Every Sweet has its Sour! The Emerson is Just OK

I sat quietly with a close friend of mine at the Emerson this past Monday evening. The bar was full of men — somber men — and most were sitting alone, staring blankly into their iPhones. It was another lonely Valentine’s Day in Brooklyn.

My regular Myrtle Avenue drinking buddy was in good spirits, albeit dateless for the evening. As a devout bachelor, I too had an open calendar and figured that we might as well venture into some uncharted territory. The Emerson opened last fall to mixed reviews from neighborhood friends and seemed a likely spot to find Brooklyn’s most heartbroken and miserable souls. 

“Yeah, I’m divorced.” said Larry McGuiness, “I’m seeing two women right now, but neither is really Valentine material. I told ‘em both I was out of town on business. Told my friends the same. Now I’m here drinking alone.”

McGuiness smiled half-heartedly and shrugged. We toasted our pints and had a laugh. 

The Emerson is a perfectly fine bar. It has stools, booze, and bartenders, the hallmarks of any functional drinking establishment. But after last week’s visit to Hanson Dry, the Emerson package feels a bit uninspired.

The beers on tap are diverse and delicious, but a bit pricey for a neighborhood where I still check over my shoulders at night. Visual references to Ralph Waldo Emerson are scattered about next to inexplicably large prints of Walker Evans photography and Depression-era folk art — a nice touch — but bars that lean toward a kitschy theme generally leave me cold. 

The massive dimensions of the space are a bit daunting and underutilized, but the layout narrowly avoids sterile cafeteria vibes successfully. There is one lonely lounge area isolated in a dark corner next to the duel genderless “heads,” where I was surprised to learn that I was aboard a sailing vessel. Although a bit jumbled, the overall stylistic effect of the Emerson is pleasant and welcoming. 

Looking around the bar, I couldn’t help but feel some kind of camaraderie with the room full of half-drunk men. The elephant in the room was eventually too big to conceal, and group conversation turned to a careful dissection of our character failures.

My drinking buddy concluded that he’s intimidated by — and yet attracted to — powerful women. Joe, who preferred only first names, (understandable, I guess) was still dealing with a 10-year-old heartbreak. Joaquin Mendes has a problem with commitment. As the only man under 30, I claimed lack of interest in relationships, an easy disguise for immaturity.

We all took a deep breath and I ordered a round of Jameson shots. We threw them back silently.

It might not be fair to pass judgment based on a bar’s attention to silly details, but that’s what happens on Valentine’s Day. Every misstep is amplified. With no shortage of drinking options, Brooklyn bars that show dedicated craftsmanship at every level earn the better business. The local clientele doesn’t necessarily need sophistication, but it demands authenticity. 

Valentine’s Day is a rare moment when that innate sense for authentic connection is sharpened to a razor’s edge. Nothing is more difficult than hiding a heavy heart when every billboard is demanding edible heart-shaped reevaluation.

Nights like these are dangerous for nice spots like the Emerson that fudge the details ever so slightly and hope for the best. It is probably a fantastic bar every other night of the week, but this one evening demands complete perfection. Anything less requires a lot of balloons and an enormous box of chocolates.