Illustration by Jorge Colombo

On a recent Saturday afternoon, Abe walked into the Owl Farm, naked from the waist down. He had recently retired from professional racing in Florida, and the bar’s regulars knew him well. Women and men both gravitated toward him. Some patted him on the head; others gave him a good scratch behind the ears. “What is he?” a newcomer asked. Abe’s companion replied, “A greyhound.” At this Park Slope mainstay, man and canine peacefully co-exist—at least while the place isn’t too busy, until around 6 P.M. The Owl Farm takes its name from Hunter S. Thompson’s Colorado ranch, where the great eccentric once dynamited a station wagon, and later arranged to have his own ashes fired out of a cannon. In tribute to Thompson, the bar combines rustic chic with artful dilapidation: a fireplace, repurposed church pews, walls that appear bullet-pocked. Wherever you go, scarecrow owl decoys solemnly watch over you from the shelves above. That afternoon, a local with a bearish frame took a slow pull of bourbon and wistfully surveyed the eclectic menu of rare brews and ciders. “I’m on a no-sugar, no-yeast diet,” he told the barkeep. “Except whiskey,” he said, before surreptitiously sampling all four items in his companion’s beer flight. The grub offerings are meagre, but if you’re hungry you can order the Cuvée Alex le Rouge, a heavy imperial stout brewed with vanilla, Sarawak black pepper, and Russian tea. For the gluten-free, there’s the Art+Science Wild Perry, made with foraged Oregon pears. It’s hard to say what Thompson would have thought of all this, but there’s a hint in a sign that still hangs at the original Owl Farm: “It never got weird enough for me.” ♦