Category Archives: Fell’s Point

J is for J.A. Murphy’s

After such a long hiatus, it’s criminal that I should crib from the city’s best-known nightlife reviewer to explain how I feel about J.A Murphy’s Tavern in Fell’s Point. But Sam Sessa of the Baltimore Sun speaks the truth:

“”Without a hook, J.A. Murphy’s might not bring enough patrons to stay afloat…In the coming months, [owner Keith] Murphy wants to take black-and-white photos of his customers and hang them on the walls. That’s not a novel idea, but it might make the bar more personable.”

My trip to J.A. Murphy’s was pleasant but unremarkable. As Sessa said in his review, the service was very friendly and the prices are reasonable. Murphy himself is a natural host with a charming Boston accent. Genny and Mira snagged a table out front, so I can’t review the bar as well as I can review the sidewalk immediately adjacent to said bar. The drinks were cold and my crab mac-and-cheese was tasty, albeit extremely salty. (I am a salt fiend so it was OK for me but I wonder if it would please a broader audience.) As long as they can balance the books, I imagine J.A.’s will become a neighborhood staple.

That said, I hate the black-and-white photos idea. Must even bars, where we go to see and meet people in person, be a version of a Facebook page? Do we always need our own images and good times reflected back at us to remind ourselves and everyone else how much fun we are having? The owners call it “a bar about nothing” (ha ha) but seem to want to shade in a history that the place hasn’t yet earned.

When I think of a bar with pictures on the wall, I think of Morseberger’s Tavern on Frederick Road in Catonsville. This was my grandfather’s bar – not that he owned it, but he was a long-standing patron from when my grandparents first moved to the neighborhood after World War II. If you go to Morseberger’s – and there is really no reason to – look for the neon sign that austerely reads “BAR.” I would link to the Web site, but Morseberger’s doesn’t have or need one. Everyone who goes there found it long ago.

Inside you will see the walls papered with pictures of men like my grandfather, stretching from the early 1950s to the present day. These are guys who maybe got college degrees on the GI Bill, but probably worked union jobs from the day they got home until the day they retired. (Pop was a C&P Telephone dispatcher.) In the pictures, they are drinking, dancing, smoking, playing poker, holding babies up for the camera’s inspection. If I search them carefully, I can find two of Pop – one in black-and-white where he still has thick, dark hair and is turned away from a card game, another in color where a ball cap shields his balding scalp from the fierce midday sun on some desolate dock, as he holds up a huge fish and wears a proud grin, eager to have both recorded for posterity.

Back in the day, my grandmother didn’t like that Pop drank his after-work beers at Morseberger’s, because the front room was whites only. (Black customers were confined to a room in the back. Mom-Mom was of the opinion that if he wasn’t too good to take their money, Mr. Morseberger should have let his black customers have their choice of seating.) But that was where the neighborhood guys drank and gossiped and bought Lotto tickets, so that’s where he went year after year. It’s not a nice bar, but it’s one with a history.

When my Uncle Theo was a wee little kid in the early 1960s, my grandfather took him to Catonsville’s famous Fourth of July parade . They were standing on the sidewalk outside Morseberger’s when the national guard troops marched by. Most people politely stood and clapped, as Catonvillians still do each year. But one agitated hippie began screaming that the soldiers were pigs, baby killers, etc. An old lady got upset, so Pop told the agitator to quiet down. The other guy unwisely initiated a shoving match, and came up on the wrong end of Pop’s right hook.

With the hippie sprawled out before him and his son on the crowded sidewalk, Pop grabbed Theo and ran into Morseberger’s. He yelled at the guys at the bar to watch Theo and slipped out the back door, where the black customers came in. The victim (rightfully) complained to the police, who were only marginally committed to finding the assailant of the parade-disrupting pinko who couldn’t take punch. They popped into Morseberger’s and asked if anyone had any pertinent information. Astonishingly, no one in the packed bar had seen a thing. (I guess no one noticed or thought to question Theo, who I imagine was given a seat at the bar and a Coke.)

