This summer has been a strange one. For one thing, it never quite got hot; nothing ever fully boiled over. Instead, it’s felt like we’ve all just been simmering, drifting through the days unscathed, even as news of bed bugs and the drought in California and failing schools relentlessly piles up around us. All of that stuff is easy enough to ignore, though, happening as it does at a distance. But it’s still real. Like, did you ever hear how you can boil a frog alive by putting it in water and raising the temperature so gradually that it won’t even realize that it’s being boiled alive? That’s what this summer feels like; we’re all being boiled so gently that we won’t even notice until it’s too late.

Well, so, that’s what I was thinking about as I made my way to Brooklyn Proper, the latest addition to Windsor Terrace’s burgeoning food and drink scene. I was riding my bike from work, and it was uphill all the way, and so, yeah, I was thinking mean red thoughts about death and destruction. As one does, you know? If I’d had to pick a place to match my mood, there probably would have been black walls and cheap beer and astringent liquor and stale popcorn. Instead, I walked into a small, bright room with floral wallpaper and good-looking people who were all smiling and chatting and wearing outfits that coordinated with the decor. I felt a little bit like I was on the set of some TV show that I would never watch because nothing tragic would happen. I was skeptical about the spot, to say the least.

But then I sat down and I ordered a Wassermelone, an incredibly refreshing blend of watermelon, white wine, and cocchi americano. Brooklyn Proper doesn’t serve hard liquor, but they have an imaginative cocktail list nonetheless, with drinks made with fortified wines and housemade vermouth, as well as fresh fruit purees. Also of note was the Apricot Fuzz, an effervescent blend of apricot, dolin blanc, and sweet stevia leaf. There’s also a small but thoughtful selection of wines and draft beer (including the excellent Peekskill Simple Sour) if fruity cocktails aren’t your thing. And there’s a finely curated food menu, replete with well-priced delicious snacks (the beautifully seasoned roasted almonds and mustardy deviled eggs were perfect bar snacks, and at $2 and $4, respectively, perfectly priced) and smart farm-to-table fare, like duck three ways, as prosciutto, confit, and pate. By the time I was ready to leave, my dark mood had disappeared, replaced by something lighter and clearer. (Was it due to the two cocktails and glass of wine I’d had? Sure! Probably.) And so as I rode my bike home through another glorious summer twilight, I couldn’t help but think that Brooklyn Proper wouldn’t be the worst place in the world to wait out the apocalypse. Not at all.

A new bar in a sedate section of an already sleepy neighborhood might distress locals for several reasons: more noise, maybe? A rise in late-night loitering on quiet residential streets? Or, I don’t know, an increase in public urination? But who would’ve thought that there’d be such an outcry over the name? Such was the case with the Adirondack, née Mohawk Tavern, which opened earlier this month in a prime corner-location outside the Fort Hamilton Parkway F/G stop.

Owned and operated by Paul Hamill, Leah Allen, Mike O’Neill, and Brandon Lenihan (all of whom are involved with or own Abilene in Carroll Gardens and Lowlands in Gowanus), the bar pays homage to the Mohawk Valley from which Hamill and Lenihan hail. Their Upstate upbringing is clear not only in the New York-brewed beers and Finger Lakes-sourced wines but also in the decor, which is heavy on rough-hewn wood planks and even features a mountainscape mural. It was also clear in the bar’s original name, Mohawk Tavern, so named to honor the region, not to dishonor the Native American tribe of the same name. However, once the name got out, enough people protested (and enough articles were written about it, including by us) that the owners decided to go with something more neutral—and thus The Adirondack was born, settling the matter before it had a chance to become a full-fledged “issue.”

Which is good, because The Adirondack is exactly the kind of comfortable local hangout that the Windy T needs. Besides some of the more expected though still appreciated draft beers (Captain Lawrence, Saranac Pale Ale) there are quite a few nice surprises, including Ithaca Flower Power—a marmalade-hued, piney yet vaguely tropical IPA—and Newburgh Hop Drop Double IPA, which is aggressively hoppy but still eminently drinkable. There’s also a full bar, and a short menu of unpretentious mixed drinks (Dark and Stormy, Old Fashioned). It seems like every bar and restaurant these days has a complicated cocktail menu featuring drinks that cost as much as an entree, so it’s refreshing to find a place where nothing’s more than $10.

A small food menu includes fresh hot pretzels from Pelzer’s in Crown Heights and a few pressed sandwiches (the roast beef, swiss, and horseradish was particularly delicious, and it comes with a bag of Lay’s potato chips), all of which is simple but satisfying—much like the bar itself. I’ve lived in the neighborhood a long time, and so I appreciate having a new, friendly spot to while away an afternoon with a beer and a book. Over the course of an hour on a recent sunny afternoon, no fewer than five people stopped in to The Adirondack just to remark on what a great addition it was to the area—and how they planned to come back soon.

