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This venue is closed.

Despite its name and gothic-scripted insignia, the Village Idiot is not another ye olde English pub, but one of the Meatpacking District's urban saloons, with scattered wagon wheels and the all-too-familiar tableau of drunkenly shed bras to prove it. The Idiot ranks up there with Hogs & Heifers and Doc Holliday's as a prime outpost of Manhattan cowboy kitsch. Weekdays find local boozehounds washing down breakfast with $1.75 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon; weeknights draw a sociable crowd of down-to-earth dudes, with the occasional Hell's Angel hogging the pool table in the back. Come Friday night, the Idiot erupts into a riot of raucous college students and young professionals, all jockeying to out-drink the shot-happy bartenders. The jukebox blares an indiscriminate mix of country hits and misses, and, as in every Mitchell institution, you can never tell which Dolly Parton or George Strait tune will inspire some scantily clad cowgirl to boot, scoot and boogie atop the rickety wooden bar. Cue the clamorous yee-haws from the peanut gallery: everyone looks cute doing an impromptu do-si-do after a couple of $5 pitchers. — Erin Kandel