RFK-- Stadium Arcadium

You may have noticed that Capitol Hill Bar Review hasn’t posted much for awhile. In the meantime, we’ve been inundated with email from thousands of readers wanting to know what gives and demanding new posts.

Armless Jane: “Are you guys on the wagon or something? WTF?”

Saucy Chaucer: “Has CHBR lost its Rage to Live?”

Feckless Finnegan: “I swear to you. I am perched on the edge of my balcony. If you guys don’t post again by June 26th, I’ll jump.”

Well, with apologies to Finny’s mum, it so happens that we’ve been spending a reasonable amount of time drinking beer in RFK stadium since our last post. Bouillonnui is a bit of a Tigers fan, and Rowdy is down for basically anything that involves baseball and/or nachos, so we wound up watching the entire Detroit/Washington series. (Quick note: If you, by some strangeness of character or act of God, have become a Nationals fan in the last couple of years, you might want to stop reading now because this story won’t end well for you.)

Just before Game 1 of the series, we grabbed some dinner and margaritas at La Lomita on 13th and Penn. The Bouillonnui/Detroit contingent was large—Papallionnui and Mamallionnui had actually driven down from Michigan to watch the series with several other family members in tow.

There’s always something slightly intoxicating about walking into a major league baseball stadium on game-day. Don’t get me wrong. Watching a game at RFK is nothing like seeing a game in old Tiger stadium, Fenway Park, or Camden Yards, but it can still give you a little tingle. What grabs you first is the sound—the slow roar that emanates from the crowd interspersed with the looping cries of the vendors. Then you look around. There is beer everywhere. There are hotdogs and nachos and pretzels, and as you walk down the corridor looking for your seating section, you catch glimpses of the field, the green carpet of Bermuda grass trimmed tight like a fresh military haircut.

I have these moments when I forget that America is the greatest country in the world. It’s natural, I suppose, to have thoughts like “Is it really ok that we’ve dropped thousands of tons of depleted uranium munitions on Iraq?” or “Is this really the ‘freest’ country in the world? I bet I could hold up a ‘Bong Hits 4 Jesus’ sign in Sweden.” Well, there are two things that render those thoughts meaningless—one is March Madness; the other is the elation of walking into a baseball stadium in mid-summer. And I can promise you all that as long as those two American traditions remain intact, the terrorists will never win.

We found our seats near the middle point of the lower section on the first base side and sat next to a couple of middle-aged, mustachioed Dominicans who spoke lazy, Caribbean Spanish. It was hot, about 96, and later, when I arrived home, I would take one look at my sweaty, matted hair, and shave it all off.

Now, beer at baseball games has never been known to be too cheap, and RFK is certainly no exception. However, you can get a reasonable amount of bling-bang for your buck if you hit up the Guinness/Harp stand. I mean, a Guinness will run you around $6 in most D.C. bars these days. You can get one at RFK for $6.50 so you don’t exactly feel like you got sodomized on the deal.

Here is the skinny, baseball-wise:

· Tigers came to town for interleague play with a chance to move into first place ahead of the Indians.
· The Nationals suck and have sucked all season.
· Detroit’s Magglio Ordoñez is flat-out redunculous this year. Right now, you could throw a chick-pea anywhere near the plate and he’d hit it for an opposite field double. (see Rowdy’s post-game phonecall with his Pa below)

Rowdy: Hey Pa, what’s up? I just got back from the baseball game.

Pa: How’s Detroit look?

Rowdy: Indestructible, but they were playing the Nats…

Pa: Ordoñez get any hits?

Rowdy: You tryin to be funny? He went 7 for 10 in the series.

Pa: Wow, he’s batting like .350 isn’t he?

Rowdy: Try .382

Pa: Dear God.


· Tigers swept the series and scored 32 runs in 3 games.

A particularly pathetic play occurred midway through the top of the 5th inning in the series finale that I feel I must mention. Detroit’s Brandon Inge hit a ground ball to Nats shortstop Cristian Guzman who, instead of getting in front of the ball, bending his knees, and trapping it in his glove with both hands, decided to lazily bend over at the waist and make a one handed grab at it without moving his feet toward the ball at all. He bobbled it, was charged with an error, and allowed Inge, to take first base. Inge later scored.

