Cafe Funchal

Cafe Funchal is like alot of other bars. But none of them is in the city of New Bedford.
Located on the corner of Church Street and Nash Road, having moved from a much smaller Acushnet Avenue location, Funchal is quite remarkable. On the night of the Barflies' official visit, it was, as it often, is quite busy. The main bar is situated in a cavernous room, with an incredibly lengthy bar and three (four? five?) large flat screen televisions hovering above, like quietly humming "close encounter" motherships. The exterior architecture and the unlikely location do not signal the handsome decor that awaits within. Besides the liquor bar, staffed by at least two very good bartenders, names unknown to Mr. Draft, there is an elegant horseshoe-shaped oyster bar. Mr. Draft is of the belief that perhaps the best accompaniment to a Guinness draft stout is a couple of iced oysters on the half shell, and Funchal did not disappoint him. The Cafe can be loud, but it is a good loud...the kind of loud that comes from people talking, laughing, flirting, and socializing. There is an extensive specialty martini list, and a phone-book sized menu, focusing in on some of the the best Portuguese food in the city. The Mr. Mix and Mr. Merlot...oh, the hell with this---Mr. Draft is just going to say it....Cafe Funchal gets a 10 for at least a half-dozen reasons: an excellent menu; professional and knowledgeable staff at the liquor bar and the oyster bar (c'mon, when was the last time someone could explain to you the subtle difference between an oyster from off the Rhode Island coast versus one from off Long Island?); a beautiful interior architecture; a jumping crowd; and bold owners with the balls to open a Tribeca bar in the north end of New Bedford!
Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr, Whiskey, Mr. Brew-haha, Mr. 3BOES

Sapatinha's Cafe

On the evening of the Barflies' sojourn into Sapatinha's, located in downtown New Bedford at the corner of Acushnet Avenue and School Street, there were only three or four patrons at the bar...and no bartender on duty, seemingly, as we sat on the stools. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Maria appeared. She was a friendly, middle-aged, self-depreciating woman with a plastic bag on her head. Really. She explained that she'd taken advantage of a quiet moment to dye her hair in the ladies' room, and she proceeded to serve the Barflies, with a Rite-Aid bag over her hair.
The draft selection was limited to Bud and more Bud, so Mr. Draft shifted to his fall-back choice, a can of Guinness. Mr. Merlot sipped a heavily fortified Portuguese wine, strong enough to strip paint off a hardwood floor. When asked by Mr. Mix for a "mixed drink, something creamy, sweet, no fruit juice," Maria suggested a Tequila Rose, which Mr. Mix ordered. It turned out to be a premixed cocktail, the color of Pepto-Bismol and the flavor of Frankenberry cereal, a strong artificial strawberry kick. Mr. Mix described it as "being offensive to the palate."

Sapatinha's is a rather nice place, dark and quietly elegant, with plush seats and the illusion that it is twice as large as it actually is, due to the placement of a large mirror on the back wall, an illusion only broken by the realization that the exit sign is in reverse and there is a guy at the other end of the bar who looks just like you. Two televisions played, one broadcasting Jeopardy! and the other airing American Gladiator, appealing to both the Apollonian and the Dionysian sides of the cafe's patrons. A hand drawn portrait of Mother Theresa hung behind the bar, as did a Red Sox banner, touching on all things holy.

A sign hung over the bar that read: "Credit is for banks not bars. If you ask me, I will throw you out." Sapatinha's will likely not be a beneficiary of any $700 billion dollar bailout.

The cafe was quiet that evening, but Mr. Draft suspects that Friday and Saturday nights are more vibrant. Sapatinha's gets a straightforward 6.

Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr, Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Moonshine

Le Place

Mr. Draft will be the first to admit that he can trip over the obvious...as in the case of this bar, where he failed to make the mental connection between the pseudo-French sounding name and the possibility that it might be a lesbian bar. Not that there's anything wrong with that. (Sorry...that line never gets old.) As Mr. Draft and his Barfly colleagues approached, note was taken of the rather large outside deck and the rather unappealing view of the great grey concrete wall supporting Interstate 195, directly across the street. However, once inside, the bar opened up to an expansive dance floor and a somewhat glittery decor, reminiscent of a late 70's disco. Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix and Mr. 3BOES were, with one exception, the only "misters" in the place, as the customers were predominately female. And, despite a riveting broadcast of Jeopardy! on the television over the bar, they were primarily preoccupied with each other. Although, Mr. Draft was curious about a specialty drink called a "Suck & Blow," evidentially available in seven or eight fruit flavors, and described by the bar tending woman as "a jello shot in a tube," he settled in with a vodka martini. The Barflies not-fellow patrons were sociable and greeted us upon our arrival, and, one gets the sense, would've engaged us in further conversation had we stayed much beyond our one drink. Le Place is certainly the place to go to in New Bedford if one's gender and sexual preference are of a given nature, but, that said, it seems open and friendly to all-comers (no pun intended). The dance floor itself seems to be one of the better in the city and everyone knows how much Mr. Draft likes to shake his hips. Maybe he'll haffta bring Mrs. Draft some night...or maybe not. Le Place gets a bold 7.5. (Roll Call: Mr, Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. 3BOES)

The Foxy Lady

This establishment has two unique distinctions. Located on Popes Island, on Route 6, just shy of the Fairhaven town line, it the easternmost bar within the New Bedford city limits. And it's the only strip joint. As Mr. Cork expressed some social uneasiness about the visit, and Mr. Martini was running late, and Mr. Mix claimed to be suffering some gastrointestinal disturbance, and Mr. Merlot was eating antibiotics in order to fend off Lyme disease, and Mr. 3BOES was MIA, only the most intrepid of the Barflies- Mr. Draft and Mr. Sazurac- forked over a $7. cover to venture forth into the "gentlemen's club." Let's face it...in an establishment of this nature, the draft selection is not really that important...which is just as well...as there was no draft selection. Bud and Bud Lite were available in bottles. Ensconced at the bar (as opposed to the chairs at the edge of the stage, where many of the other predominately male patrons seemed to prefer to be), Mr. Draft and Mr. Sazurac sipped gin-and-tonics and enjoyed the view. Having once visited a dingy joint in New Milford, Connecticut with work mates, and going to a sleazy stripper bar in Queens, New York, and seeing the Bada Bing on The Sopranos. Mr. Draft is hardly a connoisseur of adult entertainment venues. The skeleton crew of Barflies was pleasantly surprised to see that both the place and the ...umm...ladies...were attractive and well-maintained. The atmosphere of the Foxy Lady is inviting in a low-key disco mode, with subdued lighting in the right places. The dancers are either naked, or on their way to that state. The barmaid and waitresses wear something that is black, low-cut, high-rising and provocative, almost dominatrix-like. It worked. As is to be expected, security is of concern at the Foxy Lady. A deadly shooting and a stand-off with the police, involving a jealous ex-boyfriend of an employee, occurred there some time ago and now one goes through a metal-detecting scan before one can enter. Affiliated with a Providence club of the same name, the Foxy Lady is entertaining in its' own way, clean, safe, and inexpensive...unless you choose to stick dollar bills under garters. The Foxy Lady advertises on its' marquee such thing as upcoming "special guests," as well as prime rib Wednesdays, couples' nights, male stripper events, and trivia nights. Mr. Draft is almost tempted to return to see how they pull off doing trivia in a strip joint! The Foxy Lady is very good at doing what it does and it rates a 8 for that. (roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Sazurac)

The Garden Sports Pub

As one travels down Union Street and passes the neon sign illuminated window of the Garden, one would not know how large the place is within. There are a number of pool tables and other barroom distractions, as well as a big horseshoe shaped bar. There, however, is no garden of either the floral or vegetable variety, so Mr. Draft, noting the sports-centric theme of the bar assumes that the name is a reference to the Boston "Gah-den." Mr. Cork was once again greeted with enthusiasm when the Barflies entered. No offense to Manny at Campino but this old acquaintance of Mr. Cork's was much cuter. As it turns out, the blond babe bartender, Ann Marie, used to babysit for Mr. Cork's sons, which quickly ended Barfly speculation on Mr. Cork's reputation as a ladies' man. Ann Marie was quite friendly and conversational as well as very pleasing to the eye. Mr. Draft took note of an odd drink being sipped by a nearby patron. It was a Windex-colored concoction in a large translucent plastic cup, with a can of Red Bull half- submerged in it. The patron told Mr. Draft that it contained gin, vodka, rum, Blue Curacao and, of course, Red Bull. It was called a Trash Can, and he said it was appropriately named, as one "will getya trashed." The draft selection was strong including the usual suspects as well as Magic Hat #9, Sierra Nevada, and Smithwick's. Like nearby competitors FINS and the Catwalk, the Garden is populated by a young, attractive crowd, looking for a good time, in every conceivable sense of the term. For its' enviable draft selection, for its spaciousness and unpretensiousness, for the somewhat hip crowd, and for Ann Marie, the Garden gets an 8. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix. Mr. Cork, Mr. Sazurac)

