Walk into McSorley’s Old Ale House on a Tuesday afternoon and the smell hits you first. It’s not just beer. It’s sawdust, wet wool, and about 170 years of accumulated neighborhood gossip soaked into the floorboards.
People argue about the "oldest" title constantly. Fraunces Tavern has the history, Pete’s Tavern has the vibes, but McSorley’s? McSorley’s has the stubbornness. Since 1854, the place basically hasn’t changed a thing, and that’s not an exaggeration for the sake of a travel brochure. There is sawdust on the floor to soak up the spills. There are two types of beer: Light and Dark. That’s it. If you ask for a hazy IPA or a skinny margarita, the bartenders—who generally have the patience of a New York City subway conductor during rush hour—will probably just stare at you until you leave.
It’s a weird spot. It’s legendary, sure, but it’s also cramped, loud, and smells like a basement that’s seen some things. Yet, it remains one of the few places in Manhattan that feels completely untouchable by the gentrification occurring just outside the door in the East Village.
The 1970 Scandal Nobody Remembers Correctly
Most people know the broad strokes: McSorley’s didn’t allow women for a long time. But the actual story of how that changed is way more chaotic than a simple policy shift.
For 116 years, the sign on the door famously read "Good Ale, Raw Onions and No Ladies." It wasn’t just a "boys club" vibe; it was a hard rule. That all blew up in 1970 because of Faith Seidenberg and Karen DeCrow. They were attorneys and activists with the National Organization for Women (NOW). They didn't just walk in and demand a drink; they took the establishment to court.
Seidenberg and DeCrow sued under the Equal Protection Clause. When the ruling finally came down from Judge Constance Baker Motley, the bar didn't exactly roll out the red carpet. On the first day women were legally allowed inside, the atmosphere was supposedly hostile. One story goes that a woman had a beer poured over her head. The owner at the time, Danny Maher, reportedly didn't even want to build a women's restroom. For a while, there just wasn't one. You had to use the same facilities or leave. It wasn't until 1986 that they finally installed a ladies' room.
Think about that. 1986. That's the year the Mets won the World Series and "Top Gun" came out. It took that long for the infrastructure to catch up to the law.
The Dust is Literally Historical
Look up at the chandeliers. See those dusty, turkey-wishbone-looking things? Don't touch them. Seriously.
Those are the "Wishbones." The story goes that young men heading off to fight in World War I would have a final meal at McSorley’s. They’d leave the wishbones from their poultry on the light fixtures, intending to collect them when they returned home. The ones still hanging there? Those belong to the boys who never made it back.
During the Bloomberg administration, when the health department was cracking down on, well, everything, they told the owners they had to clean the dust off the wishbones. The city viewed it as a fire hazard or a sanitary issue. The fans of the bar went ballistic. Eventually, a compromise was reached where they "cleaned" them just enough to satisfy the inspectors without destroying the sentiment. It’s a grim, beautiful little memorial that you’d miss if you were too busy looking at your phone.
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And honestly, you shouldn't be on your phone anyway. The "No Cell Phone" rule isn't always strictly enforced by the staff these days, but the regulars will definitely give you the side-eye if you're sitting there scrolling TikTok instead of talking to the stranger squeezed onto the bench next to you.
You're Ordering Wrong: The Beer System Explained
If you’ve never been, the ordering process can be confusing. You don't order "a beer."
You order "two lights" or "two darks." Or a "half and half."
The beers come in pairs. They are small, 8-ounce mugs. If you ask for one, you’re getting two. It’s been that way forever. The price stays remarkably low for Manhattan, usually around $6 or $7 for the pair (though inflation hits everyone eventually). The "Light" is a standard cream ale, and the "Dark" is a porter. They are brewed specifically for McSorley’s—originally by Fidelio Brewery, then Rheingold, and currently by Pabst, though they use the traditional McSorley’s recipes.
Is the beer the best you've ever had? Probably not. It's fine. It's drinkable. But the beer isn't the point. The beer is the entry fee for the theater of the room.
The Food is a Time Capsule
Most people skip the food. That’s a mistake. You don’t go here for a gastropub burger with truffle fries. You go for the cheese plate.
It’s basically a sleeve of saltine crackers, some slices of sharp cheddar, and thick slabs of raw white onion. It comes with a side of McSorley’s hot mustard. Warning: that mustard will colonize your sinuses. It is incredibly spicy.