It was, perhaps, the most insultingly lazy play I have ever seen attempted by a major league short-stop, and a slap in the face to all of Washington. I would’ve been pissed if the shortstop on my little league team had pulled a stunt like that, and my little league shortstop wasn’t being paid $4.2 million dollars a year. Not to mention that here we are in a city chalk-full of problems that need urgent attention and we’re about to spend our tax dollars on a new, $611 million baseball stadium, so you’ll have to excuse me if I find it F-ing incredible when Guzman decides it’s too much of a bother to move his fat ass two steps to the left to get in front of a ground ball. That’s a show of disrespect to the entire city. Also, Guzman may not have heard any of the curses I threw in his direction from the upper deck of center field, but I like to think they had something to do with his recent thumb injury.

By invoking the outlandish cost of the new stadium in the previous paragraph, I don’t mean to come off anti-baseball, because I’m anything but. What I basically object to about the new stadium is the swankiness of it all. The new stadium is clearly designed to cater to the wealthy, and given the diversion of public funds into it, it is bad form to spend so much money on things like “luxury suites” that will almost certainly be gobbled up by rich lobbying firms. The one thing that will make me puke up my ballpark frank at the game is watching a pharmaceutical lobbyist in the luxury box rub some congressman’s ass while Ryan Zimmerman strikes out for the 3rd consecutive time. (speaking of Zimm, MLB needs to put some theme music rules in place. Should Zimm really be able to play “This is Why I’m Hot” every time he steps up to the plate when he’s batting .245? Get on that, Selig. Might be a good distraction from Balco et al.)

On a slightly different note, I gots several lefty friends who reference certain intellectuals (Chomsky) out there who say sports serve to re-direct the energies and attentions of the public away from political realities, and towards meaningless events that feed into primitive gladiatorial pleasures and contribute to a false consciousness that positions subjects of the same political class against one another. They aren’t necessarily wrong, but they commit the same error of omission that many Marxists and folks on the left commit—they fail to acknowledge and properly account for the symbolic side of social existence. It's such a terribly unimaginative position to take, and what I would say to Chomsky is this: Do sports not also serve a valid, theatrical function in our world?

Each game is densely laden with plots and subplots. Protagonists triumph and fail due to combinations of natural ability, character, and chance; and all you can think to say is “sports are a meaningless distraction”? Ummm... Since when isn’t all of life a meaningless distraction? The next thing you know you’ll say we shouldn’t read novels because they’re just fake stories meant to distract all the rest of us from being just like you. Thanks for your concern, Noam, but only an unimaginative dullard could think that professional sports can’t be more than an empty distraction. I shall keep watching baseball, anti-capitalist sympathies intact. And while I'm at it, I think I'll have a few beers and some nachos.

-Rowdy Chowder

The Club

Yuppers, the legend is true. There really is a dance club above the Hawk n' Dove, and those of you looking to relive your College experience, The Club is for you. Not so much the part where you enrich yourself, study abroad, or make lasting friendships, but rather, the part where you dress up like a skank, put on some Axe, down a fifth of Popov, grind on several anonymous dance partners through the night, and do the sweaty late night make-out on the dance floor routine.

Really, who needs Adams Morgan when you got The Club? You can avoid the lines and the insane crowds, and you have the added bonus of hanging out with a bunch of Marines. So you can get hammered, have a good time dancing, and, assuming you're not holding some grudge against Freedom, hook up with a Marine to help the war effort.

If you live on Capitol Hill, you should definitely hit up the Club at least once. As they say on their website,

In the heart of D.C you'll find your not so typical "dance club".
Catering to the college crowd, we know how to party! With disco lights, a moderate dance floor, and the areas hottest bartenders and bouncers-you are sure to have a night to remember.

They ain't kidding neither. Rowdy's been to the Club just once. He walked up the stairs, saw a topless girl writhing on the bar, smirked, and turned around and walked out (I know, I know, there's something wrong with Rowdy). Also, there was the night Bouillonnui watched as a Marine and a snarky looking Hill staffer almost got in a fight. That's always an interesting dynamic to watch play out. On the one hand, you're just waiting for the Marine to absolutely destroy the guy and thinking to yourself, "Oh shit, I just hope this guy hasn't learned any kill moves." On the other hand, you keep watching said staffer talk about the validity of Sen. Inhofe's global warming views, and you start thinking, "Maybe it's ok if he just gets his jaw broken." And really, it would be.

