“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

These words came from my mother, as we appeared to be leaving the colourful sights of 2nd Avenue behind. It was early evening in August, and the hazy daylight had just begun to cast a glow across brightly painted restaurant signs and splashes of street art. As we turned a corner, this vibrancy was replaced with understated brownstone buildings.

I stared down at Google Maps with a furrowed brow. Although right on the edge of the trendy East Village, McSorley’s Old Ale House has, miraculously, somehow remained marooned on a fairly quiet block. From just a few steps away, it felt decidedly like we were leaving the bustle of the city behind. But not for long.

The place looked closed from the outside. The peeling painted letters—evidently touched up many times—denoted both loving care and a leave-alone carefree attitude (depending on the year in which they are observed, I imagine). It reminded me of the salty, faded signs of pubs in seaside towns; the family-run places which still close between lunch and dinner.

The solid wooden doors did much to keep in the cheerful shouts of the early evening revellers, both young and old, nestled shoulder to shoulder inside. A tall doorman dressed like a dock worker checked my ID, and wished us a pleasant evening with a broad smile; probably the largest grin I’ve ever seen from a bouncer of any kind. Immediately, I felt at ease.

As we stepped inside, I instantly noticed the aroma of wood shavings hanging gently in the warm air. Looking down, I saw my shoes were already lightly coated in sawdust. Taking another step towards the bar, the sawdust mingled with the sweet, sticky smell of beer, closely resembling the grain and wort smell of a brewery. I’d already heard about the sawdust which covers the pub’s floor; something of a quirky trademark.

But perhaps the most distinguishing feature of the place is the rather bizarre pricing and measures policy. Upon ordering drinks for two, four glasses brimming with foam were placed on the worn wooden bar top in front of me with a gentle thud. “They’re buy one, get one free,” the barman informed me cheerily, as I hand over some bills.

We find a place to perch at the end of the counter, right next to the bar-back, where used glasses were collecting at a furious rate. Suddenly it hits me just how thirsty I am; the walk had been half an hour in the humid early evening. I was overcome with the temptation to drink the first beer in a few gulps to quench my thirst, and then seek out a seat in which to enjoy the second one at leisure. I wondered idly to myself if this is the very design behind the bars curious serving method.

There are only two varieties of beer on offer at McSorley’s; light and dark. In a world filled with an increasing paralysis of choice, it’s refreshing that establishments like these still insist upon keeping things simple. Over the years, these two beers have been produced by various local and national breweries. Post-prohibition, the beer was made locally with New York City water for much of the 20th century, by now-defunct breweries such as Fidelio and Rheingold. In the early 1990s, the licence was purchased by Stroh Brewing, now acquired by Pabst.

The light beer was served with a good two inches of frothy head, German-style. It was refreshing and dry, with a lingering earthy bitterness. I then moved on to the dark beer. It smelt of treacle and burnt biscuits as I raised it to my lips. It tasted rich, with a velvety mouthfeel, notes of coffee and dark fruit, and a roasted malt aftertaste. I found it deeply satisfying, and reminiscent of a good Schwarzbier.

We found some seats free on a communal table, and immediately I detected Irish accents from the man and woman opposite. We introduced ourselves and shook hands briefly, but I missed their names over the low hum of background chatter. The man followed my gaze to the photographs stuck to the wall above us. I stood and craned my neck to get closer to the aged pictures, faded over time, with fuzzy soft corners. I looked closely at the photographs and imagined the drinkers of days gone by, filling the room with their laughs and chatter. It felt almost as though their ghosts could still be propping up the bar.

““I was overcome with the temptation to drink the first beer in a few gulps to quench my thirst, and then seek out a seat in which to enjoy the second one at leisure.””

The history of McSorley’s is undeniably rich, even by East Coast standards. But it wasn’t the clear toil and love that has gone into preserving the pub's historical elements that impressed me the most. Floorboards, tables and relics upon the walls are relatively easy to preserve, with just a little dusting once a week. But aura, atmosphere and spirit are much harder to bottle up and keep alive.

As I looked around the room, I saw that the age range was wide and the outfits varied. There were blue-collar workers and people in suits. Tourists and locals. I closed my eyes in an attempt to hone in on the sounds bouncing joyfully around the room; half a dozen or more distinct accents could be detected. It occurred to me that during the long weekend we’d spent wandering and bar-hopping in the city, I’d yet to visit anywhere with such an eclectic clientele from all walks of life.

The ambience was just right for my introverted side, too. I felt welcome. The woody smell, easy-drinking ale and dim lighting wrapped around my senses like a comfortable jacket. The hum of background noise was like a cushion, stifling the sounds of sirens in the streets outside. That bustling and yet low-pressure rattle of constant activity is so often just want I need to withdraw and reflect for a few moments, whilst sipping away slowly at a pint, slowly building up the energy to lean into a new conversation.

Big cities need pubs like this. As change and gentrification march on, not enough of them still survive. I’m thinking of old-fashioned boozers, where everyone is in good spirits, and social lubricants are flowing at low enough prices to ease the process of getting along with one another. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever struck up a conversation with a stranger in a city pub. In a countryside pub on the edge of a quaint village, these instances are more numerous. There can be something insular about feeling like a small fish in a huge pond, and somehow that can stifle our energy to connect. So sometimes, the bigger the city, the lonelier many of us may feel.

As our table companions contemplated another round, we headed out in the now dusky night, a little disoriented and in search of dinner. The dizzying sensation came a little from the noise and the beer, but mostly from the pleasant juxtaposition of an old-fashioned kind of pub—the sort that brings different kinds of people closer together—right in the middle of Manhattan.

After turning a few corners, we were back on the main drag, passing bars where once again people were staring at their phones rather than at each other. Sometimes traditional pub spirit really does have to be carefully contained between four small walls in order to survive.