New York City's Best Dive Bars. Ben Westhoff

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       Bushwick Country Club

      618 Grand St (Leonard St & Lorimer St) Transit: G,L to Metropolitan Ave-Lorimer St

      www.bushwickcountryclub.com (718) 388-2114

      As is often noted, Bushwick Country Club is not in Bushwick and it is not a country club. Located on the southeastern outskirts of Williamsburg, the bar is named after Caddyshack’s Bushwood Country Club, and boasts six holes of mini golf in its back yard. Ask the bartender for putters—no charge, he’ll just want an ID—and knock yourself out. The tiny course is highlighted by a windmill made out of PBR cans but is otherwise sparsely-decorated. (The bar recently ran a contest for people to design their own hole, with the winner to receive a $100 bar tab and a plaque with his or her name on it.)

      Micro-duffing aside, Bushwick Country Club is the near perfect hipster dive bar, featuring a photo booth, Big Buck Hunter, Safari edition, gratis cheesy puffs and comely, tastefully tattooed young ladies who stalk the premises in packs. My only complaint is the alcoholic slushies. The $6 cherry and vodka concoction—poured directly from a machine—is a high-fructose corn syrup nightmare. Before half of my mug was done I was bouncing off the walls, only to experience a sugar crash moments later. I asked the mustachioed bartender for some help, and he filled the rest of the mug with ice and vodka for five more dollars, but this did little to dilute the cough syrup flavor. A drunken/ slightly-deranged/ oddly-articulate barfly named Andy insisted that five cheesy puffs would sufficiently wash the cherry taste out of my mouth. (“I just grew another point in my crown!” he enthused after giving me this advice.) For what it’s worth, I’m told the Jim Beam and Coke slushie is more manageable (once in a while they have Makers Mark milkshakes.)

      Ask at the bar about becoming a “member” of Bushwick Country Club, which entitles you to drink specials and other perks. Throw a party on your birthday and bring in 15 people (11 if you’re a member) and you’ll drink for free. If you bring in 30 people they’ll grill hot dogs for you in the back yard. Eat your heart out, Judge Smails.

      Dive Bar Rating

       Cherry Tavern

      441 East 6th St (1st Ave and Avenue A) Transit: F, M to 2nd Ave; L to 1st Ave

       (212) 777-1448

      I have been to dozens of East Village dive bars, and I find Cherry Tavern to be the horniest. (Doc Holliday’s is a close second.) Everyone here seems to have come for the express purpose of hooking up, or finding someone to hook up with. The ceiling is covered with soundproofing foam, probably because the upstairs neighbors were complaining about the moaning. Red bulbs dangle from above, and cheesy early-‘00s radio rock of the Three Doors Down, Puddle of Mud variety plays on the jukebox. (This, unfortunately, is the closest thing white folks have to baby-making R&B.) People who don’t have any idea how to play pool are doing so simply for the opportunity to goose their partner when she bends over, and even the bartender seems to be making eyes.

      If you’re not interested in finding romance, Cherry Tavern offers cocktails like Che’s Iced Tea, which is mint iced tea and bourbon, and Moscow Lemonade, which is cherry vodka and lemonade. But other than those concoctions I couldn’t find any traces of a Communist influence; I mean, they also offer an Old Glory special, which is a PBR and a shot of whiskey for $4.

      Other than the sex pheromones in the air, the atmosphere ain’t much: Wood paneling, double-exposed photos of drunk people, a plastic orange gun hanging from the coat hook. Monday night is iPod night, says a sign: if you bring yours in, they’ll play it. But folks here clearly aren’t much into music appreciation. (Hence the aught rock.) They’re more into the appreciation of a nice round behind, particularly one shaped by a tight pair of jeans.

      Dive Bar Rating

       Cordato’s

      94 1/2 Greenwich St (Rector Street and Carlisle St) Transit: 1 to Rector St; R, W to Rector St; 4,5 to Broadway

       (212) 233-1573

      Formerly known for pizza, lap dances and prostitutes, Cordato’s now appears to have settled into a new identity as a begrimed, low-rent watering hole. If you want to see horrendous-looking semi-naked women, go next door to the Pussycat Lounge, but if you simply want to drink at a spot where there’s no chance you’ll run into someone you know, Cordato’s is your place.

      New York Magazine called it the city’s best dive bar in 2006, which is preposterous, but the people at the official-periodical-of-everything-that’s-annoying-about-New-York were understandably proud of themselves for discovering it. Located behind a normal-looking, totally-serviceable deli, there’s absolutely nothing to indicate it’s lurking in the rear. Once you pass through the back door, the atmosphere completely changes, however; dirty south rap videos play on the television, the proprietor flirts/trades insults with the Puerto Rican bartender, and people stop in just long enough to order bizarre drinks. When I was there a guy asked for tequila mixed with vodka and Red Bull, which the barkeep happily whipped up for him, with ice. Later, a guy who looked like he could have been the bouncer at the Pussycat Lounge ordered three shots of Jose Cuervo, which he drank one after another, like water.

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