Spill It: Justin Olsen

The Gowanus Yacht Club isn't a flashy place—it's basically just a handful of picnic tables, tarps and Christmas lights wedged between the Carroll Street F train stop and a bagel store—but it does have an elaborate set of rules scrawled on a chalkboard behind the bar. For instance: "No Quiseling or Flimflammery." Fancy.

From April-ish through October, "bartender" Justin Olsen slides beers to the neighborhood characters and thirsty yupsters who descend on the Yacht Club in droves for drinks and hot dogs in the Brooklyn sun. (NB: There are, of course, no yachts, nor is it a club.) We caught up with Justin for a few rounds and a few stories from the bar's past. 

Who made up The Rules?
Justin Olsen: The rules have been here since the bar has been here. No one knows about the rules.

What happens if you break them?
JO: Immediate and violent ejection.

What's the craziest thing that you've seen go down here?
JO: We're on a corner with a subway entrance, and we're outside, so there's not a lot of separation between us and the street, so we get a lot of wackos. I don't know. [Turns to fellow bartender Hunter Fradkin, sitting nearby] Hunter, you got a crazy story? Oh, what about the guy who pulled the knife out?

Hunter Fradkin, fellow bartender: There's this man, he comes in all the time and gives us pens. He's a nice guy. Rooster's his nickname.

Is he David Sedaris' brother?
HF: No, he's just some psycho. And one night I saw him, I just walked out the gate to get some air and he was just slashing the air with a big knife. And he had a bag that was full of knives. But he always comes in here, orders a couple hamburgers and a Diet Coke, and gives us pens. He goes to banks and gets pens and gives them to us.

Is he homeless?
HF: I don't think so. Just a wacko.

JO: Or, it's funny—since we're called the Gowanus Yacht Club, sometimes we get people coming in from the city dressed as if they were going to a nice place. They don't know it's a dive bar. We had this woman come in with like, pearls on. And we get kids throwing water balloons after school.

Over the fence?
JO: Yeah. And you can't even be upset half the time, ‘cause you're hot as hell. But one of the kids has got this like, major league arm. And it's hard to throw them over this fence—it's tall. So usually they lob ‘em in here and they bounce off the tarp. But every year I'll be standing here and I'll get nailed in the balls with like, a line drive.

Who's in the framed photo behind the bar?
JO: That's Vong, an old cook of ours. He got nailed by the F train.
.
Wait, really? He died?
JO: Yeah. He fell on the tracks. And one of our owners died last year. Jerry Bagels—that's how he was known. It was a hard year for us.

Sorry to hear that.
JO: Thanks.

What's the best beer you serve?
JO: The best beer, the beer that I would drink every time, is the Gaffel. Especially for the summer, because it's nice and light. It's a Kölsch from Cologne. It's very light; it's got a straw color. Very easy to drink. But we've also got this organic scrumpy cider. And even though it calls my masculinity into question, I'd definitely drink that.

And you guys have food?
JO: Yeah, hamburgers, hot dogs. Ball-field food. And we have the local-made sausages, which are nice. They're from a Polish butcher in Park Slope. The Swojska is great—it's a kielbasa with a little bit of garlic and peppercorns in it. Get it with kraut and peppers and mustard—I won't let you touch it with ketchup. We got nachos—we go to Jetro, buy the cheapest chips and the cheese in a can. If you want chili, you can have a "Joey Ass Burn." That's a Jerry Bagels name.

What's the typical Gowanus Yacht Club crowd?
JO: We get a lot of tags in the media as being like, a hipster bar or whatever. But everyone here is a neighborhood person. All these people live in the neighborhood. What I've noticed working in bars is you can't pick your regulars; they pick you. But everyone likes this place. Unless you don't like beer. Or tetanus.

Gowanus Yacht Club
323 Smith St. at President St.
718-246-1321

Photo by Michael Harlan Turkell