You can barely walk a single block in all of New York City without stumbling at the foot of a hallowed bar. But there’s a particular kind of place that is near and dear to my heart that people have a variety of names for. Some people call them old man bars, others may label them dumps. Personally, I prefer the more acceptable term of dive bar–and nobody epitomizes this better than Rudy’s (627 9th Avenue).

Now there are legitimate rules about what designates a dive bar over any other such establishments. First, it has to have that cozy ramshackle appearance that makes you feel like you’re having a drink in your uncle’s basement. What’s critical here is that the shabbiness has to be authentic in terms of age and appearance, and typically the joint cannot have been established any later than 1974 for this to be so. In fact, the older the better. Any place that tries to make itself look like a dive bar purposefully, and was cobbled together in the last few years is an outright ripoff that should not be frequented. Second, the drinks and any available food must be dirt cheap. Lastly, it must avoid any legitimate intention or semblance of being trendy. They may sometimes become trendy inadvertently, but we can’t hold that against the bar. It’s especially important that the bar not change to accommodate the newer hip clientele that may try to invade.

Rudy’s has been a fixture in Hell’s Kitchen from an era when the neighborhood was truly deserving of that moniker. The area has gentrified since then, but Rudy’s has remained the exactly the same–right down to the ripped, red vinyl U-shaped booths. The regulars are in their usual spots by 12 noon sharp, and will travel from miles away to grab their well-earned seats. The patrons here are the cast of characters you’d expect to inhabit a joint like this.

An older retired couple we knew as regulars would trek in on the bus nearly every day from New Jersey and take their usual booth by the front door. We got to chatting with them one early afternoon and they told us that they’d been married 60 years. I asked them the usual question about how one goes about sticking it out that long with another human being. The husband dryly piped up, “You just don’t talk to each other anymore.” And the wife didn’t even flinch at the comment.

There’s a tiny countertop hotdog roaster on the bar here, and you are welcome to take one free of charge. I confess I’ve rarely seen someone eat, however. There’s just something unappetizing about those forever spinning links of meat perched on the bar–and free no less. Something’s just not right. After all, nothing is really free in NYC. If you feel like you really need to eat something, just go right next door to Burritoville.

The beer here is real cheap, and Pabst Blue Ribbon can be had for as cheap as a buck when it’s on special. Hey, we didn’t say the booze selection was going to be fancy–just cheap. Having any variety hard liquor or a straight-up beer is the norm here. You chance getting looked down upon if you try to order any frilly frozen drink, so don’t! There’s been a couple of house ales over the years, but I’m warning you now that they’re not very good. Stick to the branded stuff.

There’s a cute outdoor area in the back of the building if you want to down your pint alfresco, but I prefer the natural darkness that hangs over the place indoors. The decor at Rudy’s was an afterthought at best, but someone had a sense of humor about it. A massive 6 foot tall pink pig sits directly outside the doorway beckoning curious customers inside.

The bar top is as it should be at a dive joint: dark, wooden and worn. The ceilings are old tin, and the flooring is a faded linoleum from the days when it was really made from linseed–not the vinyl crap around today. The staff here ain’t pretty, but they do know how to pour a drink right. What more could you need?

Later in the evening, after the old guard regulars leave to get home for dinner, the college kids and trendoids infiltrate the joint.  If you’re still around and over the age of 30, you suddenly feel like the dorm mom at a frat house. It’s not a good feeling when you can hear your biological bar clock ticking.

No matter who is bellying up to the bar at Rudy’s–a frisky university boy,  a retired steel worker, or the charmer stockbroker–the place will always be one of the most memorable dive bars in NYC.