Appropriately, it’s in the nation’s capital – in scruffy, forever interesting Adams-Morgan: long granite bar, towering shelves of spirits, notably bourbon and scotch
(including the world’s peatiest single malt, Bruichladdich’s Octomore 5.1), a
drinks menu longer than both your arms and legs, with labels ringing bells for
more than a century. Portions come in 1- and 2-ounce shots, many from arcane
bottles reached with the aid of old library ladders; bartenders are
knowledgeable, the clientele mellow (how could it not be?), the founder a
self-confessed elbow-bender and former performance poet, Harvey Fry, whose long
white beard, mariner’s gaze, bandana, overalls, and bottomless trove of whiskey
knowledge pleasantly enable and entertain.
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