Head to Jackson Avenue in Long Island City, Queens, where the Pulaski Bridge spits out noisy traffic from Brooklyn. Look for an unassuming California-style Mexican restaurant with a slightly worn brown storefront, called the Creek and the Cave. And listen for laughter.
Behind the restaurant’s cheerful brick-walled dining room, there is an almost hidden black box theater: a kind of speakeasy for comedy. Inside are a few seats and a small stage, every spare inch cluttered with props and equipment. The back wall is covered with comics’ signatures from past shows. The Creek recently put in a street entrance, but patrons in the know still push past diners tucking into nachos and chicken enchiladas, looking for the exit marked: “Beware. Door may open unexpectedly.”
Night after night, the greenest performers show up and try to find a groove, a connection, the sweet reward of laughter. Sometimes they get groans, or worse: silence. More seasoned comics come, too, to hone their craft; sometimes even headliners show up to do a quiet performance, notebook in hand, working out new material. They come because they know this crowd of locals, after-workers, fellow comics and fans is respectful, appreciative and understanding — a safe harbor in an often brutal business.
“This place is different from any other comedy venue that there is,” said Pat Dixon, who opened the 8 p.m. show on a recent winter Friday. Mr. Dixon — a regular who hosts an occasional bawdy showcase here, “Pat Dixon’s (Nearly) Naked Lady Hour: Now With Bacon Bar” — ran through a quick set of polished jokes about drinking, sex and religion: a warm-up for a second show that night in Manhattan. “The fact that it’s so off the grid means there’s more daring stuff going on,” he added.
The owner, Rebecca Trent, 34, was a bartender and a manager at the Creek before she bought the place at the end of 2007. The building is old — an exposed granite-and-limestone foundation wall along the basement bar attests to its age — but the comedy is new, thanks to Ms. Trent. Word of mouth has been kind, and the Creek and the Cave has become a known stop on the stand-up and improv circuits.
“We get everyone from Louis C. K. to the open-mikers who are onstage for the first time,” Ms. Trent said.
The club draws an audience from across the city. Kiley Edgley and Eric Schneider came from Brooklyn to see the sketch group the Charlies. They said they made the trip regularly.
“We were here before Irene,” Mr. Schneider said, referring to the storm last summer.
“There were hurricane drink specials,” Ms. Edgley said.
The comedian Eli Sairs, who looked too young to drink, was up next. “Did you guys know that if you sync up ‘Wizard of Oz’ with ‘Dark Side of the Moon,’ ” he deadpanned, “they’re both still kind of overrated?” The audience burst into surprised laughter.
After Mr. Sairs finished his set, he immediately hit the open mike in the basement for another five minutes to prove his worth. Time in front of an audience is a precious commodity in this world. He comes here a lot, he said, “pretty much every night.”
The Charlies closed the show upstairs. At the beginning of their act, they brought tables, chairs and cleaning products onto the stage — a hint of what was to come. Their last skit was set in a restaurant, and centered on one character’s infatuation with a can of whipped cream. Burgers and fries went flying. They took their bows, then grabbed paper towels and cleaners and started scrubbing. As the house lights came up, the audience remained, mingling and talking, waiting for the 10 p.m. show and another chance to laugh.
