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Call it a modern-day speakeasy. There’s sometimes a sandwich board advertising its location, sometimes not, but look for a red light bulb above an unmarked door when the room is open, it’s lit. The interior feels like a gutted-out shipping container designed by David Lynch, with antlers and an axe on the wall and The Smiths cranked up. With just 30 seats, the room threatens to burst most nights with grungily fashionable Main Streeters throwing back pints of R&B stout and shots of bourbon. You could order from the edited menu of comfort-food faves (mac ’n’ cheese, fish tacos, nachos), but this is a watering hole of the first order.

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