Tag Archives: Gentrification

L is for Lime

Lime, a Federal Hill tequila bar, was hopping on Tuesday night. Annie and I snagged the last table in this tiny wedge of a restaurant. Table service meant backless stools and no free shot and a lime presented to bar patrons. Oh well, it’s Federal Hill, so small spaces are de rigeur. (Exception: the new oversized townhomes on Fort Avenue down the street from Lime. WTF? That block looks like a mouthful of oversized veneers ready to chomp away its teeny neighbors.) Voices and loud music bounce off the hard green walls so loudly that Annie and I had to shout across the table to hear each other. Perhaps I’m just too old for Federal Hill. Dumb kids and their rock and roll.

After perusing Lime’s enormous margarita and tequila list, Annie got a Hometown Girl, a pink concoction with passionfruit juice that she loves. I am a margarita purist who wants only lime, salt and tequila singing across my tongue. Lime’s Horny Frog was just that, silly name notwithstanding. I had two Horny Frogs since it was two-for-one night. (Nice service note: Annie, who is a very good girl, had only one drink and the server gave her half off.) Lime has great specials every night, so it’s never a splurge, which is nice in these economic end times.

While Lime’s drink menu goes on for pages, the food menu is about half a dozen items, a smart move for a small kitchen. Skip chips and salsa (nice but not special) and nachos (individual nachos carefully layered with toppings, not a big fun mess of condiments – really, what is the point of an elegant nacho plate?) and go straight for the chicken tacos (soft torillas and tender, juicy meat).

Wednesday is flip a coin night, where the bartender will flip a coin and patrons who correctly call it in the air get a $1 drink. That’s a fun promotion, and Lime is a fun place. If they just hung some rugs on the walls or glued foam rubber to the bottom of the tables to get the decibel level down, I’d be sold.

Now you whippersnappers get off my damn lawn. My damn e-lawn, anyhow.


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.