But still, things could always be more tropical.
Allow us to direct your attention to an unmarked red door, adjacent to a little Lower East Side pickle shop.
To walk through this door is to enter a windowless Polynesia. A world of tropical paradise where wild bamboo and topless island beauties run free (or at least cover the bar). A place your worries will drown inside a pineapple filled with piña colada, or a scorpion bowl filled with fire and rum. A place where you'll know no pain.
Painkiller, opening this Thursday.
Brought to you by the purists behind Dutch Kills, this place will bring you the most meticulous tiki creations to ever bear the name zombie or swizzle. All the juices are fresh squeezed, the syrups and coconut creams homemade, the menu crafted after an exhaustive worldwide tour of the best bars to ever put an umbrella in a drink.
This will be your go-to on humid summer nights: you'll breeze into this narrow underground oasis with your paramour (nothing says romance like a mai tai), head past the bar to a row of intimate banquettes for two and commence an evening of tropical consumption festooned with rum drinks in totem mugs.
Note that this tiki bar is as much an ode to Manhattan as to St. Lucia. Think the Runaways instead of ukulele, little black dresses instead of coconut shells on your cocktail waitress and, most importantly, a rotating grill of free Sabrett hot dogs by the bar.
Then there's that New York City 212 phone number.
No, we're not kidding.