DC’s Pub, Hoboken
A rec-room where the parents are never home
I came for DC’s Pub, Not a St. Patty’s pint. Green meatheads, turned away by the owner who just let me in, showed me many middle fingers from outside. Yeah, I’ll stay inside.
If rock were incarnate, it would want to be this….
The basement rec-room of the coolest kid in high school had a pool table, bar, wood paneling, 365 Christmas lights, only my friends know about it, and the parents are always away. Yeah.
Awesomely, Pabst serving trays cover the walls (That’s what I said.) and there’s penants too. You’d swear they actually like the taste. If the genuineness of love in that selection is doubted (ie: DC’s is merely trailing the pbr hipster trend.), the mason jars prove PBR passion — since they don’t bother dressing up this pig with the lipstick of a fine pilsner glass, they must really love it as it is. And with dollars at stake, in this 20 square foot room, trendiness again isn’t enough to explain it. If you like “good” beer, there are other choices. I’ll stick with the house ale.
A happily tiny business is a passion, not a plan, like DC’s shoestring-bred turn-the-wheel juke (It’s more like an indie mix tape. No dogs being let out here.) and the middle aged headbanger. Chains lead from wallets back to ‘89, when today’s grey patrons were the knowing-ist fringe of young grunge.
Any frat boys still here, by this point, are turned by the lack of meat. Saddened by the presence of regular folks here to relax with friends, they’ll head to greener pubs and orange-er tans.
A high school house party is only a little harder to find than DCs.