“Shuffleboard is like the man-bun of bar games,” I said to a friend as we made our way to this place after a long day of work. I won’t lie—I was being shitty. I was prepared not to like the Royal Palms, to find it too expensive, too twee, too full of people who take ironic pleasure in playing the games their grandparents enjoy down in Boca. But a funny thing happened as we walked from Smith Street toward Gowanus: any annoyance or anger I’d felt started to melt away. Maybe it was the cool, early evening air that held a promise of warmer days to come, or maybe it was the fingernail-thin crescent moon reflecting in the murky canal waters, but by the time we entered the brightly lighted, cavernous converted warehouse, I was feeling pretty good—and the lively space, decorated with old sports pennants, black-and-white-striped private cabanas, pink flamingo wallpaper in the bathrooms (handily labeled “Biscuits” for women and “Tangs” for men, after shuffleboard equipment), walls painted Tropicana Cabana blue, and 10 full-size shuffleboard courts only added to my good cheer. And, uh, the drinks helped too.

Although I was skeptical about the many fruit-based cocktails (some of them premixed and all served in Mason jars), I couldn’t bring myself to order anything that might, say, have an olive in it. Anything too salty or savory seemed sensorily dissonant in a place so vaguely tropical. And so I went with the not-too-sweet but very refreshing Shuffleboard Bob (gin, coconut water, cucumber syrup and lemonade) and also sampled the super-sweet Earl Ball (bourbon, black pepper, ginger, and a heavy dose of pineapple) and the smoky Jim Allen (Herradura tequila, mezcal and orange juice). Each cocktail was better than anything I’ve ever had in a Mason jar and perfectly complemented the excellent—and spicy!—sopes I ordered (two for only $7) from the Country Boys food truck stationed in a corner. (The Royal Palms will feature a steady rotation of food trucks, including Red Hook Lobster Pound and the Morris grilled cheese truck.)

And while I didn’t play shuffleboard that night, it was easy to imagine whiling away an evening with friends (a shuffleboard lane is $40/hour), sipping cocktails, and eating lobster rolls. The retro feel of the place isn’t at all heavy-handed; instead, it makes you nostalgic for the type of 60s cruise vacation that you imagine Don Draper used to go on, even though they probably only really exist in your imagination. Forget nostalgia, though. You don’t need it. The real thing is right there waiting for you at the Royal Palms.

Sixty years ago, the western stretch of Atlantic
Avenue was populated with bars and restaurants frequented by longshoreman from nearby dockyards. Until recently, one of the few surviving relics of that era was the Long Island Bar and Restaurant, which operated from 1949 to 2007 under the ownership of Emma Sullivan. For the last six years, the red-and-green neon sign on the corner of Atlantic and Henry remained dark, while the perfectly preserved interior features—red-and-white leather booths, terrazzo floors, original Art Deco bar—gathered dust. All that changed last year, when stewardship of the coveted corner spot passed to Toby Cecchini (formerly of Passerby) and Joel Tompkins, who turned on the neon sign and reopened the space as Long Island Bar.

On a recent evening, the air outside was clear and cold and the sidewalks were lined with mountains of snow—at least what passes for mountains in this city. And maybe it was the cold weather or maybe it was the clarity of the night or maybe it was that I hadn’t really eaten all that much that day, but I was already lightheaded when I stepped into the bar’s warm yellow glow and slid into a booth. I was unsure if the Bombe 75 (Apple Brandy, Calvados, Lemon, Prosecco) would help or if I would just wind up bouncing against the Formica walls on my way to the ceiling. It can be hard sometimes not to be tied down.

The drink helped. It was both warm and bright, the sweet richness of the brandy balancing the bubbly Prosecco. It was also an ideal lead-in to the Rip City Fizz (Aquavit, Cynar, Honey, Lemon, Hard Cider), which tasted, my friend said, “like salad in a glass.” A lot of the cocktails taste like other things (the Boulevardier is not dissimilar to cough medicine, though in the best possible way, and the Carronade is a dead-ringer for French Toast), but I like that. I liked everything, actually: John Prine singing at just the right volume in the background; decades-old lamps with pull chains affixed to the wall at each booth; and the waitress, who was always there when we needed her, whether for water or something stronger. I liked that I walked in cold and lightheaded and left feeling grounded—from the warmth of the drinks, yes, but also the warmth of the bar itself. The Long Island Bar of today might not be representative of the area’s longshoreman past, but if it’s an indication of the neighborhood’s future, then it feels—against all odds—like everything’s going to be all right.

When last I drank something alcoholic that’d spent time in a blender, it definitely wasn’t in Brooklyn, and it definitely wasn’t on a cold November night. Yet when I arrived here, after walking many dark blocks under the BQE’s rumbling river of cars, it was hard to resist the beachy, vaguely tropical vibe of this former gas station, and so I quickly ordered the bar’s frozen drink of the day. One sip of the toasted five-spice, syrup-laced Dark and Stormy and I started questioning my decision to avoid frozen drinks—and my decision to stay away from simple pleasures in general. Let’s just say by the time I slurped up the last of its slushy, rummy goodness, I had questioned most of my major life decisions and was ready for food.