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Green sign, blue collar drinkers, Bud and Guinness on tap and corned beef or brisket in a steam

table; in our younger days, this is what we thought the real, basic New York bar was all about. If it said Blarney Stone out front you knew what you were getting: a cold draft and a hot lunch without any phony fern bar pretenses, or silly T.G.I. Friday theme park shenanigans. The Blarney Stone bars were as archetypical, and unvarying, as THE hot dog cart, and as ubiquitous as THE intercom that was in everyone’s apart-ment. They were an instantly identifiable standard issue element of our vision of the big town. So basic to the city that they were a nearly invisible feature. Their style was no style. The complete lack of any trace of glamour means you never find vintage postcards or advertisements for Blarney Stones. And yet they seemed to be everywhere.

It’s like they came with the city. We casually imagined a string of Blarney Stones dating back perhaps to Repeal. Unmistak-ably, the chain’s ancestors were the taverns of Colonial times, and the “free lunch” Bowery grog-shops of the Nineteenth century. But when we thought about it, a Blarney Stone was most evocative of the coarse-grained black and white NYC of the 1950s, the sans serif starkness of the 1960s and the seedy, bare-bones grit of the 1970s.

Daniel Flanagan opened his first Blarney Stone Bar and Grill in 1952 on Third Avenue between 44th and 45th streets. This was the first link in a chain that spanned Manhattan from Midtown to Wall Street. Usually Flanagan teamed with a new partner for each bar he opened before moving on to the next. By the 1960s there would be nearly two dozen Blarney Stones, all on this original plan. And that’s not counting the many knock-offs Mr. Flanagan had nothing to do with. If you carried a briefcase—or you were a woman—you didn’t go there much. Believe it or not, there were enough Joe Lunchpail types in New York City to make this a very successful model. The peak years were over by the early 1980s, but even at that late date, the Blarney Stones were still such a vital scene we naturally assumed they were somehow eternal. The steam tables, the working class character, and the almost entirely male crowd seemed to be a direct link to the Manhattan of Weegee’s “Naked City.” At the same time, the number of these joints, all over town, and the clamor and crush they featured at lunch hour, suggested this was something so solid it would last forever.

Well, we know what a silly idea that is; everything is subject to fashion (and money), and that goes double in New York City. There are only a couple Blarney Stones left that serve food from a steam table. A few more have table service, but that’s not the real deal. Then there are other Blarney-in-name-only places with no food at all. Pitiful. So, while we can, let’s

order up a shot and a beer to wash down that corned beef and cabbage, and enjoy a visit to the last stand of a great New York City tradition, the Blarney Stone.

Blarney Stone Restaurant 710 Third Avenue, between 44th and 45th Streets

This is the flagship, the first Blarney Stone opened by Daniel Flanagan in 1952. Despite ruin-ovations* it remains the most authentic, the truest to the spirit of the thing. Always bustling, lunch is the peak hour and there can be a line for the front-of-the-room steam tray and burger grill. It’s a bit of a shock that the food is, in fact, remarkably good. The rye bread and hard rolls remind us of a time when the baseline for baked goods was pretty high quality in every coffee shop. Steer clear of the floppy onion rings and the wet fries, but the burger and the corned beef are more than all right. The cafeteria trays are history, alas, and table delivery of your order, packed in styrofoam and plastic, is chaotic and awkward. And the music is not the kind you want to split your ears for. Improvements over the golden age include female bartenders and craft beer available on tap—the kind of sophistication Archie Bunker never dreamed of.

The Third Avenue Blarney gets another rush at around four in the afternoon and can nearly empty out by 6:30. Try to get a seat at the bar. We are far from keen on television at the watering hole, but there is something endearing about horse racing on the idiot box.

This is one place in midtown east that is not geared toward, and entirely full of, guys wearing ties. They do serve beer, and beer is catnip to office dudes and rowdy fratholes, but the hokey Bierhaus that recently opened next door in the space above the defunct OTB is siphoning some of them off, to our delight.

*coinage credit to Gaylord Fields

Blarney Rock Pub 137 West 33rd Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues

On the north side of the street half-way between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, in that weird canyon of Herald Square, south of Macy’s and the Manhattan Mall, just east of Madison Square Garden and across the street from the mess that is the Hotel Pennsylvania. It’s a block full of $5 handbag hawk-ers and all sorts of bottom-of-the- barrel discount places.

