The ingredients that go into a great dive bar are simple and inviolable: minimal clientele of the somber, scotch-sipping variety; no-nonsense barkeeps with nothing but time; shadowy, spilled-gin atmo to burn. The Ha-Ra meets the standards and then some. Walking into the joint is like feeling your way into a poorly lit cavern trimmed in Truman-era boxing photos and a pool table that's seen it all. A few regulars slump at their barstools over beakers of amber hooch. And Carl, your host for the evening, has been known to eject undesirables (aka braying Marina blondes and the frat boys who love them) who upset the Saroyan-esque balance of his fine if plebian establishment. The jukebox is a treasure trove with tunes by Waylon Jennings, Frank Sinatra, and the Kinks; treat it right and you'll be amazed at how sweetly an evening can pass into memory.