The New Wave

Located under the Route 195 overpass in the Hicks-Logan district, the New Wave is a small, nondescript cinder block building with graffiti on the exterior walls. Hicks-Logan is a tough neighborhood struck by poverty and crime and rumored to be a possible site for the casino, long rumored to be coming to New Bedford. But it ain't a neighborhood bar. The New Wave often has entertainment, ranging from heavy metal to rap to stand-up comedy. Even karaoke. On the night of the Barflies' visit, it was quiet when we arrived--- just two customers nursing beers at the end of the bar. A dog was asleep on the stage. A barrel-bellied, no-nonsense guy who looked like he belonged on the set of The Sopranos kept an eye on things. The draft selection was limited but a few good ones were available, including the Newcastle that Mr. Draft ordered. The barmaid, a buxom brunette bit of eye candy named Kathleen, was friendly and quite talkative. Someone (Mr. Draft won't reveal who...) noted her thong strap rising above her low-slung jeans and she almost instantaneously became our favorite barmaid. Mr. Mix asked for "a sweet drink," but let Kathleen select and she served him...yes...wait for it...a Pink Pussy. Mr. Mix claimed to like it better than the one he'd had at the Catwalk several weeks ago, but that could've been the thong talking. The New Wave is a gritty, fun, no-frills place, much like the bars Mr. Draft used to hang out in Providence, back in his college days, when he was into...new wave. This bar would've received a 6, but the thong bumped it up to a 7. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot)

FINS

Not sure why FINS is all capitalized....perhaps it is an acronym for
something? Favorite Imbibing Night Spot? Fine Intoxication, Nice
Saloon?
In any case, the Barflies entered the establishment on lower Union
Street, and on an early Wednesday evening, it was empty save for a
young, gregarious, and beautiful blonde barmaid named Amy. The bar
itself is pleasing enough in matters of decor, rusted metal cut-out of
various marine life hanging on the walls. Mr. Merlot, somewhat of a
connoisseur of public restroom design and architecture, noted with
pleasure the full length old-school ceramic urinal in the men's room.
The draft selection was adequate, but nothing special stood out. Mr.
Draft opted for an old standby, a Guinness Stout. Mr. Mix peeled out
from his pocket a small, dogeared notebook in which he had written
down drink names, suggestions from others, and reputations, and got to
business asking Amy if she knew how to make a half-dozen eclectic
drinks with silly names. Although Mr. Mix is the Barflies' resident
"mixed drink" drinker, he tends to avoid the mixed drinks of legend-
no martini, no Manhattan, no gin-and-tonic, no rum-and-coke, no
daiquiri. Instead, Mr. Mix usually seems to favor drinks that taste
like desserts or sweets (the Oreo Cookie, the Oatmeal Cookie, the
Carrot Cake) or are dripping with sexual innuendo (the Dirty Girl
Scout, the Slippery Nipple, Sex on the Beach.) Mr. Mix asked Amy for
an Orgasm. Mr. Draft did not note the ingredients but can assure all,
that it was adequately creamy. Amy gave Mr. Mix a couple of drink
suggestions, including one which she refused to verbalize, but wrote
down the name and recipe into Mr. Mix's notebook. (It was called the
Pink Pussy, which compared to asking for an Orgasm, seems rather
quaint.) On another note, free chicken wings were available as
munchies, which the Barflies quite enjoyed. Even a Fresh Nap Moist
Towelette was provided to wipe away the sticky fingers mess. FINS is
a good bar, well deserving a second visit, preferably on a Friday or
Saturday night when things get a bit busier. It rates an
8-and-a-half. Now can someone tell me if FINS is an acronym?

