Ladies and Gentlemen, beholdeth the Trailer Park bar, located conveniently on 23rd just off eighth, caddy corner to a large GAP where you can black out and emerge with 700 fleece lined hoodies. Were you so inclined.
The bar! There are so, so many bars in NYC. They kind of tend to blur into one boring, blurry blob of beer, plaid, words and wobbly stools. But some bars emerge above the others with their clever themes or shticks. Trailer Park bar is filled with ‘trash’ and tater tots and a heavenly smell that I could only describe as ‘wait, is that fried chicken? And cinnamon? Is that chicken fried in cinnamon toast crunch??’ The walls are littered with stuff, the High Life is super cold, and the mannequins are well posed; trashy.