Scary Bar Project: Maximillian Bels

Maximillian Bels 1146 Nostrand Ave. (between Midwood St. & Rutland Rd.) Flatbush, B'klyn 718-773-9199

Daylight prevents most bars from being gut-wrenchingly terrifying at 5 p.m. Then again, most bars aren’t Maximillian Bels.

It’s an ancient East Flatbush dive amid Caribbean bakeries. A neon Guinness light glows warmly, and fertile plants fill a dusty window. It appears innocuous, a pleasant venue to get pickled on cheapo hooch.

Inside Maximillian’s one curious afternoon, I find fuzzy TVs exhibiting sports and dreary news. Red streamers drape rafters. Cockroaches skitter across tiled bathrooms. A Rolls-Royce poster contains the slogan “poverty sucks.” Tables topped with fake flowers sit empty, and several elderly gents are glued to cracking bar stools, self-medicating with liquor.

I’m in heaven.

“What are you doing here?” asks the surprised bartender. She possesses an apple-shaped derriere and curly, shoulder-length hair.

Just drinking, I say. The beer’s boring (Budweiser, Heineken, Bud Light, averaging $4), so I go for a gin and tonic, made gracelessly. Ice cubes are plunked into a glass goblet, followed by bottled tonic and off-brand gin. Nothing’s stirred. No lime. The final indignity is the $6 cost.

As I nurse my beverage, I become aware of The Odor: It’s musty, like weeks-old dirty socks. The bartender notices my wrinkled nose.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, close enough to kiss me, “about the scent.”

She motions to a nearby gentleman wearing cheap sunglasses, wild whiskers and a puffy winter jacket. It’s 80 degrees outside. A Heineken and amber, iced whiskey sit in front of him.

“Clam chowder!” he shouts. “Clam chowdaaaaaaaah!”

I scoot over one seat and drink in earnest. Soon, a man and woman saunter in and park themselves nearby.

“How much are your drinks?” the woman barks, wearing an ill-fitting red blouse.

Six dollars, the bartender says.

“Six dollars! Do you have cognac? I need some cognac. Now.”

The bartender retrieves a bottle simply labeled cognac. “Are you sure it’s $6?” the woman asks. “Can’t we make a deal?”

“Don’t worry, I’m paying,” says her friend, a large man in a rainbow-striped T-shirt that droops beneath his butt.

“In that case, make it two—for me. Not on the rocks, no mixer, just straight-up c-o-g-n-a-c.”

“Coney Island! I’m going to Nathan’s!” growls Mr. Smell. He cackles in machine-gun bursts, while the bartender loads two glasses with enough cognac to obliterate rational thought.

“Don’t go anywhere,” the lady says, grabbing one cup. “I’m about to drink this one down.”

She does.

“Now get me some juice. I need to wash the taste of liquor out of my mouth.” The bartender returns with orange juice, barely enough to stave off scurvy.

“Thank you,” she says, a nicety sounding an awful lot like a threat. It makes sense.

“Last time I’m ever in prison,” she says, fortifying herself with cognac. “Thank God I’m out, but you know what? I do not regret cutting that bitch.”

“Nathan’s! Hot dogs! Nathan’s! Hot dogs!” Mr. Smell shouts.

To my left there’s a knife-cutting felon, getting progressively zonked on cognac. To my right, an odorous man prone to Tourette Syndrome tics about food. In front of me, wildly overpriced cocktails. It’s 5:36 p.m., but Maximillian’s already has last-call danger.

“Clam chowder! Clam chowdaaaaaaaah!” Mr. Smell shouts, as I gulp my gin and tonic and quickstep into the evening’s fading, comforting sunlight.

Perceived Scariness (on a scale of 1 to 10): 6

Actual Scariness: 8

Summary: Overpriced drinks and insane customers? No thanks.

Know a scary bar? Email bars@nypress.com.