, a faux-speakeasy tactic that at the time seemed edgy and exciting. But today, in brownstone Brooklyn, the clandestine look—no sign, newspaper-covered windows, buzzer entry—is covert to a fault. “I didn’t even know you were in business,” a neighboring shopkeeper said one evening, as the Postal Service and Iggy Pop played on an iPod. “How’s anyone supposed to know you’re open?” Here’s how: If the gate’s up, drinks are being served.

Westmoreland left the soaring room—once Ripple Bar—untouched from its previous incarnation. The undistinguished interior, with long pleather banquettes, busted couches and brick walls covered with photos, is like a slovenly fratboy’s dream house. And the beer selection is as negligible as the decor: Pabst on tap and Miller High Life and Stella Artois in bottles (empties are purposely left out, and beer boxes are stacked like firewood). The low liquor prices ($5) don’t provide much incentive to sip Jameson and Cuervo, and you’re better off skipping the wine, unless you hanker for Yellowtail. You need not be purposely dirty to be a dive, and the loyal Siberians who once lurched about the midtown bar have yet to lay claim to this new spot. Instead, it’s been embraced by indifferent local barhoppers thirsty for a last-call beer at any cost. What happens at the Manhattans doesn’t cut it in Brooklyn.—TONY

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