Listen. Listen to me. Dismiss those notifications, close those tabs. I have you for the next three-to-five minutes.
This is the best bar in DC. Let me tell you why.
Sidle in through the door, be greeted with MF DOOM - All Caps and rotary belt-powered fans. Gainfully candle-lit, every manner of couple intertwined, tuxedoed, jacketed, denim-on-denim, uniformed, backpacked, a societal deck of cards accordioned and bridged together. The chef-slash-gas-station-attendant-slash-true-equalizing-font-of-addled-calm and the cheesemonger-slash-anecdote-spinner-slash-honed-in-gestalt-flavor-puppeteer sling upsettingly great food to unsuspecting groups of twenty-somethings and first and second dates that'll probably not go anywhere long-term, not because of this place and likely despite it.
A man, a savant, in a spinner cap and an ironic t-shirt decants a cocktail that is on fire between two metal steins, and immediately pivots to synthesizing a Ramos Gin Fizz in an impossible 5 minutes and 44 seconds just to prove a point. It bubbles up past the top of the highball and remains aloft, anti-Icarus, until after last call over two hours later. Fernet fills and departs glasses, never ordered, never questioned, forever welcome, smacking the palate into a state of Socratic irony. Inhale life, exhale death. You are a machine that converts meaningful cocktails into dumb stories and urea. Bathroom's downstairs, by the way.
Not convinced? Consider an in-depth exchange on aquavit's strengths and weaknesses compared to genever, their historic divergence, both interlocutors slugging rail bourbon. A masterful crab bisque that explodes and cascades when cradled up to the mouth with a Voodoo chip, with kumquat ash as a kind of forbidden new truffle or Ortolan Tower Babel of flavor lighting the senses on fire. The sin-wave of existence propels us upwards and downwards, just as one might at first reject a romantic interest only to become ensnared, enraptured by them at another time, so too might one have a negative experience here. That is to say, if you come in and order a vodka martini with no vermouth, then you ought to shoulder your due part of the blame, because you ordered wrong. Even so, you can have bad taste in drinks and still flourish here. Treat the staff like humans or even small kittens and you'll be fed that which nourishes the body and spirit.
There is a certain invisible garb of inauthenticity that this city will dress you in if you let it. I ask of you, dear reader, do your best to identify and strip yourself clean of pretense. If being upset that your aperol spritz took a few minutes more than you were willing to bake in to your expectations, if that brings you indirect joy, ask yourself why that is. If you drink for reasons other than enjoyment, flavor, breaking bread with friends and loved ones, investigate what drives you to that precipice. But if you, a fellow human being, a kindred spirit teeming with infinite hope and aspiration mere moments ago in the relative scope of the cosmos, come just as that, I guarantee you will not regret it.
In conclusion, please review the following sonnet I penned in tribute to this establishment:
All Hail The Golden Age
Were ease the light by which we ebb and flow
And respite rationed carefully to man,
The place for which we'd pine for in hushed tone
Would be here once all things good had been banned.
Burgers ballast, ballet beauty betwixt
Beverage built blooming, burly, begin
Balladic but breathless, blessed but bewitched.
Before Bacchus, beloved, bereaved--brethren.
Confess and proffer all or some or none,
Or credit unbeknownst a new dear friend.
Alight a smile, din once dinner's done;
No last call waits for us as life nears end.
Lark, the musings stinging wight, wage of old.
Hark, the muses sing and sigh: Age of Gold! read more