Don’s Club Tavern

Progress is not always a good thing. I liked it better when draft beer only came from a keg, not a bottle or can. I remember when telephones were heavy, two-piece objects that could inflict severe closed-head injuries, not miniature electronic earpieces that people apparently think make them look cool. I'm sorry, but nobody thought Lobot was that cool in The Empire Strikes Back. These Yellowteeth, or whatever-the-hell-you-call-them, just make it seem like everyone is schizophrenic, since they're always talking to themselves. There was a time when it was a challenge to see a girl's underwear; today, whale tails peek from above every butt crack, no matter how unattractive that butt crack may be. And though I love football, sports fans have gone the way of crack addicts and are ingesting at an uncontrolled rate. If you look at the Book of Genesis, it's clearly written that high school football is played on Friday night (unless it's homecoming), college on Saturday and the pros on Sunday or Monday night. When I was a kid, soccer was a novelty that Pelé played -- and matches were only shown early on Sunday mornings on PBS. Now games are on all the time.

Obviously, most of these deleterious changes are the result of radical Islam, vaccinations, our parents, Castro, kids these days, the pharmaceutical industry and/or Scientologists. To discuss these sad developments, a few of us went out for a crucial business meeting at Don's Club Tavern (723 East Sixth Avenue), where I was delighted to see that corporate America has not managed to seriously taint an old landmark. When I discovered Don's many years ago, I recognized that this was a place where you could return to your drinking roots. The tiny, smoke-filled room offered a fairly limited liquor selection, bad American "beer" on tap, a couple of other beers in longnecks, good music, a dingy bathroom and a pool table. In other words, it was like any number of high school/college parties where you learned you could drink and smoke excessively but still function the next day -- if you consider rolling over, turning on the TV and ordering pizza delivery "functioning."

Under its new ownership (the founder died two years ago), Don's features more liquor, some of which could possibly be made into an "appletini." Microbrews and imports now dominate the tap row. And while it's not the fault of the local conglomerate that runs the place, I found it weird to walk into Don's and see other human beings distinctly, without a haze of smoke. But otherwise, the staff and regulars have kept the spirit of Don's intact. Our bartender had no idea how to make a gag chick drink for a colleague celebrating his birthday. You still have to go across the street to get food. Beer is still available in those undersized pitchers that serve as oversized beer mugs for accomplished alcoholics. The music is still great. The booths are still intimate. The bathroom still smells like stale Carlton cigarettes -- just like my Grandma Helen's powder room.

Yes, although the future looks bleak, you can still go to Don's and honor the past. It remains a great place to get away from the worries of the world -- or at least bury them under a pile of beer bottles.