A pretender, notice it’s a Rock, not a Stone, but a good Irish bar nonetheless. Maybe not the ideal specimen of the species, it still ranks as one of the best, on those nights when it is not painfully overcrowded with commuters and Madison Square Garden ticket-hold-ers. Three cash registers behind the bar attest to the volume busi-ness. The word “pub” might be out of character with the Blarney Stone tradition, but it is a welcoming, good old-fashioned drinking joint. No steam table, but waitresses serve the tables near the bar and in the dining room to the rear, which features red checked table-cloths and a menu of typical diner fare, plus the full Irish breakfast. The 33rd Street Rock looks like a fine place for lunch if you are in the neighborhood.Blarney Cove, 510 E. 14th Street

The Blarney Rock dates from 1969 and it looks like it. The proximity to the Garden means they take their sports seriously, especially the Rangers. They also brag about the Westminster Kennel Club set hanging out there—that’s pretty open-minded for a bunch of jocks. The robotic jukebox played the Violent Femmes, Righteous Brothers, and ideal for a bar of this era, “Freddie’s Dead”. TeeVees? Yep, of course they’ve got ’em, small and large flat screens. Tuned to sport, naturally. Could you play marbles on this floor? Nope.

Blarney Stone Pub 307 West 47th Street, just west of Eighth Avenue

Overall not a bad example of the genre. Only a block away from Times Square tourist hell, but an entirely different scene. If you need a place to hide away in the Theater District, this could be your spot, but go on an off hour. The plastic cups be-hind the bar are a tip-off that this place can get wild late and on weekends when it attracts a young, rowdy crowd. We were cheered by “The Sopranos” theme on the jukebox, followed by Dean Martin, and then one by The Rembrandts—eclectic and traditional at the same time. An off-duty priest (shouldn’t every bar have one?) knocked back a few with a pal. There is a regular contingent of local kooks hanging out, a crucial element for any good bar. Linoleum in a two-tone chevron pattern on the floor, a 1960s industrial coat tree, and black vinyl captain’s chair barstools contribute to that lived-in look we appreciate. There is a steam table, but not much of a lunch crowd.

Blarney Stone 410 Eighth Avenue, between 30th and 31st Streets

Somebody should do something about this place. Its only connection to the esteemed chain is the great neon sign out front, a leftover from a different time. Don’t even bother going in, or you will expe-rience a king-sized let-down. It’s been ruin-ovated into a 1990s-era pre-wrapped-sandwich café. Here’s their crappy website if you don’t want to take our word for it. Enjoy the pretentious drink menu. Feel like you’re at the airport?

Seriously, it’s the worst thing that ever happened to the honorable name of Blarney Stone. Drinks are overpriced, the food is fried stuff on square or comma-shaped plates, it’s loud and ugly. The horror of the sound system nearly curdled our stomachs. It’s a good thing we do not drink Bailey’s. As for TeeVees—too many, too big. You’ll enjoy hearing that one was showing “TBN – The Bar Network,” the world’s dullest television, where you can watch a picture of the Blar-ney Stone’s logo.

A Lotto card stand on the counter and some Quick Draw rounded out the entertainment. Absolutely nothing going for this place except the sign out front and decent mirrors etched with “BS” (for Blarney Stone) behind the bar. In fact, they should change the name to “B.S.,” or perhaps “B.S. & Things.”

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Blarney Stone, 710 Third Avenue

Blarney Stone 340 Ninth Avenue, between 29th and 30th Streets

This is one scary Blarney Stone from good old scary old New York. It was still light out when we visited on a Tuesday evening at 7:30 and that may have been a good thing. This block between 30th and 29th Streets is still pretty hard, and from the outside we weren’t too sure what we were in for. We were greeted by darkness and a whiff of moldy attic. The scalloped wood trim around the bar and brass hooks on the walls give the joint a 1940s look. There’s no food, so it’s not really a classic Blarney Stone, but there is a pool table in the back. They have TeeVees, but they may have been found on the street. “Jeopardy” was on, always a good sign. For an added dimension to enjoy, the color on the set was so saturated and out of whack that it was practi-cally psychedelic. Bar conversation overheard: “This show’s gotten dumber.”

The clientele included two tired ladies in their Post Office smocks from the facility across the street, and two solo drinkers; a Hennessey-with-a-beer-chaser, and a vodka cranberry.

