Profile

Blarney Cove isn't a faux dive bar, it's the real thing. Papered with Yankees posters and game schedules, this long, narrow drinking den starts pouring for its regulars at 8 a.m. and doesn’t shut the doors until they stumble home at 4 a.m. the next day. Friendly and raspy-voiced, Popeye the bartender seems to know everyone in the joint, probably because his customers rarely leave. Although newcomers aren’t exactly welcomed, this is one of the last places in the ever-gentrifying East Village where you can still hoist a Bud with characters who have earned their reputations over decades of serious drinking. The truth is, though, that if you really want to get drunk at Blarney Cove, all you really have to do is smell the breath of the guy sitting on the stool next to you. — Lucy Cohen