Sorry, but there’s nothing fancy about this.
No 217-bottled-beer list.
No cocktail that would include an umbrella.
No chardonnay.
Definitely no chardonnay.
But if you’re feeling like this might be a mason-jar-full-of-whiskey kind of night, great. Pull up a bar stool...
We mean, saddle...
Presenting Stagecoach, an Old West–looking/single malt saloon that’s reluctant to mix their beverages with anything but ice, now open in Buckhead.
Okay, yes, it’s a Buckhead bar. And yes, we guess technically it’s a themed Buckhead bar. But it’s different. Better. So less 10-gallon-hat-wearing bartenders who use the expression “yella belly,” and more weathered wooden booths made from things like Kentucky tobacco warehouses (they call that “drinking timber”).
And, well, what do you know, it’s a Friday. There’s your reason right there to come here. Grab one of the leather saddle seats by the bar, or if you’re looking for slightly more comfortable/ridiculous accommodations, see if they’ll let you in the giant stagecoach in the corner (come prepared with two to eight Oregon Trail dysentery jokes).
Now, normally, we’d tell you to get the strangest thing on the cocktail menu (typically a drink with ghost chilies and/or pickled asparagus and/or aged mezcal and/or a maraschino cherry). But, well, they don’t have a cocktail menu here. So your order is real simple. One whiskey, one jar and one straw of hay.
For chewing purposes.
No 217-bottled-beer list.
No cocktail that would include an umbrella.
No chardonnay.
Definitely no chardonnay.
But if you’re feeling like this might be a mason-jar-full-of-whiskey kind of night, great. Pull up a bar stool...
We mean, saddle...
Presenting Stagecoach, an Old West–looking/single malt saloon that’s reluctant to mix their beverages with anything but ice, now open in Buckhead.
Okay, yes, it’s a Buckhead bar. And yes, we guess technically it’s a themed Buckhead bar. But it’s different. Better. So less 10-gallon-hat-wearing bartenders who use the expression “yella belly,” and more weathered wooden booths made from things like Kentucky tobacco warehouses (they call that “drinking timber”).
And, well, what do you know, it’s a Friday. There’s your reason right there to come here. Grab one of the leather saddle seats by the bar, or if you’re looking for slightly more comfortable/ridiculous accommodations, see if they’ll let you in the giant stagecoach in the corner (come prepared with two to eight Oregon Trail dysentery jokes).
Now, normally, we’d tell you to get the strangest thing on the cocktail menu (typically a drink with ghost chilies and/or pickled asparagus and/or aged mezcal and/or a maraschino cherry). But, well, they don’t have a cocktail menu here. So your order is real simple. One whiskey, one jar and one straw of hay.
For chewing purposes.
