Cue the theme to the Godfather. Walk under the street to this most interesting of Italian places in a city full of wonderful Italian places and swear that you see Tom Hagen pouring Vino for you in a small glass at the bar on the right. Ask Michael or Sonny if you can get a place to sit for dinner. Such is Il Vagabondo.

Ironically enough, it is located barely into the Upper East Side (Lenox Hill). Granted a place to sit, one is escorted down more stairs into the basement eating area. A bocce ball court is alive and well and living in the middle of the restaurant with active play. You must be six feet under by now.

As you would expect, the Vino is good and cheap. The dishes are filling and well prepared. You’d be “frekin’ nuts” not to have the Osso Bucco or the Veal Parmaigiana. You won’t go wrong with the pasta dishes. Or you can have both. Although if you know what is good for you, you’d better listen to the specials from the kitchen.

I swear on my first visit, I had to put cash in the front pocket of our host. However Il Vagabondo now conveniently takes credit cards. I assume anyone’s credit cards.

This is a great New York experience for lunch or dinner. This place is easy to get to, but difficult to leave. D.M.

Barhopping on the East Side doesn’t require much skill.  All it requires is a good pair of walking shoes and a hearty thirst.

Few bars really stand out.  Most are smallish and on the friendly side.  Most offer some sort of fare.  Many have English or Irish bents.  One such bar is the Manchester.  But on one particular Saturday afternoon, it offered something quite unique in the otherwise nondescript pattern of East Side pubs.

Lacrosse.  That’s right. Lacrosse.  Nothing irritates me more that a bar that claims to show sports but it has either no knowledge of how to get a sporting event or which one to put on.   The premise of walking into a bar when a pro or college sporting event is on and only Nascar or the Home Shopping Channel is on gives me nightmares.  Not a problem at the Manchester.

A variety of TV’s were all tuned to the best sporting events of the day, including a fascinating NCAA semi-final lacrosse match.  It captivated the attention of the packed pub, and seemed to fit in so nicely with feel of the place.

This small well laid out bar features a wide selection of beers from the British Isles on tap.  The seating is tight both at the bar and at the high top bar tables.   The youngish lad with the thick brogue poured rapid-fire pints with great enthusiasm.  The place is open air, with people settling in for hours or just stopping in for one.

As East Side pubs go, when searching for sports on the tube, this one clearly shoots and scores. – D.M.

A Pugilist amongst Prada. As seemingly out of place as a boxer in a beauty pageant. So it is with Fanelli’s Cafe in the heart of New York’s SoHo.

The rustic landmark bar with a bright red neon sign hanging high above double glass doors stands stoically on the corner of Prince and Mercer Streets unassumingly dispensing everyman libations, while ever-encroaching high-end retail establishments draw throngs of fashionistas to go slumming through the gallery-laden streets in “designer causal” garb. Perhaps no greater anomaly exists in the former factory and warehouse district south of Houston save the idea of “starving artists” living in $5000 a month lofts.

Founded in 1847, Fanelli’s is a throwback to the beer and burgers joints of old, with its tile floor, boxing memorabilia lining the walls, and a long dark bar tended on most nights, by no nonsense tapsters who realize theirs is a dying breed. Bob, an often-cantankerous mixologist at Fanelli’s is perhaps the best example of the Bruiser/Boozer/Bartender genre that can be found at some of New York’s older tin ceiling establishments. One early evening I watched in bewilderment as Bob emerged from a crawl space behind the bar like a punch-drunk fighter inexplicably answering the final round’s bell, having, it appeared, slept off the remnants of one shift, and though still bleary-eyed, began another.

Even with all its charm, Fanelli’s is not without problems. It can, especially on weekends, get crowded, and if not seated at the bar, the narrow space between the barstools and the row of red and white checker-clothed tables is extremely tight. The bar is very smoker-friendly, as are most of the City’s older taverns, and the blue haze can get as thick as Roberto Duran’s accent, particularly when some foreign visitors stop in to rest their Prada-clad feet.

