The Brooklyn Tavern. Not in New York.

[lumberjack_jeff]

http://www.seattleweekly.com/home/950455-129/inside-the-brooklyn-tavern-washington-states

A few days before Christmas, my girlfriend and I headed to a place down south. When we arrived, everyone was there. We had a few beers with Warren and Ciara. We gave Bruce a hard time, much to the appreciation of his adorable, grandmotherly wife, Dottie. We watched John shoot a little pool while Dalyn fixed some burgers. We laughed as Wayne cracked his jokes and listened while Mr. Landy, one of the many regulars, regaled us all with tales of how it used to be. The night was typical, but we didn’t know it because we had never met these people before and we had never been to this place. And yet, in a way, we felt like longtime regulars.

Because somewhere among the rolling, forested hills of southwest Washington, between towns you’ve never heard of on a road you have no reason to drive down, is a family you never knew you had, and they’re drinking at your favorite bar, even though you never knew it existed. That bar is the Brooklyn Tavern.

A simple hand-painted wooden sign lets you know you’ve arrived. The entrance is one parking-spot length away from the road, and, aside from the big grass field next door where customers are encouraged to camp and stay in RVs overnight, there’s nothing else around but trees and silence. The familiar glow of neon beer signs beckons you inside. Walk through the parking lot, paved with more bottlecaps than actual stones, and up to the door plastered with a massive poster of a deer declaring “Welcome Hunters.” Push open that door and step back in time.

Love this place.

[trof]

1. Used to frequent a place much like that.

Across the small lake we lived near in Illinois.
Neighborhood tavern surrounded by single family homes.
I guess they'd been there forever and their zoning was 'grandfathered in'.
Strohs beer was the preferred bev.