169 Bar

This historically seedy institution has been open for more than a century as some variation of raucous drinking establishment—its reputation once earned it the nickname the Bloody Bucket. (In 1910, the Times reported that a server was stabbed in the heart at the address, in a dispute over soup.) Its current New Orleans-inspired format is enjoying its tenth year in a rapidly gentrifying part of Chinatown. On a recent Thursday, when asked about the burgeoning restaurant scene nearby (Dimes is around the corner, Mission Chinese Food next door), Charles Hanson, the bar’s owner, claimed ignorance. “I don’t go outside,” he explained. And why would he? Inside is a cozy junk yard, orchestrated entirely according to his whims. There is a T-Rex mounted above the fireplace and a leopard-print pool table in the back; strings of party lights glow blue and red over the faces in the crowd, notably diverse for a neighborhood increasingly patronized by millennial cognoscenti who may or may not be employed. While it’s tempting to succumb to three-dollar beer-and-shot combos at happy hour, the Piña Colada and the Hurricane are as good as any you’ll find in the French Quarter, and, in keeping with the times, Hanson has rigged up a system by which you can text to order one from where you’re sitting. But, despite the cheery atmosphere, 169 Bar still has an edge. As one patron sat taking notes, a regular on the next barstool nearly fell into her lap, belligerently drunk by seven o’clock. He sneered, “You’re just another boring Asian girl.” She left after deciding that, in the end, it’d be a waste of a good drink to throw one at him. ♦