Pacific Standard

A love letter to the west coast

Once upon a time the living was good. Deep into the autumn season we still enoyed seeing our tans arms, casually hanging outside the car window, as we drove down the 280. Maybe Sublime was in the car stereo. If the evening got chilly, we threw on a cardigan sweater and went over to a friend's house to smoke bong hits. On the weekends, there was a show at Bottom of the Hill or some flick at the Roxy, followed by beers, cebollitas and carne asada burritos at El Farolito. Oh yeah, the boys were nice to look at too.

Now, it's fucking hot as hell and the subway feels like feverish cess pool. The streets smell of urine and more than 50 percent of the boys are just plain out ugly. I have doled out The Finger at least twice today. A wannabe Black Elvis is singing me a love song. Except he's singing a Stevie Wonder tune; and behind him there is a small Latin man salsa dancing with a blow up doll. Man, I love me some New York City.

But sometimes, I just want a small hit of that west coast pipe again. Just a wee bump to tide me over. So I am happy to say that I was introduced to Pacfic Standard last night. They are Cal people. It's west coast microbrews, some of which are good and some taste like a leftover skunk. And it's located in the dirty heart of New York's own version of Oakland, South Park Slope.

It's campy and rec roomy. I especially enjoyed the owner's very own early 80s era baseball collection in the "Atlantic" loo; they also have a pretty awesome book collection for browsing. But the piece de resistance? On an altar-like table under the big screen (playing the Oakland A's game last night, who were slaying Texas) is the complete OED, small magnifying glass and all. MIMP: noun, a pursing of the lips. I did not know that.

Where: Pacific Standard, 82 Fourth Ave.