Ask someone to characterize a quintessential, somewhat-snobby beer bar, and they’ll inadvertently describe Proletariat every time. It’s extremely dark and full of framed cartoon drawings, there’s a tiny chalkboard of the daily-changing draft list, and the East Village space is about as wide as an Amtrak train car. Not to mention, most people in here look like they spent a summer in Vermont preserving maple syrup lines and learning how to grow malt.

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