Bar 908

The first thing to Mr. Draft upon entering Bar 908, in the Times
Square Building, was the stench of cigarette smoke. Now Mr. Draft
won't needlessly cast aspersions, and wouldn't dare to suggest that a
bar in New Bedford wouldn't gladly embrace the no-smoking regulations
which have been imposed, but nonetheless, the stink was there.
Clearly, Mr. Draft and his colleagues did not see any smoke or anyone
smoking...perhaps, the smell lingered on the clothes of other patrons
or maybe someone had sneaked a butt earlier...but the air was foul.

That aside, Club 908 was dark and cavernous, with a large and empty
dance floor, befitting its' reputation as a meat market. Aside from
Mr. Draft and his colleagues that evening (Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot and Mr.
Razzamatazz), there were but a few other customers, including two
young women, who approached our assembled group and announced
themselves as "the Bar 908 Welcoming Committee". Now granted, the NB
Barflies are a ruggedly handsome and virile group of men...even Mr.
Merlot, with his baseball cap fashion faux pas, is not without his
charms...and one can see why we would attract the attention of a
couple of young women...but it appears they may have only been looking
for smoking companions, as they invited us outside to join them for
some cigarettes. Alas, the Barflies may endure a little liver damage,
but we avoid lung cancer like, well...lung cancer.

The bartenders were affable enough and made girly drinks for Mr. Mix
and Mr. Razzamatazz without too much sneering. The draft selection
had the usual macro-brew selections, and a few better than that. Mr.
Draft opted for a Sam Adams Octoberfest. The trip to the men's room
meant descending more staircases than one needs to in the New York
City subway system in order to catch the F train, but at least the
men's room didn't stink of cigarette smoke.

Mr. Draft only can give the 908 a 5, but perhaps, if air-scrubbers
were utilized, that rating could climb up to a 6.

Merlot

Why does a bar that specializes in overpriced martinis with cutesy names name itself after a red wine? And those over-priced martinis with cutesy names are so contrived that the bartenders need to continually refer to a recipe guide. (Although the himbo bartender managed to construct an Absolut martini without guidance.) Merlot is trying to hard to be hip and failing miserably. The ambiance, if it can be called that, is dominated by decor chosen by George Jetson on a drunken shopping spree at Ikea, with a nod to bad op-art.

Merlot was the only bar visited by the Barflies (so far) that had something resembling a dress code. Ironically, Mr, Draft's Barfly colleague, Mr. Merlot, was asked to remove his baseball cap upon entering the establishment (a fashion tip thoroughly endorsed, by the way, by Mr. Draft, who believes that baseball caps should not be worn by grown men, unless they are at a ballpark,,,and actually playing baseball.)

And, of course, as the specialty is martinis, there were no drafts. Except the chilly reception...

No drafts, an atmosphere stolen from Futurama, a needless dress code, and over-priced martinis...Mr. Draft gives it a 2.

1846

Much to my disappointment, 1846 doesn't refer to some significant historical event, but, alas, to the address: 1846 Purchase Street. Number 2 on our list, the 1846 was a pleasant surprise. Set in the heart of a neighborhood best known for drug-dealing, prostitution, and other questionable activities, the Barflies entered with some trepidation and ended up thoroughly enjoying it. The bar was a long, seamless counter of stainless steel and had comfortable, matching high-backed stools that matched. The barmaid was very friendly and informative as were other staffers. A Red Sox game played on the television, and predominantly Spanish music played. Mr. Draft's only disappointment was the draft selection...in fact, "selection" is too generous a term...there was only was weak draft choice,,,an Icehouse, or a Miller Lite, or something equally forgettable. Mr. Draft instead ordered a CC-and-ginger and felt like his dad, swilling one down at the long gone Imperial. The 1846, despite its' non- selection of draft, is a gem of bar. It had an excellent staff that made newcomers feel welcome, and an atmosphere that was warm and homey...the perfect neighborhood bar. Mr Draft gives it a strong 7-and-a-half.