Hartley's — A Girl's Guide to Drinking Alone

14 Putnam Ave btw Cambridge Pl and Downing St, Clinton Hill

The Place: Not-your-granddad’s Irish pub that’s clearly the place to get a Guinness in Brooklyn.

The Time: Tuesday November 26, 6:30pm. I’m hosting Thanksgiving for my family for the first time, and I’m picking up pies at Petee’s on Myrtle for the big day. (My partner Tom and I are cooking everything otherwise, and I’ve learned the hard way that I’m not so great at making pie crust. You gotta play to your strengths, y’know?) So before the madness descends upon my apartment, I decide to have a night out with myself and take a walk down to Hartley’s, a bar my Irish friend Peter loves and that I somehow still haven’t been to.

The Vibe: It’s all the good qualities of an Irish pub (warm, cozy, friendly) without any of the bad (the old surly men, the pervasive neon lights that make everything and everyone way too bright). This place is tiny, with exposed brick walls, a solid wooden bar, low ceilings, a smattering of tables, and barely any decor save for the menu board. It’s dimly lit, with just a few hanging unobtrusive Tiffany lamps and large candles with real flames (!) dotting the bar. It’s not that busy, which is perfect for me, and a photo shoot for the New York Times is just finishing up, apparently for this feature on Guinness!* I take a seat at the bar, near another solo guy who’s drinking a Guinness. The music is loud enough and there are just few enough people here that when a song ends, everyone speaks in a collective whisper until the next one starts. This is a comfortable, neighborhood bar and honestly my one gripe is that it’s too dark to read, but maybe my eyesight is just worse than it used to be. Time is a bitch AND a flat circle!

The Bartender: There’s just one, wearing great glasses and flannel, her hair swept up in a bun. She seems a little manic, worried about the pours of her Guinness, but that’s probably because the New York Times was just here. A guy comes in and asks for, what else, a Guinness, when the bartender has a: “wow oh my god hi! How the fuck are you, it’s been so long!” moment with him. They’re both really flummoxed but genuinely excited to see each other, it’s pretty cute. I’m rooting for these two.

The Drank: Wow I really wish I liked Guinness more because that’s obviously what I should be drinking here, but instead I get the sour beer on tap, a fruity offering from KCBC. The bartender asks if I’d like to try it before committing, but she ends up just pouring me a full one anyway. There’s a small cocktail menu, as well as a selection of wine and other beers, but really it’s all about the Guinness here.

Was I Hit On?: No, and honestly, I feel like I should’ve done a better job at trying to chat people up myself! There’s such a communal, convivial vibe that I think had I talked to the solo Guinness guy or even talked to the bartender more, I probably would’ve stayed for another beer. Instead, I read this article about the alternate universe in which Russell Crowe doesn’t win the Oscar for Gladiator. Thanks to recent events in our political hellscape, I find it seductive to fantasize about all the other timelines we could currently be living instead of this nightmare apocalypse we’re standing on the precipice of and…ok fuck it, I get a shot of Irish whiskey before my pies and I depart into the Brooklyn night.

Should You Drink Here Alone?: Yes! Hartley’s is a local gem, perfect for catching up with friends over Guinness, or meeting a first date over Guinness, or having a solo night with a pint of Guinness. Sláinte!

*Turns out, while I was at Hartley’s, the photographer was still hard at work and I made it into one of the photos. So now you all know I was actually there!