Ahoy, mateys, step aboard — the interior be lookin' like the hull of a ship, yet the clientele be lookin' like they just came from landlubberly finance jobs downtown, scurvy curs washed ashore from a fancy watering hole on Upper Polk Street, all of which they did. While there's ample J. Crew-itude to be found, a refreshing dose of kitschy familiarity is on tap at the Buccaneer, replete with a killer happy hour and a good-sized pool table. There's a big squat iron stove, which is rarely on — a good thing, because it'd burn the people who pack in here for sports games. Corsairs from faraway shores feel at home, with a strong nor'eastern influence in these waters. Walking the plank never felt so good.