I’ve passed A Touch of Dee’s many times and tried to peek into the darkened interior but never been bold enough to venture in. This joint seems to jump, especially on the weekends as it fills with regulars who perch themselves atop bar stools. Here is a little glimpse inside from Joshua M. Bernstein’s view. It seems a bit overly romanticized, like something you might find in Langton’s Semple series. Harlem is sprinkled with unpretentious old school bars like Dee’s and The Wright Bar. With the changing landscape it causes you to wonder how much longer they can hold on.
A Touch is no squalid tug parlor but a throwback to a simpler era of 3 p.m. drinking. The vintage bar is heralded by bumblebee-yellow signage and red neon leaking from plant-covered windows. This humble neighborhood spot is so intertwined with its surroundings that, like lichen on a rock, you could pass it a trillion times and never blink twice. Don’t make that mistake. When I wedge myself into the imitation-wood bar, I’m treated like a long-lost lover.
“Hey, baby,” coos the bartender, a compact woman wearing tinted glasses, an inconspicuous gold tooth and gold hoop earrings a lion could leap through. Behind her, a sign says: it’s better to give a shit than to receive one. “What can I get you?” she asks with grandma goodness.
Gin and tonic, on some rocks. She grabs tasty Tanqueray and fills a shot glass,
which she dumps into an old-lady goblet. She repeats, then cracks a bottle of tonic water. No drafts here, or even a soda gun. The action is resolutely old school, especially prices: $4.50 for my double-pour. Miller, Red Stripe, Heineken and their bottled ilk are about $4.
“That all right for you?” the bartender asks, dropping a lime in my drink. Uh-huh. I ask her name. “They call me Delores, but you can call me Dee.”
The touch of Dee: It’s something sweet.
So are the regulars. They crowd this low-lit, skinny hangout that’s decorated with music notes swaying from the ceiling (but will eventually overload on seasonal décor, not unlike Rosemary’s Greenpoint Tavern). To my left, a couple grandpa drinkers, their shirt collars like bird wings, mutter at the fuzzy TV. One smacks the counter to attract Dee’s attention.
“Don’t you do that,” she says, chiding him. “There’s better ways to get a lady’s attention.” He apologizes, quiet as a church mouse.
To my right, ebullient couples sip Hennessy ($8) and whisper into each other’s ears. Gossipy ladies crowd the far end of the bar, joking and belly-laughing. They start singing along to the jukebox’s Al Green and Stevie Wonder.
“Dee, Dee, can you turn that up, please?” asks a lady with a jaunty sweater.
She obliges, and soon the teeny room is washed with warm R&B and soul. Scenes like this, man, kindle that hole in my chest where my heart should be. I dream of more saloons like Dee, but they’re tougher to clone than humans. These no-B.S. hangouts are built on the bonhomie of a longtime neighborhood clientele. Does anyone live in a neighborhood long enough to create a rapport anymore? I gulp my drink, then another. Soon, too soon, it’s time to return to my splintered Brooklyn ’hood, where barflies are stamped with price tags.
“Get home safe, baby,” Dee coos, waving goodbye. “I’ll see you soon.”
I grin and wave. It’s good to be wanted.
A Touch of Dee
657 Lenox Ave. (at 143rd St.)
212-283-9456Source: New York Press
joe
December 14, 2006
Great writing