Picture it: Capitol Hill. 1882.
You were just elected to Congress from Nebraska, and they have yet to set up coal delivery to your office. You need a place to warm up before your audience with President Arthur. Someplace with some fresh-sliced meat, pickles, a well-made Manhattan, maybe some taxidermy for good measure.
Someplace like Beuchert’s Saloon, a long, narrow time-machine-as-bar, soft-opening early next month in homage to the late 1800s-Hill bar of the same name.
If Woody Allen ever films Midnight on Pennsylvania Avenue, this place will be in one of the flashbacks.
At one end of the walnut-and-marble bar: two buffalo heads from Montana and taps for beer, soda and prosecco (but mostly beer). At the other: a meat slicer from 1918 and the open kitchen. (It’s a really long bar.) Back in the tiny dining room: vintage-y tile, chandeliers from the ’20s and an old “Martini” sign visible through the windows.
And everywhere you look: bartenders and servers in leather aprons passing barrel-aged cocktails, roasted bone marrow, rice with roasted lobster and—because, what the hell—the Bananas Foster Twinkie with rum frosting.
In short, everything you need for a modern-day, smoke-filled room packed with your most consensus-minded R and D friends.
Except smoke.
You were just elected to Congress from Nebraska, and they have yet to set up coal delivery to your office. You need a place to warm up before your audience with President Arthur. Someplace with some fresh-sliced meat, pickles, a well-made Manhattan, maybe some taxidermy for good measure.
Someplace like Beuchert’s Saloon, a long, narrow time-machine-as-bar, soft-opening early next month in homage to the late 1800s-Hill bar of the same name.
If Woody Allen ever films Midnight on Pennsylvania Avenue, this place will be in one of the flashbacks.
At one end of the walnut-and-marble bar: two buffalo heads from Montana and taps for beer, soda and prosecco (but mostly beer). At the other: a meat slicer from 1918 and the open kitchen. (It’s a really long bar.) Back in the tiny dining room: vintage-y tile, chandeliers from the ’20s and an old “Martini” sign visible through the windows.
And everywhere you look: bartenders and servers in leather aprons passing barrel-aged cocktails, roasted bone marrow, rice with roasted lobster and—because, what the hell—the Bananas Foster Twinkie with rum frosting.
In short, everything you need for a modern-day, smoke-filled room packed with your most consensus-minded R and D friends.
Except smoke.
