Look: Kent Street is home.
This little grungy bar on Smith around the corner from the street where I live is my heart and soul right now. It feels like your old student flat: borrowed furniture and smoke wafting in from the smokers outside.
Hot in the summer, even hotter in the winter. It's the place to go for a schooner of Coopers and a jaffle (cheese toasted sandwich) sat right between the tram stop and the Westpac ATM. The bar staff all seem high on a little something something; the vinyl is spinning on the turntable and all your troubles get washed away until it hardly feels like Tuesday anymore.
If you're really lucky the warm and delightful owner will be hosting, but if he's not, he leaves the bar in the capable hands of his dreamy girls.
I love to hear the "Fuck this, I'm going to Kent Street."
Don't come and visit - I like that it's a bar for regulars.