It is exactly what it sounds like - if what it sounds like is a raw, concrete space with fermentation tanks, a canning line, pallets of packaged beer and, amid all that, a stylish bar serving up craft cocktails made with local spirits and Dock Street beer.
There is no more space, though. There are only more 22-year-olds, the women in minimalist rompers and backless tops, the men in whatever they wore to work that day.
The inertia is in the casino-like timelessness of the windowless room. You're in a basement. You have to overcome gravity to get out.
Lê has a record of every person who enters (and the 100 people denied entry on any given week). It's a lopsided arrangement, since Lê goes, Cher-like, by a single name, and keeps his biography a well-concealed mystery.
Mel Adelman, 83, is close to selling the bar his family ran for more than 70 years. He hopes the new owner won’t change it — but he has no guarantees.
One man shouted, “C'mon baby!” Another glanced over with pity. ”As soon as you start yelling for your horse, just rip up your ticket,” he muttered.
A group of real estate-developer types in navy blazers and khakis stumbled in and demanded martinis. Well, most of them did. One grumbled loudly as he tried in vain to find the beer menu.
Historically, the bar was decorated with hats left by Marines from the Marine Club nearby. After the hats dry-rotted, they decided to go full-festive instead.
I had the distinct feeling of visiting the parlor of some estranged older relative -- wealthy, eccentric, with a taste for bygone opulence on a spectrum between Miss Havisham and Liberace.
I was here, at the Irish consulate to Gray's Ferry, at the urging of a Philly.com reader named "N.D." Harvey Sumner, a diehard Notre Dame fan who signs off each of his emails "GO IRISH!!!!!"
On a recent Friday night at happy hour, the pub looked a lot like your typical Center City sports bar. It has the requisite exposed-brick walls, floor-to-ceiling...
Why was the volume turned up so high? Why were liquor shots served in plastic ketchup cups? There were no answers. There was only more Fireball.
As I sipped my Manhattan, a $9 cocktail made with Bulleit Rye and garnished with orange peel and cherry (a good, almost-black Luxardo cherry, not one...
“Are yous cops?” the burly man at the end of the bar asked me and my perhaps-most-uncoplike friend, a skinny, bearded archivist and indie...
Inviting a friend for drinks is usually a straightforward project. But when I suggested we meet at a quirky little establishment on an alley just off...