Guy Fieri (James W. Photography/Shutterstock)

By John Fleury and Benjamin R. Freed

There are many fine establishments mentioned on DCist’s list of the “Best Dive Bars in D.C.” But do any of them truly qualify as dives in the literal sense? Well, that’s the wrong question to ponder. To argue whether a tavern meets the description of a “dive” is not worthwhile. In fact, the very premise has been trampled, hectored, and badgered so incessantly, that to be a “dive” is no longer a natural state, but a commercial aesthetic.

In D.C. today, the dive has been replaced by “dive chic.” Think about your go-to bar. Perhaps it lies at the far end of a constantly expanding commercial strip in a part of town that, say, 10 years ago, you would not dare tread, but has always been lively since you moved here. Is it a dive because of its slightly rough neighborhood? No. That’s just smart real estate. Doesn’t take credit cards? Well, can’t blame someone for skirting the Amex fees.

And don’t be thrown off by the narrow room, uneven floors and low lighting. Because let’s face it, when your favorite bar features a long list of American craft beers and supplements its guests with board game libraries, Pandora radio blasting over the speakers, and old movies being projected on the walls, that’s not a dive. It’s just the manufactured effect sought out by D.C.’s recently transplanted arrivistes, the same ones who on other nights seek out newly built condominiums and debate what is or is not hip about their adopted city. Roof decks? Please, dives don’t have roof decks.

But don’t delude yourself. We’re not looking for a true dive. We’re looking for the invented nostalgia of the idea a dive conveys but watered down for the masses.

You don’t want your beer to taste like the Toxic Avenger washed his feet in it (even if it costs $2), but you want a place that looks like that is the case while drinking your Dogfish Head IPA or Ketel One and in-house tonic. The idea of a disgusting bathroom that looks and smells more like a slaughterhouse is incredibly amusing and useful when writing on your OKCupid profile that you “love dive bars,” but it is a very different story when you have to use it multiple times after that “seal has broken.”

We are not a city that loves grime. We are a city that wants to give off the impression that we want grime, when in fact we crave sushi and cupcakes. We even go so far as to drink in places that go to a lot of effort to have dive aesthetics but price points and atmospheres that would keep any true dive regular out of the establishment. This may be the way the city is moving to as a whole: give the appearance of an all-American city while fewer and fewer can actually afford to pay their tabs. We are no longer a city that can sustain one-dollar PBRs.

And what are these so-called dives doing serving rare beers and craft spirits, anyway? Gone are the days when ordering a Harp or Yuengling would earn you a dirty look from a barfly offended by your relative snobbery. Nowadays, the standby Pennsylvania lager is the slum.

Photo by Elisabeth Grant

If there is one story that catalogues the decline of the dive in D.C., look no further than Tune Inn, the Capitol Hill watering hole and greasy spoon that has been run by three generations of the same family since it opened in 1947. Just the term “Capitol Hill” seems like a disqualifier, but it’s not. Tune Inn, on the wings of cheap beer and artery-gilding patty melts, has catered to decades of House members and Congressional reporters, yet it also sports a cast of regular barflies with little, if any, association to the federal sausage-grinding. The bartenders were gruff, the seats were sticky, and the jukebox sucked. It was perfect.

And then, in August 2010, he walked in. Guy Fieri, Food Network’s biggest and most obnoxious star, featured Tune Inn on his program Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Within weeks, Tune Inn cashed in on its television exposure and plastered Fieri’s visage all over the walls and windows. But what did the venerable tavern get for its newfound fame?

In June 2011, fire tore through Tune Inn’s storied kitchen, shutting the place down for six months and causing people to wonder if the bar was paying a divine price for its embrace of that blinged-out buffoon and his frosted-tip thorny crown.

Because it is indifference that creates a dive, not kitsch. A neglected-looking place getting the coolest DJs and regional acts and hosting indie dance parties sponsored by premium vodkas is not a dive. Nor is that sleazy basement bar with a selection of the world’s finest Belgian beers and scotches. It is simply a dingy place that doesn’t care about decor but cares about getting a certain demographic in the door.

Dives aren’t there to entertain you. Dives are, by their nature, unhip and depressing, even when they’re crowded. And the music is never what the nouveau cultural class would consider “cool.” The dive soundtrack is a lot of ’70s and ’80s arena rock, some ‘60s American and British rock, but nothing particularly good. On a good day you’ll hear a track from Exile on Main Street, but those moments are fleeting.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

There is nothing wrong with saying D.C. no longer has an economic climate that can sustain true dives that rival some sad place in the rust belt that reminds you of the two-light town you grew up in. We work to get nice clothes, nice toys, nice homes, and yet take some shame that we don’t have dingy basement dive bars? Instead, perhaps we should be consider our many bars that have our favorite elements of the nostalgic dive without the violence, shitty-tasting swill, and broken jukebox is a good thing. After all, if we all love an empty dive bar to ourselves, why didn’t we do more to support the ones we had? We have voted with our wallets to kill the dive bar and now have artisan-made, craft-brewed buyer’s remorse.