Karpaty Pub
KARPATY PUB
212-529-5024
JUST WHEN I think the East Village is sliding down a genteel gentrification slope, a bar reaffirms my faith in the neighborhood's nitty-gritty immigrant past. Welcome to Karpaty Pub.
Until this last spring, Karpaty existed as Lys Mykyta or, in English, the Sly Fox. Still, it was better known as the creepy bar beneath the Ukrainian National Home. The Fox was frequented by unshaven drinkers pining for a taste of homeland, aka hand-dwarfing bottles of Obolon lager. People for whom calling the bar a smoky, Eastern-bloc cesspit was a compliment. Then came the brain-scratching renovation.
By the double-edged sword of progress, the Sly Fox was gutted and pounded into a?porno airport lounge? The mirrored ceiling reflects an interior emphasizing words like floral, sterile and linoleum. An Ikea-quality wood-grain bar and high-backed booths are complemented by an orange, faux-candle lighting scheme. Karpaty is how I envision America if a Naugahyde-obsessed Hitler won World War II. So why not celebrate my Polish friend Martin's birthday at the pub?
We descend the wheelchair ramp and enter the sorta-subterranean lair to much rapture. "They have honey-pepper vodka!" Martin says, ordering-and downing-a three-finger, five-dollar shot. "It is, how you say it, smooth."
I sample a dribble from his glass and agree: smooth, yet spiked by a two-alarm kick.
"I do not think the ladies will like this drink very much," he says.
No, but ladies-and me, I confess-enjoy the bar's music. This night, the blond-tressed 'tender favors Modern English, mid-80s Madonna and Wang Chung.
Gently, I inquire as to whether he's spinning the jukebox or his personal stash. Irony vs. Earnestness: What's the score?
"This is my music," he says, puffing his button-down chest.
I plop down with a grin. After all, I've found the antidote to East Village pretension. Here, one melts into the milieu by sipping a $3 Pilsner Urquell (until 9 p.m.). Nearby, swarthy gents with simian chests bicker in tongues cumbered by unwieldy consonants. Hungry? Pair perpetually two-buck Miller Light drafts with potato pierogies ($6, ordered from the adjoining Ukrainian East Village Restaurant's carbo-loading menu). Food is easy. Peeing is hard.
When pints of Pilsner pile up, I double-knot my New Balances and start my drill: I ask the bartender to ring the buzzer. He says, "Go," and I dash out the bar's rear. I fly through fluorescent-lit mall surroundings, fling open the still-buzzing door, then clomp down a flight of stairs to hit pissoir pay dirt. Total time: 30 seconds.
"It is absolutely ridiculous," Martin says. "I almost go in my pants before reaching the toilet."
Bladder control is a minor tariff for a mostly excellent evening. Martin is thrilled by our cultural sensitivity-or is it insensitivity? "This bar, it does not remind me of home, but it is still beautiful," he says.
We drink until inebriation bridges the gap between the Ukrainian and American clientele. Though we're separated like a co-ed junior high dance, we join voices for an "I Melt With You" sing-along. Still, where cheap beers and language barriers exist, danger can lurk.
Another night, post-work and craving libation, I return solo to Karpaty. As I sip my dark Hacker-Pschorr, a straw-haired Femdrunk with a sullied Nike windbreaker and sunglasses waves in my direction. I ignore her by watching carbonated bubbles burst.
The scruffy-cheeked bartender has no defense.
"Tell me why!" she shouts, Bukowski-besotted, omitting the why's why.
"M'am," he says calmly, "please keep your voice down."
She lowers her sunglasses. "I'm giving you 10 minutes to tell me why."
The bartender imitates a bored mime.
She changes tactics, mumbling apropos of nothing, "You know, I just love Nicolas Cage. It broke my heart when he married that girl. But don't look at me-I can't rake!"
"M'am," the bartender says with fraying patience, "it's time to leave."
"Why?"
"You've overstayed your welcome."
"I have?" she says, as shocked as if someone told her Siamese cats could teach calculus.
"Yes, the door is over there." He points to the ramp leading into the East Village night.
"Either call me a cab?or the police."
"I don't have any cab numbers."
"What? Call the police. I don't give a flying fuck what you do."
"Police it is," he chirps. He pretend-dials a phone, and mouths imaginary requests. "They're on their way," he says, hanging up the handset.
"You're going to charge me with criminal trespassing?"
"Mmmhmm."
"Fabulous."
Two minutes pass. No one moves.
"You've got?seven minutes to?" she mumbles. Femdrunk extends her palm and counts fingers: "Five, four, three, two, one?I'm out of here. You guys are assholes. I waited eight minutes and no one arrested me."
At that, she slumps off the stool and drags-ass onto the gum-dirty sidewalk, maybe searching for a shred of dignity, but most likely another drink. It seems like a good idea. I glance at the bartender. He shrugs his shoulders. I order another Hacker and, with a nod to no one, disappear into the evening.