Directory

Atlanta's oldest strip club and a cash-only basement that tourists still cannot quite explain.

Shut up and drink: graffiti walls, Ass Juice, and the city's official anti-Vegas bar.

A former brothel with a jukebox that will not quit and a soul burger after midnight.

A boxing shrine squeezed into Times Square, still charging neighborhood prices.

Sawdust on the floor, two beers only, and a wall that has not been cleaned since 1910.

Second City's unofficial clubhouse: portraits on the wall, no food, no nonsense.

A former lighthouse papered in signed dollar bills at the end of the road.

Karaoke in a double-wide stuffed with Christmas lights, cheap beer, and zero pretension.

A cave of Christmas lights where the sun does not get in and the night does not end.

East Side honky-tonk with iced Lone Star, a packed dance floor, and no cocktail list.

Once the Bloody Bucket, now a NOLA-tinged LES holdout with a leopard-print pool table.

Detroit's oldest standing bar: former store, jail, brothel, and still the Motor City's dive.

The horseshoe bar at Avenue B, better known as Vazac's, still glowing red after last call.

Cheezborger, no fries, no kidding: the subterranean newsroom tavern under Michigan Avenue.

A 1934 poets' bar that still pairs two-ingredient drinks with too-loud bands.

The Special is still Beam and a PBR, and Thursday still belongs to Miss Lisa Lisa.

Chicago's last honky-tonk, still two-stepping under a drop ceiling in Uptown.

Burgers, punk on the juke, and a patio that ignores whatever Sixth Street became.

No phone, no website, no cards: a tagged-up South Grand rat's nest with cheap Stag.

The Replacements' old booth still haunts this Uptown survivor.

No sign, no windows you can see through, and rules against whistling that Charlie once enforced.

Well liquor in old condiment bottles and a floor that will follow you home.

A cash-friendly neighborhood tavern by the springs, dark at noon and proud of it.

The mural of famous Franks out front, the cheap well drinks inside.

A horseshoe bar, cheap bottles, and a Congress Park crowd that never rebranded.

A converted train depot where the piano player still runs the room.

A Federal-era tavern for longshoremen that kept the old sign by painting out one letter.

A triangular Mission saloon from 1858 that still works as a neighborhood bar.

A roadhouse on the state line with too many stages and an annual mullet toss.

Hirschfeld mural, Howard Hughes neon, and the last drink Elizabeth Short was seen ordering.

Know what you want, have your money ready, and do not make them kill you.

Dockworkers' home since 1895, still dingy, still open, still unstuck in time.

Nautical kitsch in the Gaylord basement, stiff pours, and a crowd that spans decades.

The Drag's longest-running music dive, still launching bands from a room the size of a garage.

A St. Marks basement that outlived the street's worst years and kept the neon.

The oldest sanctioned bowling alley in America, downstairs, with a tavern on top.

I-Bar to regulars: cheap drinks, a mood-whiplash jukebox, and no interest in being curated.

New York's oldest gay bar, still a wood-paneled refuge after the 1966 sip-in.

The shuffleboard shack they put on a trailer and moved down the street, ceilings still too low.

The Good Will Hunting bar that still works as a Southie neighborhood tavern.

Wood paneling, chicken-fried steak, and a fish on the wall that is the only upscale thing here.

Year-round Christmas kitsch and cheap well drinks in a Hyde Park living room.

Cave-red Chinatown neon and the house Chinese mai tai, still a little unhinged.

The grunge Cheers of Capitol Hill, still serving breakfast and last call under one roof.

Chicken shit bingo and a room small enough that the band is in your lap.

The 8 a.m. happy hour, still neon-dark while the rest of South Beach performs.

Mag Bar: punk on the juke, a bathroom debate, and no family-friendly anything.

A Democratic precinct with a bar, newspaper clippings, and a booth for every argument.

Center City's fluorescent beer hall, still selling pitchers like rent is not a thing.

A 24-hour diner-bar that has been pouring and plating since 1929.

A ramshackle SoHo holdout where the drinks stay cheap and the room stays unbothered.

A real longshoreman's bar from the 1940s, barnacles included, still dodging the buyout.

The 24-hour corner bar at Napoleon and Magazine, still pouring when the rest of Uptown sleeps.

Denver's oldest bar, cash only, no sign, and a Neal Cassady tab still on the wall.

The island tavern that stayed open through Prohibition by serving Angostura as medicine.

A post-war Japanese-American tavern holding the line against Wrigleyville sports bars.

Tiki-adjacent clutter, frozen Irish coffees, and a Bayou St. John living room.

A Cedar-Riverside institution with a patio, a punk streak, and no closing-time manners.

New York's oldest continuously operating bar, still wearing its tin ceiling and rose-red facade.

Pink walls, a patio jungle, and Montrose's official place to disappear for six hours.

Photo-booth portraits, a curved bar, and the official after-hours of Ukrainian Village.

Fried chicken that takes an hour, one fryer, and a shack that outlived the condo boom.

Italian-flag awning, Rat Pack jukebox, hard-boiled eggs, and a menu that froze in 1963.

Recession Specials and honky-tonk that still sounds like Broadway before the party buses.

A cash-friendly River North holdout that still looks like last call in 1978.

Free hot dogs, a pig out front, and the kind of room that still feels like old Ninth Avenue.

Space junk, soul on the juke, and a Bywater room that never cleaned up for the guidebook.

Pinball, hot dogs, and a clown-themed Belltown cave that refuses to grow up.

A Swedish fish neon, glogg in winter, and a neighborhood bar that never dressed up.

A space-age Hawthorne basement with strong pours and a jukebox from another planet.

A museum of maritime junk in an alley off Columbus, still packed with regulars.

Nashville's oldest bar, still a low-slung music room that never asked to be discovered.

The Bloomingdale's-adjacent dive that moved down the block and kept the red booths.

A waterfront family bar that still feels like the old port, bluegrass and all.

Tiki neon on Interstate, karaoke that gets dangerous, and a booth for every excuse.

Capitol Hill's beer-soaked music room, still sticky and still booking the weird bill.

Opened the day after Prohibition ended, still holding down the River Walk's longest bar.

A painted house in Allentown with a steak sandwich and a 2 a.m. town-hall crowd.

A closet-sized Mission dive with a jukebox and no patience for a waitlist.

Red vinyl booths and a dining-room gloom that still photographs like old Hollywood.

Opened in 1861 and still a blues room with a bar that arrived by ship.

A former cop bar that became Echo Park's late-night living room, dance floor included.

Theater District consensus dive: lifers, Emerson kids, and bartenders who do not miss.

An orange cinderblock holdout under the condos, picklebacks and all.

Paper shamrocks on the ceiling and a horseshoe bar that outlasted the neighborhood's polish.

The purple honky-tonk behind the Ryman where Willie got his first writing gig.

Taxidermy, diner grease, and the Hill's official place to hide from the suit.

Thursday nights still belong to Kermit Ruffins, or at least to the idea of him.

A 1920s ice house, picnic tables, dogs, and cheap beer in the humidity.

I Closed Wolski's bumper stickers and a family tavern that never needed a rebrand.

Oregon's PBR cathedral: not clean, not pretty, and not pretending otherwise.

Bikers, pitchers, and a Mission beer garden that never asked to be a scene.