The Other Side of Tokyo Nightlife
APRIL 7, 2023
Matt Klampert
KO SASAKI
story:
photo:
APRIL 7, 2023
Matt Klampert
story:
photo:
KO SASAKI
The Other Side of Tokyo Nightlife
San Juan’s Historic Dive, El Batey,
Isn’t for Everyone.
But Anyone Can
Call It Home.
Despite the passing of its original owner, Hurricane Maria and a pandemic, the bar remains a haven for locals,
loud music and more than a few pets.
El Batey, a dive bar, is always loud, often blaring something like The Mars Volta or Pink Floyd. It’s located across from the tony El Convento hotel, a block from the cathedral, and is the longest continuously operating bar in town. Its indifference to anyone who might not be on board with its unruly essence—where patrons and bartenders alike can be seen smoking (technically outlawed in public spaces since 2007) in its graffitied, sweaty environs—has made this dive an icon of the city as well as a living document of local history.
El Batey was founded in 1961, but it wasn’t until David Jones, a former U.S. Navy sailor who was stationed in San Juan, took over in 1966 that its story really began. Jones owned the dive until his death in 2015, and it was during his 49 years behind the bar that El Batey established its reputation and attitude. For one, during his time, guests started the tradition of writing their names on the walls to leave a record of their visit. Now, nearly 60 years into the life of the bar, every inch of the space is covered in layers of signatures, and framed photos of regulars who have passed line the back wall. It’s all a testament to those who make the place what it is: the guests.
Despite having all the aesthetic markings that define the concept of a “dive bar”—mismatched tiles on the floor, dollar bills hanging from lamps over the bar, the aforementioned cigarette smoke swirling—El Batey’s architecture remains the same as when it was built in the 18th century. Its façade, too, remains unchanged: From the outside, it looks like a Spanish colonial house, the same as others in the city built by colonizers over 500 years ago, painted brick red, with rectangular doors and sidewalk-level windows enclosed by iron bars, while a simple white overhang provides shade. There is the main room with the bar, a side room with tables and a small interior patio—while it would have been a house centuries ago, it is now home to a nonworking jukebox covered in stickers from visitors, a pool table and an endless stream of locals and tourists alike.
April 8, 2024
PLACES
Israel Meléndez Ayala is a historian and writer from Puerto Rico. His work has appeared in the New York Times, The Guardian and more. He writes weekly newsletter called Crítica and he was a World Class 2019 finalist bartender in Puerto Rico. You can find him on Instagram at @israelayalapr.
According to bar manager Mario Seijo, El Batey is “a space for everyone but not understood by everyone.”
by Israel Meléndez Ayala
Photos by Sebastián Castrodad Reverón
rom the sidewalk of Calle del Cristo, a cobblestone street in the historic city of Viejo San Juan, Puerto Rico, the music is what passersby notice first.
F
After Jones’ death in 2015, there was a sort of “dark age” for Batey that extended into the catastrophic arrival of Category 5 Hurricane Maria in 2017. The situation grew even more dire. Jones’ daughters sought out Mario Seijo, a veteran bartender, to breathe new life into the old bar. While he has maintained Jones’ vision, his illustrious bartending past, which all started at Batey, has clearly influenced the bar’s modern era.
Seijo started working under Jones in 2006, when he knew nothing about cocktails. “I didn't know how to make a Margarita,” he says. “I asked the customers how they wanted me to make their cocktail. ‘How much tequila do you put in?’ But I was very charismatic.”
He stayed until 2011, leaving with a lot more knowledge under his belt that he then put to use at much fancier cocktail-driven spots in the city, like Santaella and La Factoría. When Jones’ daughter called Seijo to resurrect Batey, he was in Brooklyn at a pop-up bar called El Puente, which was founded to get Puerto Rican bartenders on their feet following the hurricane. He was thrilled at the opportunity to return to the bar that kicked off his career: In exchange for housing at Jones’ apartment on Calle San Sebastían, he said he’d reopen the bar and live solely off tips until the conditions were better.
Every inch of El Batey is covered in signatures from visitors—locals and tourists alike—who make their mark on the bar.
After Jones’ death in 2015, there was a sort of “dark age” for Batey that extended into the catastrophic arrival of Category 5 Hurricane Maria in 2017. The situation grew even more dire. Jones’ daughters sought out Mario Seijo, a veteran bartender, to breathe new life into the old bar. While he has maintained Jones’ vision, his illustrious bartending past, which all started at Batey, has clearly influenced the bar’s modern era.
Seijo started working under Jones in 2006, when he knew nothing about cocktails. “I didn't know how to make a Margarita,” he says. “I asked the customers how they wanted me to make their cocktail. ‘How much tequila do you put in?’ But I was very charismatic.”
