History in a Bottle

Seventh Regiment Mess Restaurant and Bar

643 Park Ave., 4th Fl. (Betw. 66th & 67th Sts.)

212-744-4107, Opening hours: 5-9:30 p.m.

Once upon a time, when America still embraced rebellion, moneyed Manhattanites fought their own battles. In 1806, in response to British boats' shelling American vessels, aristocrats formed what would become the Seventh Regiment. The "silk stocking regiment" was 19th-century America's foremost militia. They quelled 1849's bloody Astor Place Riot, fought brownstone fires and even guarded the remains of Abraham Lincoln.

Grand duties necessitated a grand armory. By 1868, the regiment's Lower East Side base was insufficient: Members had migrated uptown. After turning down the proposed Bryant Park site, the city gave the regiment a parcel of what was then upper Fourth Avenue. On the land rose a block-long palace of pressed red brick and granite trim, in part decorated by famed jeweler Tiffany. On its 1880 opening, more than 40,000 people lined up to glimpse the gilded structure.

Glory lasted a lifespan. The National Guard reorganized in 1947, rendering the Seventh Regiment obsolete. Only landmark status, granted in 1967, spared the armory the wrecking ball. This is why the dilapidated incongruity remains among Park Avenue's million-dollar apartments. The armory is empty save for art shows and, on the fourth floor, the most peculiar saloon east of New Jersey.

On a tip from the blog City Rag, I spend a recent weeknight visiting the Seventh Regiment Mess Restaurant and Bar, a reincarnation of a former regimental dining room. I open the armory's six-inch-thick oak doors-wide enough for a four-abreast formation to march through-and two camo-clad soldiers greet me. Since 1942, the New York State Division of Military and Naval Affairs has managed the building, housing the National Guard's 107th Support Group. For soldiers, Park Avenue or Iraq is not a difficult decision.

A guard snaps to attention. "What's your reason for being here, sir?"

"I want a beer."

"Show us an ID and sign in," he says.

I do.

"Elevator. Fourth floor," he says, pointing me down a hall brimming with battle-tattered flags, cannons and iron chandeliers. The armory is graveyard silent. I push a button and the creaking elevator sounds like a parade of arthritic elephants.

Doors open, revealing middle-aged ladies with basset-hound eyes and hummingbird hands. They're from the women's shelter, which brackets the bar on the third and fifth floors. They eye me curiously as I exit at floor four, entering a ghostly Bavarian beer hall two bowling lanes long. Antlered moose heads and half a ram hang from walls.

"Helloooooo?"

No answer. So I wander amid dining rooms-glass-encased sabers and herds of taxidermied game abound-before sitting at the bar. Dusty Killian's and Coors Light bottles crown the liquor cabinet. A man with a gray buzz-cut peeks from the kitchen. His hair cradles his wire-rimmed glasses, like an egg in a bird's nest.

"What can I get you?"

Coors Light. Four dollars. Steep, but such is the historical surcharge.

The bartender introduces himself as Jim Robertson. After eight years of bartending here, he bought the business last year. Not the building: That belongs to the state, which saddles Robertson with Big Brother restrictions.

He motions to security cameras. Guards are watching, he says, making sure no one takes pictures. Photography is prohibited in state buildings.

"It's ludicrous," Robertson says, shaking his head. "We have wedding parties here and guards call me and say, 'Jimmy, we have a problem with cameras.' How can you not take pictures at a wedding?"

While the restaurant portion sells decent burgers and steaks, weddings and private functions are Robertson's bread and butter. He hosts regular parties for the FBI, cops, a dental fraternity and Civil War buffs that include, yes, a Lincoln impersonator.

"He doesn't eat meat or vegetables-just pasta and dessert," Robertson says.

I chew on that as I sip my second drink, a stiff, five-dollar Jack and Coke. That I'm drinking liquor here at all is a small miracle. A problem arose several years ago with the booze deliveryman. As he rode the elevator, women from the shelter climbed aboard.

"Can I have a bottle?" one asked coyly.

He shook his head. Ha-ha. Very funny.

Another women tried to barter. "I'll suck your dick for a bottle," she offered.

How dare they! The outraged deliveryman, a gent in his early 20s, spun around and fled with the liquor.

"It took a week of pleading to get another delivery. You'd a thought he'd be happy to have someone blow him," Robertson says, laughing. He shakes his pack of Marlboros. "Smoke?"

Down the hall is the 42nd Infantry Division's "rainbow room." It's a smoking oasis grandfathered in under Bloomberg's ban, not a nod to Chelsea. "The 42nd Division stretches like a rainbow from one end of America to the other," General Douglas MacArthur said about the 42nd.

We blow smoke plumes across rainbow patches and photos of battle-hardened commanders. My buzz is pleasant. My mood is better. Gems like the Seventh Regiment Mess Bar are this city's remaining salvos against homogenization creep. A place to forget the bustle of now and remember that history extends beyond that last empty beer bottle. I could drink here until the hours are single digits if not for a pressing engagement. Back to the bar. My whisky disappears in a burning gulp.

"Hold on," Robertson says, grabbing my glass and pouring a finger of Jack. "You need one for the road." I swallow the amber courtesy and, with a firm handshake, leave the fortress looser than I arrived.