The Dallas Morning News’s arbiter of all things alcoholic, Mr. Dallas, called this no-man’s-land shell a dive of distinction—enigmatic, but accurate as hell. The Windmill Lounge is without question a dive. It sits just enough outside the gentrified parts of Northwest Dallas to feel slightly dangerous, especially after dark. The turn in is sudden and the parking lot potted, softened for BMW or Mercedes suspensions only by a layer of gravel.

Inside, a droll jukebox, shorn tables, and cracked vinyl seating wait…as well as some of the most knowledgeable, accomplished, and unsung bartenders in Dallas. They take pride in old-school precision, without the aid of measuring cups. Ask for a Pimm’s Cup, a first edition Manhattan, or even a Grasshopper, and they will present you with a drink your grandfather would recognize. Their martinis balance gin and the long-forgotten vermouth. The conceit here is not one of the fedora-topped mixologists, but of the bartender who understands that every ingredient, every sensation—especially the burn of alcohol—should stand out.

The Windmill is distinct, in that it is free from the fickle, trendy, pretty people…unless they appreciate a solid cocktail. Bar bites include passable panini and bagged chips. Who cares? You come here to get stiff.