Callaghan's Irish Social Club, Mobile

It could have been five o’clock in the morning when I walked out into the silent Alabama Street in front of Callaghan’s Irish Social Club. The quiet loneliness was reminiscent of an hour when everyone’s tucked in tight. But it wasn’t half that late. So what was it that made the expanse out in front of this joint seem so melancholy?

I couldn’t put my finger on it. I could however, as I turned around to give the building an over-the-shoulder second glance, feel the haunted hairs on the back of my neck stand up. If this moment had been written with cinematic intentions, I’m quite sure that I would have been directed to stand in the middle of the intersection so that the cameras could panoramically capture the sense of déjà vu that rendered me momentarily paralyzed.

“Oui m'dame!” A well-groomed spirit whispered in my ear.

“Pastis.” 

I thought. Hand to chest, as the sparklers began to pop and snap in my consciousness. Of course. Two tops lined up so intimately that an impromptu family-style banquet was inevitable, a casual atmosphere that more “expects” than it “accepts” diners hopping from table to table at a moment’s notice - heady with gossip, and a patina that takes a floor to ceiling approach as it lends character to everything from the faded photographs to the bathroom sink.

I have ALWAYS been a fool for the floors at Pastis!  Source: www.makesomething.ca

Callaghan's Irish Social Club: 916 Charleston Street, Mobile

Callaghan’s did time in the twenties as a Butcher Shop, something it has in common with Pastis and a fact that I found to be more of a side note than an explanation for the eerie similarity. Don’t get me wrong, architecturally, there are definitely striking parallels.

But this was something more. An ambiance, an electricity, an atmosphere of camaraderie and belonging so intoxicating that the moment you pass through the doors to leave it behind ... The lack of it’s like cold water on your face. And the quiet stillness is all the more exaggerated.

Whether you’re having Croque-Monsieur and and a Glass in Manhattan’s Meat Packing District or a Burger and a Whiskey in Mobile’s Washington Square, you’re certain to be comforted by the cuisine, captivated by the company, and a wee bit weepy to leave it all behind.

For the Meatheads: Holeman & Finch Public House, Atlanta * Ted’s Butcherblock, Charleston * Mr. P's Butcher Shop & Deli, Birmingham * Revival Market, Houston * The Cannibal, New York

What's your favorite?

The Patterson House, Nashville

Even at five, I found the romance of Summers on the Farm to be feverishly intoxicating. Mother would pack up the Woody and I would spend the next few weeks tracking wild kittens, chasing the sunset down long dirt roads, and catching fireflies. I fancied myself a country girl, but Uncle Ernst was the first to see what I could not.

“City Britches!” he’d cackle every time I ran up to him. I used to think that his raspy term of endearment referred to the ruffled shorts, smocked dresses, and “Chocolate Soup” labels that filled my suitcase. But perhaps the City Girl he saw, was peeking out from underneath all that - a clairvoyance that I wouldn’t appreciate until much later in life.

It was with a generous dose of sentiment, that I found appreciation for (and realized we shared) this gift. Just off a country road, Nashville’s Music Row to be exact, I stepped into Patterson House on a tip from the Chef at The Hermitage and was delightfully surprised to see The City, peaking out from underneath.

The Hermitage.  Your legendary Men's Room, your Butler-Drawn Bubble Baths . . .  Oh but it was your late check out that stole my heart forever.  He: "Well what time would you like to check out?" Me: "Five o'clock in the evening," I replied in jest.  He: "We'll see you then Miss Smith."  My hero!

The Patterson House, 1711 Division Street: Nashville

I had the complete, undivided, attention of my bartender. “What do you like,” he asked with an inquisitive patience that I had yet to experience outside of King Cole, Daniel, and friends. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something more than familiar about his particular brand of service. And when I answered “the only Spirit I don’t like is Gin,” I was but a wink, a smile, and a “Well I think we can convert you” away from perfectly smitten. Our New York Minute ended as he delicately floated a rose petal over the Gin based Juliet & Romeo.

I would later discover that our moment was actually orchestrated genius compliments of the Lower Manhattan firm Alchemy Consulting. “Preserve the Sexy” instructs The Rules, posted at the Patterson House front door. And boasting a portfolio that includes New York night spots The Randolph at Broome, BAR SE7EN 5IVE, and The Rusty Knot, partners Toby Maloney, Jason Cott, Joaquin Simo, and Troy Sidle are doing just that - sending “the sexy” South, one perfect cocktail at a time. Their most recent Southern dalliance, The Catbird Seat, was a 2012 James Beard Best New Restaurant Semifinalist.

You won’t be able to hail a cab from the front porch of Patterson House.  But you can bet your sweet City Britches that you’ll find a Northern sensibility complimenting the Southern Hospitality served inside.

My Favorites?  The Juliet & Romeo (plymouth, lime, mint, cucumber & rosewater), El Diablo (lunazul reposado, lemon, house made ginger syrup & briottet cassis), and The Duck Hunter (pritchard's sweet lucy, lemon, egg yolk, st. elizabeth's allspice dram, regan's orange bitters)

And did I mention that I heart the bartenders?

The City

Having someone share the details of a personal collection is often the most immediate and, at the same time, intimate way to get to know that person. A good collection will speak to you of the passions that it’s curator holds dear. A great collection articulates the weathered soul and patinaed character of a human being.

Of all collections, I’ve always considered snow globes to be the most romantic. Like a sorcerer’s crystal ball, they posses a certain amount of magic; the sort of magic that can transport you to a single time, place, moment even. Inside, everything is perfect and beautiful, timeless.

I have only one snow globe. It’s delicate flakes fall on the Statue of Liberty, and the Chrysler Building, a patriotically lit Empire State Building, and Citigroup Center. However, holding this trinket (an afterthought at the time that it was purchased), shaking it, and watching the crystals fall where they may, will forever transport me to one perfect weekend, filled with a lifetime’s share of memories.

It wasn’t my first trip, it certainly wouldn’t be my last. But it was the trip when I began to arrange my New York City nostalgia into a proper collection. Not the sort of collection you’ll find on a bureau, or a windowsill. Far less striking than Limoges or Herend. Less functional than a shelf full of Junior League cookbooks. It’s a collection whose curios sit side by side ... in my heart.

For a long time, I thought that The City had become such a part of me that I would carry it wherever I should go. And I do. But recently I realized that it’s often already there, waiting for me, a familiar spirit in an unfamiliar haunt.

From the bartender who slid me a flirty grin across the dark mahogany and raised my “the only thing I don’t like is Gin” with a “well I think we can convert you” to the haunted hairs on the back of my neck that stood up in delight when I turned around in the middle of a silent Alabama street and thought “Pastis,” it turns out that there are New York moments waiting around every other corner.

And I, for one, am always eager to “shake it up” a bit and add another to my collection.  You can read about them here . . . City Britches: A Southern Girl's New York Minutes