Williamsburg Brooklyn Bar Guide: Tommy's Tavern

1041 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn, NY 11222
at Freeman St.
PHONE: 718.383.9699
HOURS: Daily, 4pm-4am
CARDS: Cash Only
GAMES: Pool
SHOWS/EVENTS: Click here
MAP: Click Here
SUBWAY: G at Greenpoint Ave.
WEBSITE: www.tommystavern.com
MYSPACE: Click Here
NY MAG SAYS: "A visit to this out-of-the-way Greenpoint dive can go two ways. Scenario one: you step through clusters of bands smoking in front of their beat-up tour vans just to get to the door and squeeze through a crowd of messy-haired college radio DJs and girls in slouchy boots to get to the fluorescent-lit bar. After stopping by the grim bathroom to stuff a handful of toilet paper in your ears you push through the saloon-style swinging doors into a stageless back room where, under a pulsating lightshow apparently stolen from a middle school dance, you’ll come face-to-glistening-face with some thundering rock outfit. Scenario two: A man with a deeply creased face will slowly pull his gaze away from the television set and, out of politeness to the only other person in the bar, invite you to a game of pool. Scenemaking rock promoter Todd P.--who started booking some of Brooklyn's best underground shows a few times a week at this three-decade-old bar--is the difference. Either way, the cheap booze is the fuel."

FROM CITY SEARCH

Most nights of the week, the experience at this neighborhood dive consists of throwing back a few cheap beers and stiff well drinks with worn-thin Polish men, while basking in the glow of neon beer signs and television. Come Friday, a week's worth of dust gets stirred up as young Brooklyn hispters march en mass into the small and stageless back room, which transforms into an up-and-coming, word-of-mouth rock spot. Many of the shows are thrown together by local promoter Todd P. Call to find out what buzzed-about band is playing next. Everything here is dirt cheap--think domestic bottles for $3, with imports and well drinks ringing in at a whopping $4. If you're really strapped for cash, PBR or a can of Schaefer can be had for $2.

FROM NY PRESS

Not long ago, at a bar located across from an auto-supply store, I met a woman whose name induced erections.

"Levitra?!" I shouted above the bass-heavy rap din. All around, rainbow lights flashed epileptically.

"No, Avitra! A-V-I-T-R-A. Avitra!"

"Like the drug?" I asked. Two-dollar draft Buds provided me with the courage to point at my groin.

Her eyes narrowed. She snatched the half-full stein from my hand. Then Avitra disappeared, boogying, perhaps, beside a gentleman with more rhythm—or less pharmaceutical familiarity.

Similar scenes are commonplace in liquor pits, both city and worldwide. However, just six months ago, the only women at Greenpoint's Tommy's Tavern were the ones morning-and-night alcoholics saw parading across the bar's captioned sitcoms.

Todd Patrick (aka Todd P), a local concert organizer, saw promise in the seemingly depressing dive. Spiffy, blue-and-red paint job. Ornate, grandma-worthy light fixtures. A wooden, Country Club malt-liquor calendar updated daily. And, most important, a separate lounge rigged with rave-like lighting and speakers rivaling a jet engine for deafening capability.

"I was like, 'Ah, hell, let's do this,'" Patrick says.

Last spring, a friend organized the first show at Tommy's, and Patrick followed suit.

Disco hoedowns with jam-groovers!

Japanther's dual-pronged sonic assault.

The Homosexuals, reunited and rocking.

Now, sometimes three or four nights a week, the working-man's dive—surrounded by Polish meat markets and Mexican bodegas—is headquarters to New York City's most tinnitus-inducing hullabaloos.

During shows, up to 200 or 300 tattooed young 'uns and pegged-pant bicyclists flood the bar. They shoot nine-ball with the Corona-sipping pool sharkette. Creased-hat regulars perk up, sunken cheeks filling with conversation, not just liquor. ("They're happy to see the younger women," Patrick says.) Third-generation Europeans stream in, along with the odd Hispanic family, creating an intergenerational, multicultural gumbo. Bargoers may not speak one another's language; everyone, however, is fluent in intoxication.

At these prices, even a can collector could get buzzed. Two-dollar Bud drafts. Four-dollar, four-second pour mixers. And a fluorescent concoction known as the Greenpoint Swamp Water.

On a recent evening, I witnessed a woman drinking something cloudy and green out of a glass that, if swung properly, could fell a 300-pound man.

"What…does that taste like?" I asked a woman with bushy brown hair.

"Like citrus."

"Don't you have another adjective?"

"Nope, just citrus. Very citrus." She took a healthy swallow and smiled enigmatically. Poker face or pleasure?

I asked the barkeep, a gentleman wearing a tucked-in blue shirt, what the Swamp Water entailed.

He leaned in conspiratorially. His warm breath smelled like an extinguished Marlboro Red.

"You got three ounces Bacardi rum, dark; one ounce of orange juice; one ounce of lemon juice; and a half-ounce Blue Curacao. Want one?"

Of course. The Swamp Water would put my liver up to the poison-removal test.

He free-poured ingredients into a martini shaker (including lemon juice), shook, then dumped the blue-green potion into a beer mug. It looked nuclear, yet tasted like sour, fermented orange juice.

"Is this really a Greenpoint specialty?" I asked, my lips curling inward.

"No, I got it out of a recipe book. I just added 'Greenpoint.'"

This is what Todd Patrick has done to Brooklyn's rock 'n' roll repertoire. Sure, Williamsburg is lousy with venues, and the Warsaw serves large-draw bands. But it's tiny Tommy's, a few blocks from Newtown Creek and Queens, that's drawing the crowds.

Where else can one watch shows where bartenders sneak into the performance space to scoop ice from the freezer? How about a smoking policy enforced with the firm hand of someone with neither eyes nor nose? Or a bar that, instead of driving locals off during concerts, draws in triple or even quadruple the typical neighborhood contingent?

Tommy's appeal is contagious. Patrick is attracting concertgoers from Manhattan, and his turnouts trump those of better-known Brooklyn bars (which he is loath to name). Heck, the greatest compliment to Tommy's resurgence is this: post-concerts, car services line Manhattan Ave.

A burgeoning scene, maybe, but please exercise caution when trekking to this far-off haunt.

"If there's not a show there're usually just three old drunks sitting around, watching television," Patrick says.