Nice Wood
"My, what a plush job you have," strangers say after I inform them I drink to pay my rent.
"Call-call-call," the stranger sputters, dribbling leprechaun-green syrup down his chin. "Callibogus. Use the word callibogus! In Newfoundland, it was a maritime drink, a mixture of spruce beer, rum and molasses."
"Really?"
"Really. But now it's an antiquated catchall phrase for a beverage. Nice, right?"
"Yeah, rolls off the tongue funky and friendly, like 'quagmire.'"
"Exactly. Can you loosen these straps?"
"Of course. But only if you accompany me to a bar in Greenpoint where we can have five, ten, 15 callibogi-right?-for the cost of a Manhattan entrée."
"Where?"
The Driftwood Inn, a name for a bygone era, a bar for a neighborhood with one toe in the past: Greenpoint. This Polish nabe is a dive-bar treasure chest. Stroll down the low-rise streets and find bar-fly heaven: McGinn's and Tommy's Tavern on Manhattan Avenue, Wendy's on Greenpoint. Here, two-dollar beer mugs hang on, perplexedly, like Washington Square Park's "herbal" salesmen. The bars' weed-like resilience should go unquestioned. Verbalizing the why could detonate a precarious balance. If you've ferried a lass to your bedroom, do you ask why? No. You unbuckle pants with a tacit understanding, like a horny mime.
For more than 75 years, the corner of Nassau and Eckford has housed an archetypal old-man hangout: a well-polished bar longer than a a giraffe's neck, with stools for 15 and a mirror to watch yourself drink. About 28 years ago, the bar known as Gene's was bought by Jeffrey Carter, who dubbed it Driftwood. Little has changed: the décor consists of faded baseball photos, Polish men, bright color TVs and an aquarium, in which I had the recent misfortune of watching a sickly fish get sucked into the air pump.
At the Driftwood, urinals are filled with ice, and beer's sold at 1979 prices: $1.50 for a frosty Coors mug. Scoff at Coors, but let me tell you: Chill any alcohol cold enough and you'll slurp it like a baby to breast milk. From the exterior, the wood-paneled bar looks as downtrodden as hardscrabble smokers sucking down cigarettes like each drag will solve life's riddle. Inside, however, you'll find succor courtesy of owner Carter. With a bushy beard, fingers as thick as wrists and a healthy belly, he's an imposing bartender. Really, though, he's a Jewish grandma with a mission to fill your belly.
On weekends, Carter orders food. Say, fried chicken and biscuits. "Just a little something to tide you over," he says one Sunday, gesturing toward a bucket of crispy flu breeders. Sustenance encourages another round. Come on, it's only a buck-fifty. So you have a third and-surprise, surprise-that's free. That Coors quickly toboggans down your throat. More. Do you ask Carter for one? No. Keep your mouth zipped and follow along.
When your mug, glass or sippin' trough is empty, remove it from said coaster and inch it toward the fish tank. Like a flare blasted into the clouds, it's a signal. Within a minute, you own another Coors. Miss the interaction? Well, "most people don't want to talk to me anyway," Carter says by way of explanation. This may strike some as unfriendly. I think it's dazzling. The world is filled with senseless chatter, blather about the weather designed to generate good-will between strangers. Bah; it's as comfortable as pulling teeth with a toothpick. Keep quiet, methinks, and the drinks coming.
This philosophy, like Driftwood, is unattractive to the wrong eyes. The saloon is dark. It's filled with men who believe a woman's heart is found inside another mixed drink. The televisions turn drinkers into news-watching zombies. However, the right eyes will see that, at the Driftwood, you can wash up in any state and find a welcoming stool, a bartender to let you stew and kill a drink or two. Or three. Go on, have another. The more you order, the more buybacks you receive. It's a callibogus carousel that, despite your silent intentions, will force open your mouth, if only to say, "Thank you."