New York

Sycamore--a flower shop by day and den of drink by night--is a calm, commodious entrant on the island of excursionist merriment (for locals) that is Cortelyou Road. This highly, yet agreeably stylized outpost bar in Ditmas Park humbly rests between dingy ads and people you don't want staring at you. On my first night of sociological research disguised as drinking, I found the place ambient; dark of garden, mellow and prosperous, with a fine view of the moon and a wide-ranging, inconspicuous medley of twenty to fourtysomethings taking their drink. Until the Indian war whoop pierced through the night, I was convinced it was naught but a better version of something in Park Slope. But that pagan cry that cut through the civilized outer layer of Victorian Flatbush revealed the restless, dormant indigenousness below. And then I clutched my heart as I came to understand: Like the neighborhood itself, Sycamore is a strangely peaceable mishmash of many irreconcilable things: football games on the telly, printed and framed menus on the walls, politely relaxed patrons, sudden pagan outbursts. A juxtaposition of the stylish and the cornpone, Sycamore is a senselessly modern mix. Trendiness for the people!

Photo:  Rebecca Katherine Hirsch