Our advice is to spare yourself the cab money and added insanity that comes with going to Adams Morgan, and instead go to The Club sometime soon. We recommend going on a Saturday night when they have $5 pitchers from 9 - 11. Order one of the specialty shots they have, such as "Blood Clot" or "Sex at my House", hit up the dance floor and let the inevitable craziness begin.

Finn macCool's

We've been hitting up Finn MacCool's since way back in the winter of aught four. There have been some crazy times there over the years: "Vampire Girl Night" and "That One Time The Cute Waitress Talked To Us Night" being chief among them.

After a bumpy start, Finn MacCool's has firmly established itself as a solid addition to the 8th St. chill. Their draft selection is ample, with Magic Hat, Dogfish Head 60 Min IPA, and Stella Artois as a few of the highlights, along with, of course, Guinness and Harp.

The food there is decent, but pricey. It's typical bar food with some Irish fare such as Shepherds Pie. It's just wrong to charge $12 for Fish and Chips, but at least you can get them half-price on Tuesdays. Throw in a Black and Tan and you got yourself a pretty fine dinner.

Bouillonnui remembers them having a decent burger, but, again, $10 for a burger? Our advice is to hit up the 7-11 on 8th st., grab a half-smoke or two, then focus on your drinking for the rest of the night. (yes…we readily admit that there’s an 11% chance that advice could go very, very wrong.)

If it's crowded downstairs, make sure you check out their second floor. Here you'll find darts, a pool table, foosball and Shuffleboard. All they're missing is Skeeball, really. If you run into Forever Bisque (the long-lost 3rd barblogger), challenge him to some Shuffleboard. He'll get really into it, go up early, and definitely blow it when it's time to seal the deal.

-Boullionnui

Trusty's

Sometimes, when nothing else is working, you gotta go down to Trusty’s on 14th and Penn SE. The place is about a year and a half old and sits comfortably apart from the 8th Street corridor and the rest of the bars on Pennsylvania Avenue.

The bar has a sort of Route 66 service station theme which basically works. Old gas and oil cans hang from a ceiling propped up by license plate speckled walls. In the bathrooms, you’ll find photos of car crashes which are an especially nice touch.

The bar is rather small and they serve you beer in mason jars. On the wall behind the bar there’s a nice jukebox with download potential. Past the bar, you’ll find a few tables with board games stacked on them and really, what's better than drunk Jenga?
Answer: Drunk Candyland
Rowdy and Boullionui have issued Trivial Pursuit challenges to other tables, but wisely, none of them have accepted.

The menu has basically what you’d expect at a bar like this—hamburgers, nachos, half-smokes etc… The burgers are acceptable, the nachos are cold (they don’t put them in the oven) and should only be ordered after you’re drunk.

One of the pleasures of Trusty’s is that it’s rarely too crowded and there usually seems to be a friendly vibe amongst the patrons. Nobody trying to impress anyone else with their fancy job or degrees, just people looking to drink, talk, listen to tunes, and maybe watch a game or two. The crowd is reflective of the area to an extent—white gentrifiers, black folks growing accustomed to them, and other hill peeps who have made the pilgrimage to the East Side.

Put simply: We dig this place. Worth the walk (when you pass "Nina's Place" you're almost there) or metro ride (it's at the Potomac Ave Metro stop) from the main hill drag, but please, don’t everyone go down there at once and ruin it for us.

- Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder

Tune Inn

Any Midwesterner living in D.C. (and there are a lot of us) would feel right at home walking into the Tune Inn. It even has the look of a bar you might have frequented on trips “Up North”. Replete with hunting trophies (even a Deer Ass hanging above the entrance to the Restroom) and some old school beer signs, the Tune Inn rounds out their Country Bar vibe by having both High Life and PBR on tap -- Oh no they did-ant! They’ll also fix you a decent sammich for not a lot of dollars.

While the smallish bar will usually be filled with regulars, there's almost always room in one of the booths in the back. On a recent visit, Bouillonnui and Rowdy ordered a pitcher of High Life and it was a little warm and flat, but we believe this to be a fluke. The bartender said “the beer is pouring funny today,” so hopefully, Tune Inn will escape Le Wrath de Bouillonnui. No one needs to see that again.

