In 1642, when a small, scraggly hook of land east of Manhattan was awarded to a reform minister, or dominie, in Dutch, it became known to its first European settlers as Dominie’s Hoek. The dominie died in a shipwreck five years later, and the settlers were unceremoniously booted back to Manhattan by the Mespeatches Indians, one of the thirteen tribes native to the region. But, nearly four centuries later, his legacy endures. “Five, six, seven times a week I come here,” explained an old-timer, between gulps of his third vodka-and-soda. His own heritage was more Atlanta than Amsterdam, and his decadelong devotion to the appealingly rumpled hangout has earned him a nameplate—“Nice Guy Mike”—affixed to the dark-wood counter. A narrow, tin-ceilinged corridor gives way to a trellised outdoor patio. (Nice Guy Mike: “Yuppies who are pricing me out of this neighborhood have to sit somewhere.”) A rangy bartender in a sriracha-branded T-shirt delivered pints of Allagash and six-dollar sangria. (Prices are gentle; pours are generous.) Happy hour had long passed when a first-time visitor to Dominie’s, and to New York City, found herself gazing at a sliver of the Manhattan skyline through the window: “Whoa, you can see the Empire State Building!” It was, in fact, the spire of the Chrysler, but no one corrected the pilgrim. ♦
Jiayang Fan is a contributing writer at The New Yorker.
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