Parker & Quinn
64 W 39th St nr 6th Ave, Midtown West
The Place: A bar in Midtown I can only describe as upscale douche.
The Time: Wednesday October 25, 7:45pm. I’m meeting a friend here for a drink. She chose it because she had an appointment nearby and it looked “promising.” This was after she and I both did research and determined that Parker & Quinn was going to be our best option for a quick beer in this neighborhood.
The Vibe: I guess this place is also a restaurant, but when I come in, it’s a packed bar crowd, filled with people who work or, god forbid, live in this area. Everyone is dressed business casual and in their mid 30s. It’s a big ol' wraparound bar with a marble bar top, wooden elements everywhere to make it feel “homey,” wallpaper with that large paisley found in grandma’s bathroom. And framed photos that are designed to look antique but are probably arbitrary. There’s space in the back, tables I’m sure, but I don’t venture there. Sports are on TV, obviously. One basketball, one baseball. This is not a place I can comfortably pull out my book or notebook because it’s loud and the large group of 30-something business-casual men next to me would definitely say something, so the safest place to be is on my phone. Which sucks. So I’m the girl doing a crossword puzzle on her phone at a bar.
The Bartender: An incredibly nice, understanding woman who sees me struggling to find a seat. When two guys get up, she gestures me toward their now-empty seats so I can sit down! What a goddess. She’s got my back. She also gets me water and cleans the bar before putting my beer down on it. I’m in good hands with her.
The Drank: Sixpoint Sweet Action. Now that I can drink beer again, I’m revisiting all my old favorites. But truthfully, I get beer because I’m feeling cheap (it’s $8, cheap for this bar and part of town). They have a whole section of the menu dedicated to mules ($14-$18) which should say it all.
Was I Hit On? Mercifully, no. The dudes hovering nearby give me some sort of look when I get a giant plate of fries put down in front of me. But they say nothing. Then I overhear one of them say, “First and foremost. Russian flight attendants.” Should I applaud him for not saying “stewardesses”?
Should You Drink Here Alone? I mean. Nothing bad happened. And the fries were good. But I was pretty grateful when my friend joined me. Parker & Quinn is totally fine, but it’s a typical Midtown West post-work joint, if you catch my drift.