Duff’s, on a desolate corner a block from the East River, is set away from bustling Bedford Street, but it’s not quite a throwback to the old neighborhood: We can’t remember seeing any old Polish bars with Nosferatu masks, vintage nudie playing cards and an upright coffin. On a recent visit, a friendly, tattooed bartender suggested PBRs or $2 shots of green, sticky-sweet “Jesus juice”—although the ingredients are a secret, it tasted a lot like Midori and Amaretto. Meanwhile, the metal-heavy jukebox, a holdover from the hearse-driving owner’s previous venture, Bellevue of Hell’s Kitchen, devotes as much space to indie classics like the Cramps as it does to softies like Peggy Lee.
