Being from Florida, I’m pretty accustomed to all things bizarre, misunderstood, and meth-addled. The Levee is no exception. Today, the bar is more of an attraction than a legitimate dive destination, but when I first moved to Brooklyn back in 2010, it was everything. Like Herbie, the bar is fully loaded with entertainment. Traditional Jenga is cast aside in favor of a Sharpie-scribbled Drunken Tower, the Buck Hunter machine operates, but the aim is so uncalibrated that only the most inebriated Southern transplant could ever stand a chance, and playing the nude Photo Hunt invokes the same feeling you once had when stumbling across a stack of discarded Playboy’s in some weird old dude’s recycling bin.
Beer/shot combos are aplenty, low-end, and stereotypically named after the people who would order them; a Texas Two Step (Lone Star + tequila shot), for instance, clocks in at $5. For eats, they offer unlimited plastic bowls of cheeseballs and what is perhaps, simultaneously, the best and worst hot dog I’ve ever had. On one occasion, my birthday, I exited the establishment… a bit over-served I suppose, and proceeded to pee my initials on the sidewalk before gracefully & flawlessly jumping through a yellow cab’s window when he denied my request for a lift home. As my girlfriend stood watching, impressed, but, like, TOTALLY NOT IMPRESSED, I knew this place was magical. She’s still with me, two years later. Did the Levee have anything to do with the longevity of our love connection? Maybe not. But maybe, just maybe, it did. -- Alex Robinson, editor, Supercompressor