Rosie's is located in the heart of the Central West End, across the street from glitzy joints Moxy and Chez Leon, but it could easily pass for the bluest-collared watering hole in town. Crammed into a single narrow room, the establishment is, simply put, a drinking person's bar. A place where people booze, laugh and commiserate. The air is smoky as hell, the drinks are stiff and cheap, and there's no beer on tap, only $1.50 bottles of Bud all night long. A plastic-tipped dartboard is crammed into one corner. An old-fashioned jukebox, heavy on soul and '80s music, provides the soundtrack. Depending on the day of the week, the bartender is either a heavyweight MMA fighter who can chug a beer faster than you can say, "Please don't hurt me," or a loud and thoroughly entertaining woman who may or may not be Rosie herself (she usually talks in the third person, as in, "Rosie only takes cash.") Be on the lookout for a couple of regulars who spontaneously break into a choreographed dance straight out of Godard's Bande à part.
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