Manhattan Transfer

Its secret? According to writer Eddie Goldman, the Village Idiot is a cash bar—lots of Johnny, and no credit cards accepted. Implicit is McNeil's founding principle: Guys like getting shit-faced for cheap, ogling breasts and singing "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw?" like it's a mating call.

Here, suits mingle with electricians, frat boys with hipsters, and everyone shoots three-dollar Wild Turkey shots chased by foamy, six-dollar Coors pitchers. The hypercharged stew is kept boiling by buxom women whose finest assets are not making martinis.

At the Idiot, an ever-rotating troupe of navel-baring, sass-mouthed bartenders (no men, natch) serves canned beer beneath dirty bras, lovingly tacked to the wall. They break into spontaneous, bar-top two-steps—then shower patrons with suds and worse. They coyly banter about the Yankees, then Fuck you for not tipping, motherfucker. It is a sadistic charm; masochism means matching patrons, shot for shot.