“You don’t have to be all smiles, but you have to have a good energy,” Randy says.īut a lot has changed since 1991, not just the neighborhood but a shift in how gay men socialize and hookup. His bartenders tend to stay on for five to 15 years on average, allowing them to become familiar faces and build rapport. “That’s why most of my guys are 30 plus, not 20 plus, even though I do get complaints about that,” he says. Work ethic and friendliness are the top qualities he looks for, in addition to maturity.
Keeping prices low despite rising rent has been a priority, as has careful hiring of bartenders and security. When I tracked down the owner to ask his secret to staying put when many other gay bars have closed, moved, or changed hands, he put it simply: “Cheap drinks and decent service there’s no magic pill.” Randy Weinberg partnered with his brother to manage the bar back when it opened and drinks were just $2 a pop. “That’s not to say the bartenders at Boiler Room are not good looking, they’re just easygoing and charming.” “In a lot of gay bars, the bartenders are pretty people you'd maybe watch in porn, but you don't necessarily want to talk to them to get a drink,” because you might feel self-conscious, Henry says. And part of it is the tone set by the bartenders themselves, who’ve always been as friendly as the drinks are cheap. Part of that communal vibe comes from the jukebox, which ensures the music reflects the room (though staff reserves the right to skip tracks that don’t).
And even as cruising now happens more often online than in person, something about the bar still encourages people to interact. The Boiler Room has always felt more social than cruisy. “It’s wider than most bars, so there's more space to mingle you don't feel so trapped,” Jaron says. “It's built that reputation up over the years, where you know there's not going to be a scene there.” Something as simple as the physical layout has a big impact: The square room is less conducive to standing around and mugging or judging than it is to introducing yourself. “You don’t feel like you're being watched or that sort of cliquey feeling that you have a lot of gay bars,” says Jaron Caldwell, who was a regular when he lived nearby 10 years ago and has since moved away. A few old-timers, parked in the corner afternoon and night, are still saddled up to the taps. The photo booth that’s spit out dozens of black-and-white strips now squirreled around my apartment, memories waiting to be dusted off, still sits to the left of the door on the way to the bar. I can’t count how many times I’ve walked in to see familiar faces sitting there, even when we had no plans to meet. Our go-to perch is the pool table in the back, which has a plywood cover for busy nights and in winter becomes a defacto coat check. (The bathrooms are tucked behind it, thankfully out of sight.) A handful of high round tables and stools are still scattered across the middle, with just enough room to dance in between. There’s the jukebox against the right wall, where my friends and I would pay extra for our songs jump the queue, even though we’d be there all night, anyway. Walking through the door now feels like hugging a loved one, even though they might need a change of clothes and a shower. I’ve been going to The Boiler Room for over a decade in gay nightlife terms, the bar practically raised me.