A dive bar is defined as a place of ill repute. A well-worn, decidedly un-glamorous place where poets and thieves rub elbows with gents and bums. A place where your feet stick to the floor and make that thwack sound every time you move. A place where you smell urine and puke, even when you are not in the men’s bathroom. A dark, dingy, windowless, sometimes scary place where you’d best not leave your purse unattended for half a second to shimmy on up to the bar for a drink. A place where you’d be wise to carry your money in your pocket and leave the purse at home. A place where somebody’s drunk grandma is doing a little dance, all by her lonesome, by the back door, or better yet near the men’s room’s doors. A place where the writing on the walls in the bathroom stalls is downright genius. A place where they don’t have Wi-Fi or cute coffee drinks with whipped cream. Am I right?
The Brick Light Dive in Nob Hill is the brightest, cheeriest, cutesiest place to ever call itself a dive bar. We watched the Olympics while my son drank local craft beers (out of clean glasses!) But they call it a dive bar? Maybe for hipsters or soccer moms or something. The boys had food with sweet little names like Porchetta, Bruchetta and Pizzetta. I had a Greek salad with chicken, but I didn’t go for the food, I went for the ambience, which definitely wasn’t dive bar-ish. We had a great time anyway, because that’s what we do.