A Bocce Bar

Nearing summer, we, in New York City, found ourselves with more hours of daylight than expected. And after that moody winter, it was about time. Broadway called. Frank Bruni reviewed a new restaurant every week. And the quaint bars of Brooklyn begged to be discovered. We gave in.

Our first challenge: choosing where to go.

In honor of Little Matt's 33rd birthday, we took to the streets of North Park Slope, a hip, gentrified, pram-laden neighborhood named for its incline up to Prospect Park, arguably the heartbeat of the borough. We had our choice of chocolate cafes, hot dog bars, and dives specializing in Australian grub. From a long list, Little Matt chose Union Hall. Why? Perhaps for its tall glass façade or its close resemblance to a library. (Yes, a library—with candles and beer.)

Shelves of biographies—which Fonda is that?—and encyclopedic volumes lined each inch of wall not taken up by the bar. As we slid into upholstered armchairs, I tugged at a blue leather-bound book. “Solving terrorism in 1974.” Well, I guess it’s an age-old problem.

New York City and its institutions define themselves by their quirks, so the academia-inspired ambiance did not throw us, but the constant miniature oddities sure did. As we clustered around the mahogany table, we examined the menu, and the boys were stoked to see canned Tecate on the drinks list. (I believe “Sweeeeet” was the exact response.) I ordered a cider, but not without contemplating the cookies and milk option. Little folding TV dinner tables rested in the corners for those who did choose to indulge.

Behind us, commanding about a third of the clientele’s attention, were the bocce courts. I first was exposed to the revival of bocce in the United States when my parents signed up to compete in the Danville league, and when new sand alleys were opened at Sycamore field. But the revolution’s existence and reach was realized when it became the object of affection of high-heeled darlings on a Saturday night in New York City.

Another third of the clientele could be found downstairs, where live music is performed and where live music must be kept (don’t wake the neighbors!).

And when a third of the clientele seemed to stand between us and the bartender, we headed out, stopping only outside the restrooms, where we laughed at the welcoming sign taped to the door. “Both. Think: airplane.”