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Blarney Stone Bar and Restaurant 11 Trinity Place at Morris

This is a sad one. It was a good old-fashioned 1969 vintage Blarney until the geniuses at the “Construction Intervention” program on the Discovery Channel interceded. Long story short, they created one of the ugliest bars in the history of the universe. The bartop was made of some weird marble composite, and its enormous width seemed unnecessarily difficult for the bartender to navigate. A seriously huge guy must have built this, or someone who has no working knowledge of bars, we thought. The acoustics made it as scream-ingly noisy as a school lunchroom. Air ducts painted brown gave a poor illusion of wood beams. It already looked trashed, misshapen and seedy—the situation the make-over was supposed to fix—and it’s a year old. There is a steam table, but it looks like the cafeteria in a ghastly state hospital. This might win the award for The Uncoziest Bar.

Somehow the Interventioneers neglected to screw up the façade; there apparently wasn’t enough time, so thank yer lucky stars for that. This is on a smelly block across from the permanently closed but immensely intriguing Exchange Bar. The regulars were a low-level office worker crowd, probably commuters for the Staten Island Ferry, or the Express Bus Stop out front. If you were ever a temp, and you want to relive the horror of those funlovin’ days, this would be the place.

Blarney Stone, 11 Trinity Place

Some Fake-Outs: They aren’t Blarney Stones, but they’ll do.

Blarney Cove 510 East 14th Street, between Avenues A and B

Too tiny to have a kitchen, this is another knock-off. And we love it. Like the Ninth Avenue store, this is just a good old neighborhood bar. “Jeopardy” is also mandatory daily entertainment here.

The Carriage House 219 East 59th Street, between Second and Third Avenues

This used to be a Blarney Stone, once upon a time, and retains a dab of the atmosphere.

Desmond’s Tavern 433 Park Avenue South, between 29th and 30th Streets

Another one that used to be a Blarney Stone, it still serves food, still has the right paneling and linoleum feel, but it’s a little too much of a sports bar for the Murray Hellion kids to appeal to us.

Blarney Stone Pub, 307 W. 47th Street

It’s a place that will immediately seem like a very bad idea. It’s a Sergio Leone moment: you, “The Man with No Name,” enter the dark bar and

every head turns. Tension fills the room as all motion ceases; the fly buzzing around Eli Wallach’s grizzled head stops in mid-air. Squinting into your eyes, he spits a huge gob of tobacco juice between your feet. (That was Eli Wallach spitting, not the fly.) You are clearly a stranger here. There will be at least one patron with a fresh wound on his face. Someone will try to sell you an expired bus transfer and you consider it common politeness to buy it from him; anything to keep the peace. That is a dive. It’s not the friendly neighborhood saloon with cheap drinks and Creedence Clearwater on the jukebox. Now, there is no such thing as a “dive bar.” Since the late nineteenth century the word dive has been slang for a disreputable bar. All by itself. Nobody needs to tack “bar” on the tail end of “dive” to make this meaning clear.

While writing our appreciation of the Blarney Stone chain we’ve been thinking about what to call a good old-fashioned bar without pretension. Twenty years ago Jim Atkinson called it a “bar bar” in his book, “View from Nowhere.” Call it a taproom, a saloon, grog shop or gin mill, but please, can we all agree to avoid the phrase “dive bar”? The term is used so indiscriminately, it doesn’t mean anything anymore. For example, a letter to The Concierge column at the Times asked for recommendations for dive bars with “interesting beers.” On what the kids call the internet (I know, bad place to start if you’re looking for signs of intelligent life, but you have to take the nation’s pulse someplace) I’ve seen lists of “dive bars” that include such authentic neighborhood stalwarts as Nancy Whiskey Pub and the Subway Inn, alongside bona fide theme parks like the Beauty Bar and Coyote Ugly. Even a sacred national treasure, McSorley’s Old Ale House, is tagged a “dive bar” on Yelp. Let’s take a moment to let the shouts of outrage and shame die down. Really? That’s a “dive bar”? Have you ever been slipped a Mickey Finn at McSorley’s and

Language

Takes A Dive!Dive!

awoke to find yourself shanghaied as a deckhand on a tramp steamer bound for Valparaiso? The worst trouble you can get into at McSorley’s would be ordering a Guinness and receiving the stink eye from your bartender.