He stayed until 2011, leaving with a lot more knowledge under his belt that he then put to use at much fancier cocktail-driven spots in the city, like Santaella and La Factoría. When Jones’ daughter called Seijo to resurrect Batey, he was in Brooklyn at a pop-up bar called El Puente, which was founded to get Puerto Rican bartenders on their feet following the hurricane. He was thrilled at the opportunity to return to the bar that kicked off his career: In exchange for housing at Jones’ apartment on Calle San Sebastían, he said he’d reopen the bar and live solely off tips until the conditions were better.
“That’s how I got here to El Batey, and it’s been six years since,” the now-manager tells me. “It is an honor for me to take over the bar where I started and preserve the essence of the bar that David created.” Indeed, almost six decades into its life, it’s both the quintessential dive it always was and a necessary visit for anyone interested in the history of bars and contemporary cocktails in San Juan. With Seijo as manager, there’s now a written menu with a selection of house cocktails and classics, such as a Rum Old-Fashioned made with local rum from Ron del Barrilito, or La Guagua Voladora, an Averna- and Campari-spiked sour, to go along with all the expected dive bar staples.
Without advertisements or brand sponsorships, and with its imposing atmosphere—in addition to the loud music and graffiti, these bartenders won’t coddle those who make outlandish or picky orders—El Batey is thriving. The dive’s bargoers have become a community.
“It is a very special space, full of energy,” says Seijo. “It is an oasis of memory, of sadness, of happiness, of celebration. It is a refuge where you want to disconnect from the world for a while, as Batey was in the times of the Taínos, and I will preserve that.”
Then the plants started shutting down. As far back as the 1980s, Detroit’s auto industry had begun shrinking. The financial crisis of 2008 hit Detroit particularly hard, and the midnight shift was an early casualty of the Great Recession. In 2009, U.S. auto plants ran at only 49 percent capacity and some plants only operated a single shift per day. By 2012, that number had ticked back up to 81 percent as carmakers like General Motors added the third shift back into the schedule of production. Still, third-shift manufacturing in general is trending downward, the result of unionization, overseas outsourcing of jobs and the decreasing sales of American cars.
Cleo (left) is the dive’s very own house cat, one of many pets that have visited El Batey over the years. In the back of the bar (right), framed photos of regulars who have passed line the wall.
El Batey is an essential place for Medalla beers and shots of Don Q rum served by gruff but caring bartenders.
“Batey” is a Taíno word, derived from the language of Puerto Rico’s original inhabitants, to name the special plaza around which their settlements were built. It was usually a rectangle surrounded by stones that were decorated with carved symbols. The purpose was to be a place of gathering, celebration and fun, and this is what the bar has tried to maintain: “a space for everyone but not understood by everyone,” as Seijo says.
“Not everyone is going to be here for an hour. There are people who come in and say, ‘Oops,’” jokes Seijo, whether because of the music, aesthetics or lack of a television. “This creates conflict for some,” he adds, “but if you want a new experience, to meet someone, play pool with your friends: This is the place.”
The death of Jones and the aftermath of Hurricane Maria weren’t the only recent crises faced by Batey: It was closed for 14 months after the start of the COVID-19 pandemic because of strict local regulations; most of the bar’s staff had moved on to other jobs before it was able to reopen. Bianca Declet, Seijo’s partner, stepped in. “I took advantage and joined the group,” she says. There are now five bartenders.
Declet’s presence has expanded the very definition of Batey’s community by making it exceptionally welcoming to pets—even nontraditional ones, like a goat named Robbie. Declet started an Instagram account called El Batey Doggos to document the nonhuman regulars. The bar has water bowls and treats for the dogs and any pet the guests bring in. Now Cleo, a local cat the bar adopted, is often found napping on the banquette.
Because of the marks customers make in the space—literally, through the writing on the walls, or figuratively, through pets that have become a part of the scene—there are endless stories within its walls. “Wow! How many memories of being a kid in this bar, my family lived in the 90s in the apartments next door,” reads a comment from 2020 on El Batey’s Instagram. “My grandma cleaned the bar for Jones on many occasions.” Another wrote, with multiple heart emojis, “My name is in some corner.”
El Batey, graffiti and all, is essential to the old city: a place for Medalla beers served with shots of Don Q rum served by gruff but caring bartenders, and a place where locals, tourists and pets come together, because communing within its 18th century walls is as transcendent as it is timeless.
“Sometimes clients come with their partner that they met 20 years ago here,” says Seijo. Declet adds that regulars have brought her birthday cake and gifts. But it’s not just the regulars who make the space. Everyone who walks through the door knows how special the bar is and what it provides to those who spend time in it. “You don’t have to come to El Batey that many times to realize there is a community here,” she says.
In the back of the bar, framed photos of regulars who have passed line the wall.
Cleo is the dive’s very own house cat, one of many pets that have visited El Batey over the years.
The Rum Old-Fashioned is made with local rum from Ron del Barrilito.
According to bar manager Mario Seijo, El Batey
is “a space for everyone but not understood
by everyone.”
According to bar manager Mario Seijo, El Batey
is “a space for everyone but not understood
by everyone.”