Sometimes it’s hard to decipher which neighborhood has perfected the art of the bouge more seamlessly: the Lower East Side or Williamsburg. With The Regal, one no longer has to decide, as it is a bar/restaurant (the Californianess of it all!) brought to you by the same luxury-loving minds behind Hotel Chantelle. The difference between The Regal and Hotel Chantelle? The Regal gets that extra bit of “edge” as a result of being situated beneath the BQE.
Interior hobnob station
For the dickless “man” who wants to eat a tuna sandwich that has sushi in it, The Regal, is of course, a perfect place to hobnob, and possibly find a sugar mama (Christina Ricci lives nearby). But for the “man” who still has some semblance of his dick left, why not go to nearby Night of Joy instead? At least they have a rooftop you can jump off of if you’re trolling luck goes awry.
PBR has long been the official beer of the Williamsburg “man.” To try to change that by switching to the now chicer cheapo brew, “‘Gansett,” is a blatant attempt at masking one’s lack of genitalia over drinking cheap beer that tastes like piss in the first place.
The new PBR in Williamsburg
The moniker that’s been so dicklessly given to Naragansett is, one assumes, an attempt to make it sound edgier, or quite simply an indication of the average “man’s” lust for monosyllabic caveman speak. While Naragansett is admittedly a step up in the taste realm, “men” of Williamsburg can’t conceal their long history of sucking down PBR with glee. Once missing a dick, always missing a dick–especially if you’re categorized as being among “price-sensitive beer drinkers at hip Brooklyn bars.”
One would have sooner expected that Turkey’s Nest would have shut down altogether before agreeing to switch to plastic instead of Styrofoam. It is, after all, their signature. And so, those “men” who consent to accept the decontaminating of what was once the irrefutable mainstay of no frills alcohol are, in turn, contaminating themselves.
I don’t really know what it is that makes “men” assume a personal relationship with you just because you’ve allowed them to say a few sentences to you at the bar. Whatever the reason, the second you say something they deem “intimate” (a.k.a. simply acknowledging them with eye contact), they seem to think it’s perfectly acceptable to infer you’re down to fuck.
She ain’t feelin’ you, stop reading into politeness
This desperate, visceral need to stick one’s nub into something wet is further made heinous when you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom as a mode of escape and they interpret this to mean this is their cue to follow you into said facility. And because you’re in one of the three Williamsburg bars owned by the same people (the Lucky Dog/Skinny Dennis/Rocka Rolla trifecta), the lock is shitty enough to… penetrate. It is at this point that one can feel free to implement the techniques learned from that kickboxing class she took thanks to a Living Social deal her friend got (though this smacks of missing a clit and you should probably just go for a classic kick to the groin).
In Williamsburg, knowing the latest, most important bar or restaurant is paramount to your status as a human being. That’s why “men” like to refer religiously to Yelp for counsel on how to approach their existence. If something has less than four stars, fuck it, they’re not going.
To live and die by Yelp is one of the classic signs of being dickless. Is it really that difficult to choose a place to go based on your own impressions and opinions? Evidently, when you’re a denizen of Wburg. With quotes like “Almost never had a bad bite to eat here! I would caution, though, that the Black Bean Soup is pretty watery and bland,” it’s not only horrifying to note “men” who use Yelp’s overt missing of a dick, but also that one of their biggest problems in life is watery soup. Quelle fucking tragedy.