One swell bonus of the Tune Inn is that you can Break your Fast anytime. So when the cute girl you've been trying to talk to all night at the Pour House goes home with some Yahoo Serious lookin' dude instead, you can comfort yourself with a delicious omelette and some corned beef hash, and tell yourself, "Tomorrow, I'll go to the gym, really work the lats, and buy some cool tastefully scuffed-up jeans. Then they'll want me." And it's true--they will.

- Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder

Union Pub

Some bars you have to walk into with low expectations. More specifically, you have to walk into Union Pub with low expectations.

Upon entering, you'll notice that the owners have managed to somehow create an ambience that has all the coziness of some soulless bar you might find in a newly remodeled, Midwestern airport. Interesting choice.

God willing, you'll never have to set foot in this place, but if you get dragged there by some peripheral friend of some peripheral friend, the one consolation we can offer you is that they have cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap. There’s also ample outdoor seating which would spare you the indignity of actually being inside the place. At least, till you have to take a wazzer.

Some quick calculations: When your body has absorbed the 0.007% of Pabst which has nutritional value and needs to empty out the excess, you'll probably find that the bathroom is about 620 degrees Kelvin and you'll walk out drenched in a sweat that's about 43% alcohol and covers 98% of your person.

Another drawback is the jukebox. We were forced to listen to the late 90's rock station that they had chosen to put on, and while it was fun for awhile to try to name the bands—Filter, Tonic, Seven Mary Three, Lifehouse—when that one Three Doors Down song came on , Rowdy let out a snarl and made for the jukebox... Within 30 seconds, he could be seen jabbing at the jukebox with his phalanges and cursing like a Chilean sailor (trust us, those are some swearing-assed marineros). The jukebox, you see, was malfunctioning and it took him the better part of 20 minutes to get anything out of it. By that time, the scowl on his face as he wandered back to the bar for more Pabst sent women and children fleeing for the exits.

After a another beer and some idle chit-chat, Rowdy calmed down and our group turned its attention to the ongoing harassment of the female employees occurring at the hands of a male co-worker. (for more on this story read Hurray for a Child). After instigating a brief altercation, we slid out the side door and walked east, still slightly awed by the out and out butt-suckiness of the place.

- Rowdy Chowder

Tunnicliff's

Tunnicliff’s is right across from Eastern Market and we’ve gotten sauced there more times than either of us care to count. One issue for us is that we tend to roll deep when we hit it up, so sometimes enough space for our entourage isn’t easy to come by.

Upon your arrival, you’ll likely be greeted by one of several waitresses with vaguely Slavonic accents. They might try to tell you they’re from Virginia, but when they say Virginia, what they mean is Belarus. (Home of the unforgettable Svetlana Boginskaya)

The vibe at Tunnicliff’s is pretty low key and the music is usually lame, but in a fairly innocuous way. The crowd is a shade older than what you find in the bars on Pennsylvania Ave—locals from their late 30s to mid-40s-- usually couples or very small groups, so not the best place to mingle, but if you take your own party there, you’ll do just fine. (Assuming you can find enough space)

In general, the food at Tunnicliff’s is pretty good. We have seen the super grilled cheese with tomato, onions, and bacon lure patrons into believing that they have finally transcended this mortal coil and been elevated to a higher plane. Upon consumption of said sandwich, Chowder is given to reminisce about his “lost years” in that Burmese opium den. The price of such illusion and nostalgia inducing taste, however, is usually a couple bucks more than it should be. They do have a late night menu that is considerably cheaper and offers some of the same tastiness.

Tunni’s has an adequate selection of beers on tap. They have most of your standard stuff, and recently added Boddington’s to the list which doesn’t hurt their cause. Service has gone slightly downhill in recent months and we have some suspicion that some of the newer bartenders may be of BORG lineage. (Shields up!) Several of them look just alike and appear to be humorless gents not at all concerned that you’ve been trying to order a Guinness for 9 minutes. They do make a damn fine Bloody Mary, though.

Late evening, from about 8 till 11 post meridian is usually the best time to Tunni some Cliff’s. You can eat and drink well here before moving on to a livelier venue.