Fanelli’s however maintains a nice selection of moderately priced beers on tap, and a well-stocked bar to wet the whistle of the most discerning drinker. Hamburgers and fries are of course served, as well as the type of pub fare you would expect from such an establishment, but it is not the grub that keeps Fanelli’s on the short list.

While the bar may not transport you back to a by-gone era, it is the ideal respite for one looking to avoid yet another session of retail therapy in what has become the haute couture walking mall of America. Leave the shopping to the flyweights, and enjoy a few rounds with the champ of SoHo. -C.M.

Sinatra. Elvis. Fabio. (Well, maybe not Fabio). Greatness defined by one name. New York has a few such places. But no single name personifies New York in my mind quite like a number. ‘21′

‘21′ Club, as it is formally known but never referred, began as a Prohibition time speakeasy that hid under the street from the Feds. Legend has it that the extensive wine cellar was actually secretly kept next door at 19 W. 52nd Street and never found by law enforcement.

Today, when you walk down the stairs and enter ‘21′, you are greeted as if entering an exclusive club. You walk though the lounge of couches and chairs to get to the Bar Room. The “bar” is for standing and drinking and the “room” is for sitting and dining. Wait staff wear white jackets and black ties. The cocktail is prepared with great seriousness by a staff that has done this a time or two.

Now granted, there is this little game that I invented at ‘21′ called “you won’t believe what that round just cost.” With drink prices that median in the mid-teens, this place is not for the faint of heart or the lean of wallet. But ‘21′ is a classic, an ageless below-the-ground bar and restaurant where gentlemen must wear jackets and ties, the veteran service is flawless, and the crowd is New York City powerful.

The food is impeccable in an American classic way but like the drinks, very expensive. I defy anyone not to shake his or her head in surprise and awe at the price of the famous ‘21′ burger.

The ceiling of the Bar Room is made up of a collection of toys and memorabilia that one would expect to find at an upscale flea market, not an upscale restaurant. Planes, trucks, hard hats, sporting equipment, tankards, shoes, and signs all hang in orderly haphazardness. I remember being perplexed at the sight the first time I entered ’21.’ But for some inexplicable reason, it works perfectly.

They say every toy in the Bar Room has a story. Certainly if the walls could talk, you know they would have a tale or two as well. You have not been to New York City if you have not been to ‘21′. – D.M.

Perhaps it is the Holden Caulfield in me, I have a similar distaste for “phonies” but I maintain a certain attraction to sipping cocktails in hotel bars. There is something refined about it, the patrons tend to be, if not worldly, at least on an expense account. One can enjoy libations served by slightly more polished, waist-coated bartenders with their offering of mixed nuts, and the surroundings are generally, swank.

Of course, the drinks can be considerably more expensive, but rarely have I found catwalk quality cocktail waitresses in little black dresses and thigh-high boots serving rounds in my local watering hole. Deep down there is also an underlying sexiness to consuming hard spirits in such close proximity to floors and floors of king-size beds.

New York City is blessed with some of the greatest hotels, and not coincidentally some classic hotel bars; the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis with its naughty Maxfield Parrish mural, the Plaza’s Oak Bar and a bevy of hipper-than-thou Whisky Bars. Over the past few years mixing and mingling in hotel bars has risen in popularity faster than a stripper at a Shriner’s convention. With the increase of those lobbying for an evening in a lobby bar unfortunately too has come the omnipresent velvet rope and bodybuilding bouncer, complete with the prerequisite black turtleneck and Janet Jackson World Tour headset.

A perfect escape from the hustle and bustle of the lobby bars of the new boutique hotels is the dark and quiet lounge at the Gramercy Park Hotel. Located at the foot of Lexington Avenue directly across the street from the lovely, albeit forbidden, Gramercy Park, this hotel bar has very few of the annoyances found at the newer, hotter, and true, hipper establishments.