A few years passed, and opinions about the Vietnam War changed. By that time, my dad (older than Theo) was knocking on the door of eligibility and even my hippie-punching grandfather didn’t think it was a fight worth fighting anymore. One night Mr. Morseberger was fired up about not giving one inch to the Viet Cong; Pop told him to shut up, that he wouldn’t want his son to have to die for something so hopeless and he couldn’t expect other people’s kids to do the same. Mr. Morseberger came from behind the bar and was aching for a fight. Pop said, “Hey, you touch me, tomorrow I own this bar.” Morseberger backed off. Perhaps in that one-second, fist-to-face contact with the sidewalk agitator, Pop had absorbed a lesson about pacificism.

After my grandfather’s funeral, the cousins convened at Morseberger’s to raise a glass to Pop. As my sister and I were leaving,  my father remarked, “Pop went there for so long that if they had any class at all, they wouldn’t charge you for the drinks. They will, but they shouldn’t.”

They did charge us, but it was worth it anyway, to drink beer and laugh after a day of being quiet and sad in church and at the KoC hall.

So that is a bar with history, most recently the very sad history of two murders, much to the chagrin of the Catonsville Chamber of Commerce. One guy, Benjamin Shorter, reportedly beat a guy in line for the bathroom. (Incidentally, what is now the bathroom was formerly the blacks only section.) A Sun story quotes an acquaintance as calling Shorter a “nut job,” and Uncle Theo informs me that Shorter was always a lunatic and a stint as a recon Marine didn’t help. Morseberger’s is steadfastly not a member of the CoC and has no interest in the creeping gentrification of the neighborhood. I hope to God it is never turns into some sort of hipster parody of a working class bar, where cheap domestic beer is only consumed ironically.

Anyway, Morseberger’s is my image of a tavern with lots of pictures on the wall. For better or worse, J.A. Murphy’s, the bar about nothing, has a long way to go.

F is for Fletcher’s

I have this thing about water chestnuts: I LOVE THEM. They have this perfect crunchy texture without being dry, and I wish they were in everything. Sadly, they are in nothing but Chinese stir fries and rumaki.

So I was elated when I saw Fletcher’s online menu that features shrimp and water chestnut dip. Huzzah! I couldn’t believe that a rock venue would bother to have an  interesting menu in the first place, and it was really vegetarian-friendly to boot (edamame, black bean hummus, veggie burger options).

Unfortunately, when I got to Fletcher’s, the menu had changed. I ate enormous fried shrimp  in  sriracha-cilantro sauce and washed it down with a few happy hour beers, but I’m still sad I didn’t get any water chestnuts. I also didn’t get any onion rings, which were my first choice. (They were out.)  The brooding indie rocker two barstools down also didn’t get lettuce on his burger, because they were out. I consoled myself with a few cheap games of pool on Fletcher’s really busted pool tables. The brooding indie rocker probably wrote a song about loss and disappointment.

I’m trying not to dwell on the bad stuff, because Fletcher’s deserve major points for effort, and also because one of the cooks told me they are revamping the menu in the next few weeks to make it more locally sourced. Very ambitious for a dark hole of a rock club decorated with garlands of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Genny Cream Ale empties.

Incidentally, the chef wore horn-rimmed glasses and was super-cute. And that was just the chef, to say nothing of all the skinny boys in black loitering around the place. So if you like better-than-average bar food and emo guys, Fletcher’s is the spot for you.

I didn’t explore the performance space upstairs, so I should probably go back sometime. The performers from Lion of Ido were really nice and “Beatles meets Weezer” sounds like something I’d like. Unfortunately I am a total square with an office job, so there’s no way I’d make it to a show that starts at 10:45 on a Monday. I was lame and went home and fell asleep in front of the soporific brilliance of the North Carolina Tar Heels.

Addendum: If anyone has recipes involving water chestnuts, please post in the comments!