- Rowdy Chowder

Sizzlin' Express

Many of you will doubt the dopeness of Sizzlin' Express, and to you dopeness doubters, we say "Backoff, asshats!" Sizzlin' Express, while lacking certain things you may look for in a bar, such as a Jukebox and low lighting, more than makes up for it with other good, simple pleasures.

Sit down in one of the comfortable high-backed padded chairs (a vastly underrated plus), and you will quickly be greeted by one of two Korean (Korean-American?) bartenders, from whom you can procure either Heineken, Coors Light, Sapporo, or Sam Adams on tap. (Speaking of Sam Adams, what the fuck? If you're at a bar with someone, and on tap they have, say.... Guinness, Stella Artois, Miller Lite, Shiner Bock and Sam Adams, and that person picks Sam Adams, doesn't your opinion of that person drop by about 40 percent? What are they thinking?
"I'll have a Sam Adams," (???) Yeah, and then let's all go join the Drama Club and go to a Goo Goo Dolls concert. Then we'll have exciting lives.. that'll be great.)

Sizzlin' Express will also give you your beer in a frosty mug (they, along with Mr. Henry's form the Frosty Mug Corridor on the Hill) which isn't shitty. While you drink your beer and soak in the Adult Contemporary music, you'd be advised to order some sushi. Try ordering the Alaskan something, we don't know if it's any good, but you'll feel cool ordering it.

The clientele: Mix 1/3 cup black, octogenarian churchgoers, 1/3 cup Cops, 1/3 cup random Hillers, and sprinkle in the occasional Japanese tourist.

All in all, nice place for an afternoon beer.

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

Li'l Pub

Li'l Pub is that bar that you walk by and think to yourself, "Man, if I was just a little cooler, I'd probably go in there right now." Bouillonnui's theory is that the dirty windows keep many patrons away. Looking in from the street, Li'l Pub looks cramped, dingy, and a little dangerous. Go in sometime, however, and, assuming you're slightly not lame, you'll find a neighborhood bar that's both cheap and friendly.

The first time we went into Li'l Pub, we asked the bartender what they had on tap, and she promptly snapped back, "Nuthin'." When asked if they had a menu, the answer was "Sometimes we got sandwiches." Good enough for us, we decided. The menu is whatever they feel like making that night, sometimes it's Meatloaf, sometimes it's Hummus, and sometimes they got sandwiches.

In the back, they have a couple of pool tables in a well-lit room and the folk there seem to take their games seriously. In the same room, there is an internet jukebox where you can go nuts and play that Timberlake song you've had in your head for the past week. And when your friend gives you shit for it, you can claim machine malfunction. ("I swear, I was trying to play the Decemberists")

Now, let's talk free stuff: Every night, they watch Jeopardy on the TVs at either corner of the bar. Whomever so answers Final Jeopardy correctly, gets a free drink. And if the free drink opportunity doesn't pull you in, then you might just consider going in to check out the
clientele.

Lil' Pub is quite proletarian in a very special, John Waters kind of way. I think most of us have had that moment in Hawk n Dove where we swore we would punch the next eager-faced Hill staffer who made any sort of obnoxious comment within our earshot. This problem will not show its ugly countenance at Lil' Pub. You have our word.

- Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder

Conrad's Pub

Conrad's Pub is a tiny sliver of an English pub on Pennsylvania Ave between 3rd and 4th Streets SE. It seats about 12, or maybe just 10. We would say it's primarily good for serious hetero-male conversation and/or having a couple while waiting on your carry-out order at the Thai place next door.

For those of you who are lookin’ to escape the Hill-jerks, Bon Jovi-jerks or general jerk-jerks sometimes to be found at the Pour House, this is the perfect spot to have a cheap, quiet drink. The Rubenesian beauty hanging above the bar will keep you company until you've got enough Yuengling in you to move onto a more happenin’ spot.... like the Club.

Conrad’s also features that Capitol Hill rarity, the amicable and accommodating bartender. At many spots on the Hill, you will find yourself frustrated when trying to flag down the bartender for a drink. Not so at Conrad’s. Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder have been to Conrad’s on several occasions, and even on a Friday night it didn’t take long to get a drink.

- Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder