2nd Saturday and the Turkish Problem

As usual, we attended the 2nd Saturday celebration at Capitol Hill Books. The wine flowed like Faulknerian prose and the patrons were ensconced in conversation that carefully wound its way from Baudelaire to Biggie Smalls. Giddy grad-students grabbed copies of Jane Austen, and tried to sound as if they knew what Ayn Rand’s books were about when their friends asked. (“It’s about, like, her philosophy…”)

The generally genial mood of the party was momentarily deadened by deep, guttural pronouncements projected from the mouth of an 84-year-old Serbian nihilist who had quietly entered the store, propped himself up with his wooden cane, and then stood proclaiming the death of Europe for several minutes. (Why is it that we want to take old men from the Eastern Bloc so seriously? and more so when their eyebrows are untrimmed?) Eventually, his Malthusian meanderings gave way to talk of chesty young women and soccer-style field goal kicking, but not before he had cast his aura of impending doom upon those within earshot.

Our next move was Tunnicliff’s, mainly because it was right across the street. We rolled into the bar 6 deep and ordered 5 beers and a cider. As is customary, the Admiral bought the first round and we settled into our stools. Talk then turned to our Turkish tablemate and his feelings on a secular Turkey. The Admiral, never one to mince words, got down to brass tacks:

Admiral: “So are you gonna vote for those Muslims?”

Mehmet: “No. I’ll vote secular.”

Then, in a brilliant non-sequitur:

Admiral: “You guys killed all those Armenians.”

Mehmet: “Well, you guys killed all those Indians.”

Ah yes, the scandal of origins. And of course, the Admiral is caught in a paradox—he wants a secular Turkey, but at the same time wishes for an acknowledgement of genocide that would undermine the meta-narrative that helps legitimate the nation-state as he wants to preserve it. Perhaps a secret acknowledgement of that fact, miraculously timed with the arrival of our appetizers, ended that vein of conversation.

On our table lay plates of calamari, buffalo wings, spinach artichoke dip, wasabi glazed tuna, and quesadillas. We were at once overwhelmed by the bounty before us and at the same time driven to annihilate it which we did in short order. After another round of drinks, the weak and girlfriended (Boullionnui, Never Bisque) and the old (The Admiral) went home, and the hearty moved to 18th Amendment.

The first floor of 18th amendment was inexplicably filled with Republicans in green polo shirts. It didn’t seem worth asking what was going on, so we didn’t. Instead, we headed straight to the basement in hopes of open jukebox and pool. Our hopes were partially dashed when the bartender informed us that someone had stuck a baseball in the pool table the previous night and as such, it wasn’t working. We played a few tunes on the jukebox and decided to move on to Capitol Lounge.

Cap Lounge was on its way to hypeness when we arrived. We sat on the west side of the bar and ordered beers. Rowdy petitioned for shots, but there were no takers. The bartender on the west-side is of Brazilian origin; More specifically, from the historically significant region of Minas Gerais, but just as she and Rowdy were about to toast “the Inconfidencia”, the female member of our party informed him that someone had etched “for a good time, call Rowdy” on the back of the stall in the lady’s room. Incensed at the besmirching of his honor, Rowdy stumbled downstairs to investigate…

At this point, as so often happens when 2nd Saturday draws to a close, details become nebulous. What is vaguely remembered is that the Mad Turk was missing, the rain drops fell more and more insistently, and as revelers scattered home, the need of self-intoxication slowly ceded its will to the practical problem of retiring to one’s private ambient.

Lazy Sunday

One benefit of the DC Smoking Ban, besides not killing off all the local waitstaff and bartenders, is that area bars have been forced to provide more outdoor seating. On a recent Sunday afternoon, we were trolling around the neighborhood, looking for a place to drink some oat sodas out of doors when we noticed 18th Amendment recently put out a few tables.

It was a fine day. There was a cool breeze, it was sunny, Eastern Market would still be intact for another 7 hours or so, and we had a pitcher of Yuengling on the way. Unfortunately, the Yuengling came up Assling, and even the replacement pitcher of Bud Light was flat. Rowdy's an 18th Amendment veteran, and he's had good fresh and frosty beer experiences in the past, so we're hoping that this, too, is a fluke.

While both Rowdy and Bouillonnui are big fans of the burgers and wedge fries at 18th, (the pizza ain't too shab neither) their appetizer menu could use some work. Capone's Nachos aren't too bad, but would anyone ever order Capone's Nachos (with mozzarella and pizza sauce) over regular nachos? Before you respond, remember that regular nachos are the supa-shizz.

Now, you wouldn't know it to look at him, but Rowdy is not long back from a jaunt in Tuscany and he felt like ordering the bruschetta. When it arrived, he was, in a word, disappointed as it was utterly senza flavor, which is something most of us like food to have. The Admiral, who was likewise resting his bones after a hard day in the metaphorical sea of letters, was also summarily unimpressed. That, combined with the flat beer was enough to send us on a hike to the East-side of the Hill.

- Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder

18th Amendment

18th Amendment is aesthetically confused. The shiny, silver, black and glass façade doesn’t exactly blend with the rest of the block. (Not that one really wants to blend in with Mattress Discounters, which is about 4 doors down.) On the inside, the black walls and chrome-rimmed lights hearken back to an obliquely early-mid 1900’s metropolitan noir which, at least, is in tune with the exterior of the property. The front portion of the bar has lounge chairs and low tables that may have looked very chic in the early 90s in some under-21 club in suburban Indianapolis, but here they seem completely out of place. The new, very long, hand carved bar is kind of interesting in an amateurish way, but, again, it doesn’t fit with the other décor. In fact, the eastern half of the bar is homey in a way that makes the western half feel alien. The place can’t seem to make up its mind whether or not it’s going to be a dive bar or a swanky lounge, so it ends up looking ridiculous.

Now, despite the owner’s obvious mistakes in ambience development, it can be an alright joint to hang out in. The bar is often a bit understaffed, but the bartenders are a friendly lot and drinks can be got semi-cheaply. Food-wise, the burgers and wedge-fries are good and the pizzas aren’t too bad. We’re not so down with the Stromboli, but if you’re cool with the feeling of 7 weighty musket balls in your gut, give it a try.

Weekend crowds at 18th can vary wildly. We’ve been there at 12:30 on Saturday nights when it’s been virtually empty, and then again, we’ve been there at 10:08 pm when it was SRO and there were passed-out girls strewn across the first floor pool table laying in puddles of beer and Jagermeister. (Yes, you can still see the stains.)

The highlight of 18th Amendment for us is the Key-Hole Bar located in the basement. It has a sort of cave-like vibe and comes equipped with a pool table and an internet jukebox. It’s usually not too crowded, nor too loud, and makes for a good place to take a small group of peeps on your way to drunkville. Even with the jukebox kickin, you can spin yarns and listen to other conversations wafting about in the cavernous enclave. I was there just last week with my friend Smashley, and we overheard a Senate staffer quietly spilling his broken hearted guts out to some indifferent lass who had come with another staffer on her arm. An apparently non-related scuffle broke out too, and resulted in the spilling of the better part Smashley’s Yuengling, but in a twist of fate, two replacement beers were provided by the bartender, so we came out ahead.

Overall, a solid bar to drink in for the non-aesthete.

-Rowdy Chowder