L.I.C. (ENTIOUS)

L.I.C. Bar

45-58 Vernon Blvd. (46th Ave.)

Long Island City

718-786-5400

Quite often, quasi-industrial Long Island City receives the illegitimate child treatment: ignored until it does something worthwhile. Like every July, when museum P.S. 1 fires up its Warm Up DJ series-cum-artapalooza. Only then do artfully coiffed scenesters cross the Queens ramparts, looking as lost as dolphins in the Gobi Desert.

Naturally, after the last record spins, a question remains: Where can you grab a drink? Though Long Island City sits a 7-train stop from Manhattan, the nabe has developed glacially: a French bistro here, a Gardenburger-selling bodega there, a luxury condominium yonder. We'll host the Olympics before L.I.C. reaches full yuppie potential.

In the meantime, the answer to the drink quandary rests in L.I.C., the bar. It sits on a stretch of brick streets and auto-body shops, not far from the waterfront and relocated landmark Pepsi sign. The bar is a member of a family of cozy little establishments, including Greenpoint Coffee House and Pencil Factory. It is a fine lineage: Dark of wood with massive communal tables and lighting dim enough to render an acne-ridden schlemiel doable, Pencil Factory is a perfect tavern.

That said, to find L.I.C. Bar, look for pink neon advertising BAR. It's simple and a throwback, not unlike the ample interior: The wood floors are coffee-dark and well worn like a favorite pair of jeans. The walls are lined with vintage photographs of a bygone Vernon Boulevard (including the intriguing "Vernon Social Club"). The ceilings are, naturally, tin, while tables follow Pencil Factory's lead: large enough to seat parties of eight in mismatched chairs. A black-and-white photo booth completes the look (more on that later), but the real action is outside.

The patio is an unparalleled refuge: foliage studded and surrounded by brick walls, it spaciously fits most of your New York City acquaintances. I should know; I once tried. My first time at L.I.C. Bar, I was dragging a double-digit posse, refugees from a nearby wedding. We were a 20-headed wreck, covered with red-wine stains and swinging stolen wedding lilies like baseball bats.

"Here, let me put those in water for you," said the bartender, who plopped the flowers in a silver vase. "Now, what can I get you to drink?"

We ordered pints of Brooklyn Lager ($4), Anchor Steam ($4), Radeberger ($5), red wine (pinot grigios start at $5 a glass) and single-malt Scotches ($9 for enough to blind). Like an octopus on speed, our bartender served libations lickety-split. Most wedding attendees stumbled outside to stink up the sky with cigarettes. I went to the gent's room, which was announced in florid cursive script.

The black-and-white checkerboard floors were appealing, but the chunky red soup in the sink was not. A gentleman with a spittle-studded beard was relieving his stomach of one drink too many. Feeling decorous, I passed him a napkin.

"Thank you," he said, before digging, like a reluctant miner, into the sink to unclog his disaster.

What a courteous drunk, I thought, shaking off my business. In fact, the word courteous often danced through my head that night. Especially when my friend Andrew and a lovelorn wedding guest entered the photo booth at 2 a.m. They exited at 4 a.m. to the applause of all remaining drinkers.

"Congratulations, Harry Potter!" the bartender said, acknowledging Andrew's foppish hair and striped tie. "We were going to knock and tell you to come out, but we thought you were probably having a bit of fun."

How kind! I returned to the bar a few months later and experienced the same courtesy. I grabbed an Old Speckled Hen ($5). The grab-bag regulars-old men with hepcat sunglasses, young women with back tattoos, autoworkers with forearm tattoos-responded with smiles and a nod. That is, everyone except the couples munching gooey pressed sandwich ($6 garlic ham and gruyere, as well as $5 fontina and fresh sage are standouts). I don't begrudge their silence: the smell from the behind-the-bar sandwich press perfumes the air, stirring stomachs to gurgle.

It's such a pleasant scene that, for a moment, I can imagine myself setting down roots in this limbo of industry and housing. I'd pop in for an afternoon drink or a nightcap. Get on a first-name basis with the bartender. Develop intricate handshakes with a regular. Heck, I'd even craft a T-shirt with my very own slogan: L.I.C. Bar: A saloon so good it could make you forget you're in Queens.