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A youngish cat named Fitz stands at the bar drinking with a friend -- a bona fide Monday tradition. Patrons say they're dreaming up scripts, are under the impression it's Saturday, are nobly sacrificing a productive Tuesday to entertain out-of-town friends. After 32 years in business, a few things have changed at Specs': "The women have gotten younger, and they don't like me as much as they used to," says a gray-bearded hipster named James, a longtime regular. "Other than that, it's exactly the same -- life at its best."
Meanwhile, Jimbo the bartender recommends a Chartreuse -- a sticky, cracklingly fiery, 110-proof liqueur served straight up with a soda back. "It'll get you where you're going," he promises. "Or, as some people would say, "The magic carpet ride.'"
The carpet stops at Gino & Carlo (b. 1942), where televisions and neon beer signs hang above a packed house. Frank Sinatra rules the jukebox, and two pool tables are fully occupied by a local-heavy crowd that rarely starts trouble and should never, ever be messed with. People love Gino & Carlo like life itself: "For me, it's the most wonderful place a person can come," says Jim, a 30-year regular, who's as thick as an oak tree and equally gnarly. Mark, a groundskeeper, says his choice is obvious. "I live in the neighborhood, man, and if you live in the neighborhood and you're drinking on a Monday night, you drink at Gino & Carlo."
A nearby Irishman agrees, buys a round of shots, and then it's off to the city's oldest drinkery -- the 139-year-old Saloon. By 1 a.m., rockabilly band the Bachelors loiters out front, taking a permanent break. Though the tiny, timeworn Saloon will see its share of carousing in the days ahead -- locals sipping $2.50 afternoon well drinks, blues lovers coming for the 10 weekly live shows -- for now the place is empty.
The quiet lasts until 1:20, when restaurant types Michelle and Amy drop by and order shots of the Italian bitters preferred by many in the industry: Fernet Branca, with a ginger ale back. The women head to Specs', where Fitz hasn't moved, everyone knows everyone, and the crowd has thinned to a half-dozen of the heartiest Monday night drinkers. Then comes the sweet part of the night, when any illusions of a fruitful morning have long since been abandoned. The party lasts until closing time, when, as required by law, Jimbo turns mean and unforgiving: "Drink 'em up!" He rings a bell so loud it could shatter God's eyeglasses -- a sure sign Tuesday morning has begun.
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