Neighborhood: Chelsea (Hudson River)
Address: Pier 66 Maritime, W. 26th St.
Type of douche: J. Crew Liquor Store regulars, Girls in their late 20s who wear pearls regularly and unironically, The Dorrian's pre-gaming crowd

You know that bro who ruins every good new restaurant in town because he read about it on Thrillist the morning it opened? This is truly his favorite bar. And why wouldn't it be? The Frying Pan is handily one of New York City's most fun drinking destinations every May. Home to the only truly beautiful way to view Jersey (from afar, separated by water, lit by sunset), it is a boat you can drink on, with decent food, and not-unfairly priced buckets of beer. Yet, this is where men come to role-play their Kennedy dreams, their ironic fantasies of being boat owners, a place they can wear their Nantucket Reds in the city and not be duly shamed, because they are surrounded by like-minded douche, who will all—without fail—at some point over the course of a drink at The Frying Pan manage to mangle the words to a song that mangles rap ("I'm On A Boat"). The penis-straw yielding bachelorette party nearby will find it amusing, and they will eventually mingle, clogging the already narrow through-ways by which one must move through the place. They will yell at each other in the bathroom about "tagging that blonde chick" as though everyone were speaking at their volume (they aren't). They will, in effect, make you want to punch them in the face, but alas, you are outnumbered, and don't wish to rewarded with a Grade-A Fratboy Gaggle beatdown. And if that standard—a place where those exhibiting behaviors deserving of facepunchings still manage to outnumber those who should deliver it to them—isn't the hallmark of a great bar ruined by abject douchery, we don't know what is.