You won’t need to shout over trip-hop being blasted through an elaborate sound system. Nor will you be forced to stand three deep at the bar, as an actor/model/bartender attempts to make a lowfat Cosmo for a B and Ter who owns the first two seasons of Sex in the City on DVD. This is perhaps an anti-hotel bar hotel bar, the surroundings are not necessarily pretty and the patrons may actually be guests of the hotel, but I rarely have any reservations about stopping in for a cocktail. – C.M.

The inviting glow of Dublin House’s neon sign is a siren song to many on the Upper West Side seeking shelter, from either the raucous row of bars that line the adjacent Amsterdam Avenue, or as temporary respite from an all too often overwhelming city. Situated on a rather nondescript section of 79th Street between Broadway and Amsterdam, the neon sign intermittently flashing relief signals, “bar” and “tap room” serves as an alluring beacon, remaining steady as the neighborhood around it ebbs and flows.

By its very name many may be able to draw a characteristic sketch of the bar with none too surprising accuracy. There are indeed charming older Irish gentlemen bartenders who greet you with a smile and a cocktail napkin almost immediately upon entering the dimly lighted bar. Dispensing witticisms in accents as thick as the foamy head on the Guinness they carefully pour, the tapsters at Dublin House move behind the long, well-used bar, with much of the same natural ease as many of the patrons down their drinks in front of it.

Although not particularly easy on the eyes, missing from the Dublin House however is the generic “pub in a box” aesthetic displayed by many of the Irish bars that run along 3rd Avenue on the East Side. Certainly the occasional U2 song can be heard from a rather decent jukebox, but there are no soccer matches shown, nor do portraits of famous Irish writers and patriots line the walls. There is however something real, perhaps, at times, too real about the establishment. It makes no attempts to be anything other than a bar that serves cocktails beginning at 8:00AM to folks who are looking to drink for a variety of reasons.

While the demographic composition of the bar varies throughout the day, the broadest audience imbibes just after work, conveniently located less than 50 yards for the 1/9 Subway line, a cross section of Upper West Siders stop by “the house” on their way home. On recent visits, I have had conversations with a stockbroker, a mailman, and a woman who claimed her husband owned a spacecraft, perhaps drawn in as I was, by the enticing sign of promise that hangs above the door.

Like a good fishing hole that you can’t seem to find, you may have passed by this establishment countless times on your way to other destinations. Located just a few steps below Christopher Street at 7th Avenue, Kettle of Fish is for many, the one that got away. Although the stairwell is covered by an awning touting the name of the bar, and a small sandwich board rests on the sidewalk inviting passers-by to pay a visit, the bar with a rich history and modest demeanor remains pleasantly calm for the village neighborhood it calls home. Originally on 3rd Street, Kettle of Fish moved to its new location – formerly the Lion’s Den – in 1998.

There is a familiar quality that exists at “The Kettle”, with several well placed televisions broadcasting local sporting events, a few comfy couches and a cast of characters either throwing darts or political jabs, even first-timers can immediately feel welcome. Especially if you’re at home with moderately priced drinks from a well stocked bar, which includes almost inexplicably, but without being ironic, ice cold cans of Genesee Cream Ale. If the couches and darts don’t remind you of a relative’s rumpus room, perhaps the cans of Genny Cream will.

If it is DJs, a velvet rope, and glamorous Sex in the City extras that you desire, I suggest you continue upstream. Although on occasion wayward NYU students will wander in looking for Jagermiester promotions or a bevy of Bud girls, the Kettle has little in common with many of the other bars in the area, which are often filled with beer soaked sophomores arguing the merits of American Pie II.

The bartenders, like your “cool” cousin, know the right proportions of cocktails and conversation without ever losing sight that they are in control. These are professional people who understand that a half shirt and a mini skirt is not always appropriate attire for working behind the oak. This is perhaps one of the most unpretentious bars in Manhattan. But don’t be lured in by the relaxed atmosphere, this is a drinker’s bar, and one is expected to act accordingly, namely; know your drink, tip appropriately, and know when to call it a night. Like most, after your first visit you’re sure to be hooked. – C.M.