The Cat's Meow
Cattyshack
249 Fourth Ave. (Carroll St.)
Park Slope
718-230-5740
Brooklyn's Fourth Avenue is not the prettiest patch of real estate. Trucks thunder down the multilane speedway, spewing exhaust onto tire shops and slanted tenements. It's a pothole-pockmarked death trap separating Park Slope from the poisonous Gowanus Canal-brownstones and brownfields.
Here, the canal's stench can trump Chinatown's summer reek. Broken bottles and McDonald's bags line sidewalks. Rivers of green antifreeze dribble down the street. Though a zoning change has paved the path for 12-story structures (like a Holiday Inn rising on Union Street), Fourth's still frontier territory, fertile ground for degeneracy.
This did not escape Brooke Webster. She once owned Meow Mix, the infamous lesbian dive on a needles-and-psychos stretch of Houston Street. Like all great dives, Meow had rock on the jukebox, grit in its teeth, secrets in the bathroom-and cops on its case. After a decade of city harassment, floods and a Lower East Side gone good, the Meow closed last July. Webster decided to relocate to Fourth Avenue, a location so perfect even Marty Markowitz agrees. "Brooklyn loves the LGBTs!" the Brooklyn borough president shouted during the recent Gay Pride Parade, according to Gay City News. Indubitably.
Statistically speaking, Park Slope houses the city's most concentrated lesbian population. A girl-centric club was a no-brainer, the proverbial Mister Softee outside the playground. After more than a year of building, Webster transformed an old warehouse into the bilevel Cattyshack. On weekends, the club's velvet ropes starkly contrast the auto-repair shops and oil spills. They look as natural as a beard on a baby, but it works. Gussied-up girls (and a smattering of men) line up to enter, as I did on a recent Friday night.
The bouncer admits me with a toothy smile. This is a pleasant change; testosterone was not always welcome at Meow Mix. I breeze past the purple-felted pool table and ante up at the bar. The taps are not yet operational, so I order a PBR and a bottle of Stella for a friend. The faux-hawked bartender tells me it costs $9. Ouch. Mixed drinks are equally painful, clocking in north of $6 for a well gin and tonic. This must be a formula: Distance from civilization multiplied by auto shops equal drink cost (see Chelsea for a primer).
Along the amply sized bar (featuring a stripper pole), tee-wearing crew-cut types and lipstick femmes (and the spectrum in between) are locked in amiable conversation. In the rear sits a makeshift stage and space for about 75 boogie-woogiers. The painted-cinderblock walls are lined with what look like beer-can holders ringed with light. It's handsome, if sparsely decorated. But really: The clientele come to scope one other, not art.
Up the blue stairs, I'm greeted with a wall of incense-hopefully a one-time error. The second floor is equally attractive, with a second bar, well-maintained brick walls, more beer-can lights, tan hardwood floors, a separate DJ/dancing room and a tabletop Galaga-PacMan hybrid, all softly lit by slatted wooden lanterns. The jukebox appeases with a mix of Willy Nelson, Dolly Patron, Le Tigre, Fannypack and Cat Power.
Yet Cattyshack's crowning achievement is its enormous deck. With picnic tables, baby trees and a barbecue pit, it's cozy, comfy-and, at night, moonlit. On sweaty evenings (judging by the recent heat wave, we're destined for an armpit-soaking summer), dancers and debauchers flock to the deck. This could be problematic.
After the Brooklyn Pride Parade, a noise complaint drew cops. Though neighbors largely number gas stations and tire shops, behind the duplex club sits a freshly built apartment complex-the fruits of rezoning. My friend Andy, who attended the opening-night party, was hesitant about combining clubbing and burgeoning neighborhood.
"Someone leaned their head out their window and was scratching their head like, What the hell is going on?" he said. "He looked stunned."
As he should be. Bye-bye, weeds and bombed-out bodegas; hello, condos and nightlife. Perhaps, for once, they'll learn to play nice. I hope so. Provided the cops stay on the sidelines, Cattyshack should shine. It's an adrenaline shot to Park Slope, much less New York City. When the club fully opens in July (hopefully), expect trivia nights, karaoke and roving DJs (Friday's Cirrah party is a mainstay) catering to the XX crowd.
Speaking for the XYs, I have just one complaint: When nature called, I clambered high and low, searching for the gender-appropriate toilet. But the restrooms, like Cattyshack, admit one and all.