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Whether or not you have the Great American Novel in your head, you can still get blasted at this nostalgic high temple of the Alcoholic Artist. The scene today is characterized less by sailors, workers and bohemian writers (like Dylan Thomas, a regular back in the day, whose portrait hangs on just about every wall of the place) than by a mix of locals, NYU students and tourists, but the surroundings haven't changed much. After a dozen whiskies or so (legend has it that Dylan's record was eighteen), you might even indulge the fantasy that you can afford to write poetry, live here in the West Village and still have money left over to drink. (Oh, by the way, those eighteen drams killed Thomas the next morning.) — Andrew Yamato