Clearly, when people use that phrase they must be trying to describe some-thing other than a dive. They might mean, for instance, an Old Man Bar. That is an endangered species in Manhattan. Milano’s on Houston Street used to be an Old Man Bar, twenty years ago when Old Men still roamed free in New York City. Add a younger crowd of blue collar guys, union members, cops and firemen, and the Old Man Bar becomes a Shot-and-a-Beer Joint. Your choice of beverage is limited, as the name suggests, but you’ll find an intense devotion to booze in its purest forms. If the place has Blarney in the name, it’s a good bet it is a Shot-and-a-Beer Joint. It is not a dive. Here, everybody has a job. What they want is a beer at a reasonable price, and maybe watch the fifth race at Belmont. If that is your definition of a dive, maybe you should stick to afternoon tea at The Plaza. Ask for the Eloise Menu.

One place Eloise couldn’t get into that comes close to the definition of dive is Dave’s Tavern, on Ninth Avenue and 42nd Street, around the corner from the Port Authority. Now, that is a dive. You can’t be surprised by anything that happens. You’ll see everybody from commuters to thirsty theater-goers to B-girls and shifty career alcoholics straight out of a Hubert Selby novel. Which brings us to the fine line separating the scariest dive from your friendly neigh-borhood beer joint: on one side of the line are strangers and the other side are regulars. The most terrifying dump may become as comfortable as your living room by the simple act of hanging out, and having some respect for the regulars. The divey-est Blarney Stone left in Manhattan is on Ninth Avenue. On a typical weekday evening, the seedy interior looked plenty sordid and the scent of stale beer and moldy rug backed up the visuals. A glum-looking fellow was hunched over a tall, frosty mug of Bud Lite over ice — the barfly’s all-day sucker. Then a reassuring sight: a couple of female post office workers, still in their uniform smocks, perched on barstools, clearly engrossed by “Jeopardy” on the one TeeVee at the end of the bar. The soothing, honeyed tones of Alex Trebeck’s endless stream of answers makes any dive feel homey.

So don’t call it a dive bar. It’s bad enough that we keep losing the joints that define New York for us, without degrading the language to describe it at the same time. On that subject, who wants to go raid a speakeasy?

One thing the Blarney Stone is not, it’s not a “ pub.” There have been Irish barrooms in New York City

for as long as there have been Irishmen here. In the past, such a place might be have been called a bar and grill or possibly, for nostalgic effect, a saloon. The “pub” moniker has only caught on in the last couple of decades. Now it’s the standard. The point is, during the heyday of the Blarney Stone no one thought to use that particular cutesy word because no one in New York called a bar a pub. Now its usage is at epidemic proportions. They all have the same look, as if they all emerged from the same “Pub-In-A-Box” kit: granny tea room upholstery and Kmart pressed particle board furniture that chips the minute it’s unwrapped. The wallpaper is typically ersatz- Victoriana that would make William Morris turn over in his grave. Sprinkle liberally with repro Guinness ads from the Thirties and the one and only fake-Irish-pub-sanctioned photo of James Joyce, which is so ever-present it might as well come stapled to your New York liquor license. We suppose the effect represents some alleged nostalgia for a mythical ideal pub-lic house of yore, an Irish version of George Orwell’s favorite London pub, “The Moon Under Water,” which he glorified in a 1946 essay for the Evening Standard. Sadly, the ultimate point of that piece was the perfection Orwell describes doesn’t exist, and never did! (Sorry for the spoiler.)

Ye Publick House

Creating a mood with the decor of your bar, even a silly Victorian pub, is fine, but the question remains, “Why?” Why the phony baloney evocation of a past that supposedly belongs to the Old Country when for over a hundred years Irish bars have been content to just be New York City bars? Blarney Stones were a chain of sorts, so naturally they resembled each other in the way many no-frills bars did. Most saloons have some family kitsch on the walls to supply personality. But with the exception of the obligatory portrait of J.F.K., they have never resorted to the kind of boring homogeneity of today’s crop of pub-pods.

We will be stuck with corny Disneyland Victorian pubs for some time, I imagine. But wouldn’t it be great, for a change, if one of them took their cue not from the Lounge in ye olde publick house, but gave us something along the lines of the working-man’s, or Public Bar of the same establishment, the no-non-sense, roughneck, stand-up brass rail and spittoon, sawdust on the floor room on the other side of the wall where the real drinking is done. You know, like a Blarney Stone.

Grade “A” Fancy

is published by

Karen McBurnie & Jon Hammer

until they run out of ice. © 2011

All words and artworks are original, as in we no stealee nothing.

grade.A.fancymag@Gmail.com

Deceased Blarney Stone Pub, 121 Fulton Street