Long Island's Boardy Barn Boozefest Is the Happiest Place on Earth
Generally, the Hamptons are all about expensive booze, BMWs and Vera Bradley bags. Kinda like South Beach, but with more lobster and less español.
Photo courtesy of Rob Cinq-Mars
But in one little Long Island hamlet known as Hampton Bays, the crowd tends more towards blue collar than blue blood. There, you'll find the Boardy Barn, a 43-year-old bar whose massive striped tent looks down on beer-soaked singalongs, smiley stickers ad infinitum and bromances galore.
The indoor/outdoor drinking extravaganza is only open for four hours a day, on Sundays, during the summertime. And Barn animals (as they're dubbed) can wait on line for up to six hours to get in.
Trust me, it's worth it.
The legendary spot's motto, "Happy Days in Hampton Bays," is an apt representation of co-owner Tony Galgano's philosophy. The soft-spoken, low-key Long Island local is all about bringing joy into the lives of his patrons. And does he ever. Since the tender age of 26, he's been making drunken dreams come true.
The inside of the tented den of drunkenness is lined with four decades of photographic evidence. Debauchery hasn't changed much since 1965. For me, it's a family tradition. My parents used to hang out there (seriously), my uncle used to work there and I've spent the happiest moments of my post 21-adulthood there.
But that ain't all. The Barn also been reported to sell more beer on any given afternoon than YANKEE STADIUM. You heard right. The home of the NY Yankees. They sell more beer than the world's most popular baseball stadium. That means an approximate 100,000 cups of brew in one day.
On holidays (Memorial Day Monday, Labor Day Monday), they're open for a whopping eight hours and the cover runs $30. $20 on a normal Sunday. Once inside, cups of Bud or Bud Light run $2 a pop. There's liquor, too, but Barn regulars know better unless they want to end the evening glued to the porcelain throne. Here, you stick with beer.
As the afternoon wears on, patrons stack and carry their cups in a vain attempt to keep track of their consumption quantity, but that's a wasted effort. No one leaves the Barn anything less than shitfaced, hammered -- wasted beyond all recognition. Then, hoards spill out into the streets to inhale slices of pizza, make out with strangers and stumble on home.