Poured over marble, kept in the Village.

Pub 36 sits at the corner where Hamilton has gone out for a hundred years. Twenty taps, a deep whiskey wall, and a kitchen that stays honest — burgers smashed to order, wings by the pound, fish in a proper batter.

The room is built around one thing: a long marble bar, cool to the elbow, warm in the light. Come for a pint. Stay for last call.