Huckleberry Bar

Today I'm hungover.

Last night my sister, her friend and their youthful livers came to visit me in Williamsburg.  I thought I was just going to do my older sisterly duty of treating them to dinner and sending them off on their sloppy bar hoppy way.

I thought my bar hopping days were over.  Now I'm much more of a bar plopper- I like artful light fixtures, artisan bathroom soap, a music level that permits conversation and seating so I can wear exquisitely painful shoes and get compliments from the gays.

But last night I hopped with the 24 year-olds and marveled at their remarkable tolerance for shitty bars. We went to five bars (which incidentally quadrupled my bar tally for the month).  One had loud shitty live music and a cover, one was a pool hall without pool tables, and one was an ironic hipster country club.  I drank beer out of cans.

Me and my sister, Stephanie.  Basically she's my face from 7 years ago.

After all that, I was desperate for a good cocktail and something resembling decor, so I brought the crew to one of my favorite local spots: Huckleberry Bar.  I love this place.  It has a sultry ambience and an excellent bathroom.  The lights fixtures are grade A and the bartenders are charming, dapper and adorable.  Oh yeah, and the drinks & food are good too.

Jon and I came here on one of our first dates.  I say this to establish that I totally knew how cool this bar was YEARS before this:

If these bitches blow up the Huckleberry spot, I swear I'm going to start slinging the béchamel.  Now that's what I call a Riot for Design.

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