The tradition is to put a piece of cheese and a slice of onion on a cracker, dab it with mustard, and chase it with the ale. It sounds like something a coal miner in 1890 would eat, and that’s exactly why it’s great. It’s functional. It’s honest. It also ensures that nobody will want to talk to you within a five-foot radius for the rest of the night because of the onion breath.
Abraham Lincoln and the Chair
There’s a chair behind the bar. It’s encased in a bit of a frame or tucked away, depending on how they’ve rearranged things lately. Abraham Lincoln supposedly sat in that chair after giving his famous Cooper Union speech in 1860.
Is it true?
Historians generally agree that Lincoln was in the neighborhood. Cooper Union is just a few blocks away. The bar was definitely open. Did he sit in that specific chair? There’s no photographic evidence, but in a place like McSorley’s, the legend is usually more important than the receipt. The bar also claims to have hosted Ulysses S. Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, and John Lennon.
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The walls are a literal museum. There are newspaper clippings from the day the Titanic sank. There are Houdini’s handcuffs attached to the bar rail (he supposedly escaped them there). There is a pair of shoes belonging to a local character who just... left them.
You could spend three hours drinking and not see half of the artifacts. It’s the opposite of a "concept bar." A concept bar is designed by a firm in Midtown to look old. McSorley’s is just old. It didn't try to be this way; it just refused to change when the rest of the world did.
Dealing with the Crowds: A Survival Guide
If you show up on a Saturday night at 8:00 PM, you’re going to hate it.
It gets packed with NYU students and tourists who heard about it on a "Top 10 Things to do in NYC" list. It becomes a mosh pit of North Face jackets and screaming. You won't get a seat, and you'll be bumped into every five seconds.
The "Real" McSorley's experience happens at 1:00 PM on a weekday.
That’s when the light filters through the dusty front windows. The regulars—the guys who have been coming there since the Nixon administration—are sitting at the tables reading the paper. You can actually hear yourself think. You can talk to the bartenders. You can smell the woodsmoke (they have a working pot-bellied stove that they actually use in the winter).
Pro-tips for not looking like a tourist:
- Cash only. They don't take cards. They have an ATM in the back that charges a ridiculous fee. Bring twenty-dollar bills.
- Don't linger at the bar. If there’s a table with an open spot, sit down. It’s communal seating. You are expected to sit with strangers.
- Don't ask for a menu. It’s on the chalkboard.
- Tip well. These guys work harder than almost any other bartenders in the city, dealing with massive crowds in a space the size of a shoebox.
Why It Actually Matters in 2026
We live in an era of "Third Places" disappearing. Everything is a chain. Everything is "curated." McSorley’s isn't curated; it’s accumulated.
It matters because it’s a physical link to a New York that doesn't exist anymore—the New York of the working-class Irish immigrant, the New York of the Bowery Boys, and the New York of a time when "going out" meant sitting on a hard wooden bench and drinking a beer that cost a nickel.
It’s one of the few places where a billionaire and a bike messenger might end up sitting at the same table because it’s the only spot left. The sawdust levels the playing field.
How to Visit Like a Local
If you're planning to head down to 15 East 7th Street, keep these steps in mind to actually enjoy the experience:
- Check the time: Go before 4:00 PM if you want a seat. Go after 10:00 PM if you want a party.
- The Beer Math: Remember, one order = two mugs. If you're with a friend, one of you orders "two lights" and the other "two darks." Now you both have one of each.
- The Bathroom Situation: It’s better than it used to be, but it’s still an adventure. The men's room features massive, floor-to-ceiling porcelain urinals that are basically artifacts themselves.
- Look Up, Not Down: The floor is just sawdust and spilled ale. The ceiling and the walls are where the history is. Look for the "Wanted" posters for John Wilkes Booth. Look for the original 19th-century gas lamps that were converted to electric.
McSorley's Old Ale House isn't a museum, though it acts like one. It's a living, breathing, slightly-smelly organism. It’s survived Prohibition (they allegedly sold "near beer" that wasn't very near at all), world wars, the 1918 flu, the 2020 pandemic, and the rise of the avocado toast.
When you leave, your clothes will probably smell a bit like the 19th century. That’s just part of the charm. Don't overthink it. Just sit down, eat your onion, drink your two darks, and be glad that in a city that changes every fifteen minutes, McSorley’s is still exactly the same.
Next Steps for Your Visit:
- Bring $40 in cash to cover two rounds and a cheese plate with a solid tip.
- Read the "McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon" stories by Joseph Mitchell before you go; it’ll make the details on the walls pop.
- Aim for a Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon to catch the sunlight through the front glass and avoid the bridge-and-tunnel rush.