Hey, I can try to meet up with y’all, but I’m coming off of a riduculously annoying viral/bacterial adventure that has left me completely mute. That’s not keeping me from going out on the piss tonight–I’ve got cabin fever.
Hey, SNenc, wanna hear my tentative itinerary for tonight? I’m in a slightly different neighborhood than you’ll be in, but it might help you out a little.
I work just down the hill from Dupont Circle. So I’m gonna bail early and do some hangin’ there. First, I’m going to walk up Connecticut Ave to Julia’s Empanadas and get some good eats. Then, I’ll probably snag a happy-hour beer at the Lucky Bar. Hopefully, I’ll run into my former Army Ranger pal and see how his sex change preparations are going. Then, up about half a block to the aforementioned Big Hunt, where I will enjoy at least one Tupper’s Hop Pocket (and try to snag some digits).
Tupper is the guy who makes the hundreds of beer selections for the Brickskeller, at the other end of the Circle, and also trains the bartenders there. His recipe for a super-hoppy beer was picked up by the Dominion Brewery, and is in my opinion one of the finer brews in Washington–but not the finest. I’ll get to that.
Unless I get lucky at the Hunt, what I’m doing is cooling my heels until about eight or nine, when the Eighteenth Street Lounge opens up. It’s one of those pretentious no-sign-on-the-door, no-jeans kind of martini joints, right where 18th and Connecticut converge. Look for Candy’s Hardware and then look for the building with the big windows and fire escapes. That’s the Lounge. I’m wearing jeans today, so I have to get there early before the bouncer gets out front to neg me, usually by about 9:30.
The second floor (or the first serving floor) has the coldest ice in DC, which makes for the best martinis in town. One or two of those, and I’ve got my drink on. At that point, I’ll probably start wandering back toward Virginia, but not before I drop by Borders at 18th and L to grab some weekend reading. Then it’s on to the metro to the Orange line, where I’ll hop off at Clarendon.
By now I’ll have had about a half-hour to see how those martinis did me. First stop is Mexicali Blues. If I didn’t hit Julia’s before, I’ll grab some pretty schweet fare there, as well as a margarita if I’m not wasted. Someone I know is always doing tequila shots there at about ten; I might find them tempting.
Next, I’ll wander down Wilson Boulevard to Whitlows to see what’s going on there. There’s a Thelonious Monk tribute band making the rounds this week–I’ll see if they’ve already played or not. Whitlows has the market cornered on kick-ass blues, with an occasional nod to jazz, surf, and bluegrass. If the tunes are kickin’ and the college students havent mobbed the joint, I might hang for awhile and shoot some pool with my bros, whom I havent seen in two weeks.
If, on the other hand, Whitlows sucks, it’s only a few doors down to Iota. I might get lucky and be able to catch one of the great local bands, such as Luka Brazzi, Lamont, or The Lost Fromattas. Iota also has one of the finest Scotch collections in the area. I may be tempted to enjoy one of those if I choose to go in. If I don’t, I’ll check out the punk scene down the street at Galaxy Hut.
In my dreams, I’ll have a good buzz and a random lady on my arm, and I’ll be headed back to the Den of Iniquity to show off my etchings. More likely, I’ll have picked up at least one soused drinking buddy who shouldn’t be driving and who will want to crash on my couch. Either way, there’s at least one more stop to go–the piece de la resistance.
Arlington just wasn’t the same once the Bardo Rodeo shut down, but it has reincarnated (as Bardo must) as Dr. Dremo’s Lounge. Dremo is the greatest beer ever created by man, and it is fresh and on tap at its new namesake. Depending on how pissed I am and who’s with me at this point, it’ll be either a pint or a pitcher. Smoooove.
If I’m alone, I might drop in on Rhodeside, at Wilson and Rhode St. to see who’s playing there and to say “hi” to the greatest bartendress inside the Beltway, Claire. When she’s not slinging mean drinks, she’s making a name for herself as the stunning lead vocalist for the Fromattas. Stardom awaits, so you better get to know her now.
Then, emptyhanded, or otherwise, it’s off to the Den of Iniquity, where slumber–and a first class hangover–will welcome me with open arms. Hopefully, I’ll sleep through all this inaugural bullshit and be ready for something else tomorrow. Wish me luck.
