In its seeming pursuit for consideration as the Platonic ideal of a dive bar, the Rec Room ticks off many boxes: the bar sits in the grimy shadow of a highway overpass, prides itself on selling more cans of PBR than any other bar in the U.S., and is truly dark inside. So dark. The majority of the illumination seems to come from television screens, pinball machines, the fluorescent fixture that hangs low over the pool table, and the light from the street when the front door opens to let in someone who’s been outside smoking. In short, the bar is deliciously down-market without being skeevy. You will find Charleston locals from every walk of life, especially on game days when the televisions—including one playing to the smokers the front patio—are all tuned to football. Come early or late, order a Pabst Blue Ribbon, watch a game, play some foosball or pool, order tater tot nachos, and experience the appeal of a dive bar in a town where propriety and manners rule.
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The Rec Room
In its seeming pursuit for consideration as the Platonic ideal of a dive bar, the Rec Room ticks off many boxes: the bar sits in the grimy shadow of a highway overpass, prides itself on selling more cans of PBR than any other bar in the U.S., and is truly dark inside. So dark. The majority of the illumination seems to come from television screens, pinball machines, the fluorescent fixture that hangs low over the pool table, and the light from the street when the front door opens to let in someone who’s been outside smoking. In short, the bar is deliciously down-market without being skeevy. You will find Charleston locals from every walk of life, especially on game days when the televisions—including one playing to the smokers the front patio—are all tuned to football. Come early or late, order a Pabst Blue Ribbon, watch a game, play some foosball or pool, order tater tot nachos, and experience the appeal of a dive bar in a town where propriety and manners rule.
