Linda's Place, a dank room with a liquor license, was once the dive bar of gin-soaked dreams. It earned no writeups and made few (if any) “best of” listicles. Certain Bukowski–T-shirted dive poseurs might have found it, shall we say, lacking in literary charm. So, when Linda's ascended to watering-hole Valhalla, new owners arrived earlier this year and took away the dank. Instead of turning it into an eight-kinds-of-IPAs yuppie playpen, they opted for Budweisers and fried goddamn chicken. While Crawford's is not the paragon of authenticity, it sure gets the job done. With red naugahyde booths, a pool table, Buck Hunter, crazy crap on the walls, a canoe on the ceiling and the general atmosphere of a Southern biker bar (or your cool uncle's basement), Crawford's should be beloved by working folks just as much as the people raising the rents in the neighborhood.

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