{"id":1826,"date":"2014-01-02T18:30:39","date_gmt":"2014-01-02T17:30:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/?p=1826"},"modified":"2014-10-22T23:54:17","modified_gmt":"2014-10-22T21:54:17","slug":"the-speakeasy-trail","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/?p=1826","title":{"rendered":"The Speakeasy Trail"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"NICE<\/a>The bar is downstairs and beneath a stairwell. Chris and I get a rush of excitement \u2013 our first speakeasy on the speakeasy trail. I knock at the door, a move for which I am mocked by my brother. I suggest that if this were a speakeasy in 1929 I would have to knock. Still, the door is heavy and metal and other than not needing to knock, it\u2019s lending perfectly to my imagined scenario.<\/p>\n

I wonder about the other side of the door. I imagine flappers and bobbed hair, large men in double-breasted suits you didn\u2019t antagonize under any circumstances. Dances from another era, smoke, low conversations at poorly lit tables, jazz.<\/p>\n

We push through.<\/p>\n

The plan was simple: dress up, eat burgers, drink strong cocktails in unusual locales. We are dressed well: suits \u2013 no ties. Polished shoes, gelled hair, mankerchiefs, though we may look cool we sweat. It\u2019s Village Whiskey for burgers and then the speakeasy trail. Three throwback bars from Philadelphia\u2019s own prohibition past: The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Company, The Ranstead Room, and Hop Sing\u2019s Laundromat.<\/p>\n

Right now, we go through the unmanned door at The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Company. The d\u00e9cor is cool. Plush brown chairs, sofas, and seats, and a slick bar tucked against the far wall. The lights are low and we find a table. So far it\u2019s meeting my expectations.<\/p>\n

Our server comes by; he\u2019s wearing tight brown corduroys, suspenders, a short-sleeved plaid shirt. Black rimmed glasses, a bow tie, and too-neatly combed hair. Bobby. I suddenly realize the music possesses the whiney quality of a band named something like Sadness Caf\u00e9<\/i> or Emotional Waffles<\/i>. We look around and understand with horror that we are surrounded by hipsters. They are everywhere. I have doubts.<\/p>\n

My doubts are blasted out of my skull by the sheer power of the cocktails. Chris starts with a Jonathon Richman<\/em>, and I get The Space Between Us<\/em> \u2013 a milky rum and absinthe combo that is like getting a creamy uppercut from Mike Tyson. Then we move to the last page of the menu: I asked her for water, she brought me gasoline<\/em>. Chris gets an Angel of Mercy<\/em> and I get a Lady of the Wood<\/em>, there\u2019s scotch in it, that\u2019s all I remember, even though I am now consulting my notes.<\/p>\n

We loosen up and start chatting with Bobby about the ability to tie a bowtie. The guy next to us gets involved; he\u2019s a bowtie guy as well. We share a menu, pay our tab, Bobby brings us two hefty shots of Wild Turkey Reserve. We step out into the chilly night towards our next speakeasy.<\/p>\n

Let the games begin.<\/p>\n

Chris told me about his plan for a speakeasy night about a month ago. He was so excited, sent pictures, websites, talked about getting dressed up, spending money. It was all so opposite from what I usually do that it actually made me nervous. I am notoriously content to stay near home, hit a small pub, spend two days (read: weeks) in an Italian onesie, read by a fire. I dress for comfort, get home at a reasonable time, never overspend for a drink, and rarely go to a place where I am referred to as sir<\/i>.<\/p>\n

In other words, I have built myself a nice little comfort zone that I rarely leave. And for that reason I was determined to go out and do just that. I was going to enjoy being out, drink things I never drink, go to ritzy places, and say yes to any suggestion which came up. I promised myself.<\/p>\n

We are in a back alley known as Ranstead Street. There are dumpsters and the short dingy housing you see at the beginning of an episode of Law and Order<\/i>. Chris is consulting his map, I look to our right and see it in a hidden black door.<\/p>\n

RR<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d I say. \u201cThe Ranstead Room.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Ranstead Room does not, in any way, disappoint my expectations of a 1920s speakeasy. The lights are dim; the walls are carpeted red with paisley, above-lit portraits of nude models sit along the wall. An ancient red chandelier hovers too low, two bartenders \u2013 one is pregnant, the other one is bearded and chiseling ice cubes from a giant ice-cube. The music is too quiet to hear effectively, Rom Jeremy\u2019s picture on a door indicates the men\u2019s room. We sit at the bar; look at the one page menu.<\/p>\n

Chris: Casino<\/em><\/p>\n

Damien: Remember the Maine \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

We both choose Bartender\u2019s Choice<\/em> for our second drink as we have a thirty minute walk to our third location and this guy pours heavy. The juices are flowing now, the air isn\u2019t so cold, we are telling funny stories. We are in awesome downtown Philadelphia, people buzzing around us. We get thirsty on the walk, Chris suggests a drink at a high-class joint and we go in. I have thus far kept my promise to say yes to any suggestion.<\/p>\n

Del Frisco’s Steakhouse used to be a bank \u2013 it has enormous pillars, a long cool bar, and several diners who are clearly using Dad\u2019s credit card for the evening. We pay $13 each for our Tanqueray and tonics and take pictures. We ogle the short skirted waitresses. Chris\u2019 friend Brian has joined us and before we leave we points us to the basement, which is a dining room converted out of the former bank’s vault. We wander down, nobody is there, and that\u2019s when Chris makes the suggestion I knew was coming.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe need a picture,\u201d he says to Brian and hands him his phone. \u201cPants down,\u201d he says to me. I have to comply. That comfort zone has been keeping my pants on for too long. Six strong drinks don\u2019t hurt the decision. Brian snaps the picture as a bewildered busboy moseys by.<\/p>\n

\"FLASH<\/a>\u201cGood evening,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello sir,\u201d he replies.<\/p>\n

You have to love the power of a suit.<\/p>\n

On our way to the third locale, which ends up being shut down, we run into a gleeful homeless gent. \u201cGet in a picture with us!\u201d Chris barks at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cDamn right!\u201d he says. We drop our pants, the man poses in front of us without a skipped beat.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, pants down!\u201d My brother insists. The last time we tried to get a person to do a pants down photo with us was in \u010cesk\u00fd Krumlov and it took hours and ended up being vampires. This time, it\u2019s not so hard.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure. $5.\u201d The man drops his pants. In case you\u2019ve ever wondered, homeless men go commando. Chris hands him $10.<\/p>\n

We head home on the train, my comfort zone well smashed. I have spent a load of cash, taken a train to and from a bar, my pants have been off, twice, I have posed with naked homeless men, paid $15 for a drink, there have been two speakeasies, talk of bowties, and I have said yes to every suggestion.<\/p>\n

We are rolling into Langhorne station, where our mom awaits to bring us on the final leg of our journey. \u201cHey,\u201d Chris says, \u201clet\u2019s get a sandwich from WaWa on the way home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The bar is downstairs and beneath a stairwell. Chris and I get a rush of excitement \u2013 our first speakeasy on the speakeasy trail. I knock at the door, a move for which I am mocked by my brother. I suggest that if this were a speakeasy in 1929 I would have to knock. Still, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1826","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-blog"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p1EvEu-ts","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1826","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1826"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1826\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1831,"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1826\/revisions\/1831"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1826"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1826"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/damiengaleone.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1826"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}