A Modern Girl’s Guide - P.A.W. Print - Philadelphia Arts Writers

In my late twenties, I’m starting to steer away from hammering back Jamison in every dank little dive in down. Now that I’m engaged, my fiance and I enjoy tamer times, a clean restroom, and a nice place to shake our arses with our married friends; though those roots don’t decay—we were nearly bounced from the second site for a certain male editor’s stage-mounting and booty antics.

Chaucer's Tabard Inn
1946 Lombard St
Philadelphia, PA 19146
215-985-9663

Practice up your Jabberwock for complimentary beverages! Be forewarned your slithy toves must gyre and gimble before the crowds before your claws catch free pints of Allagash. A bawdy nun’s priest, a miller, or a reeve would feel historically accurate peering out peepholes in this dimly lit space where Oriental rugs coat ceilings. Five of Chaucer’s coconut shrimp coat one’s stomach to capacity in their medieval proportions. This Canterbury Tale features Latin and Asian influences in addition to pub fare. The jukebox is even free on Mondays and Tuesdays. Plus on birthdays and anniversaries of marriage and of divorce, the champagne flows freely as well. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! We chortled in our joy.

Chuck U. Farley's Bar & Grille
471 Leverington Ave # 73
Philadelphia, PA 19128
215-482-7500

Normally I would never have set foot inside this joint, especially had I known its true name is Chuck U. Farley's Bar & Grille. This modern girl hardly makes it out to where Manyunk and Roxyborough’s lines blur. We were out with our favorite married couple trying to find a diner outside of city limits where we could enjoy a post-First Friday repast. After scaling the terrifying “two-way” Manyunk mountainous alleys, we happened upon what the green awning identified as Farley’s. Walking in, it seemed happily deserted with a lone bachelorette party of jersey haired folk (who we wooed later into buying us nipple themed shots), some drunk union jacks, and numerous vacant tables. Our waitress met us with a cheerful Irish lilt in her voice. Gigantic gourmet pizza at grocery store prices arrived. Calimari crept tenderly into our palate. Drink prices were reasonable for suburbia. A fascinating cover band, “The Hitz Squad” featuring wig wearing forty-year olds played four songs before turning over the sound equipment to a dj who became our personal request squadron. He was prepared for our every whim from Prince to Dmitri from Paris to Nancy Sinatra’s timeless boot stompin’. Before narrowly averting bouncing for our ridiculous wedding party-esque behavior on the dance floor including a large man shaking his bazoombas, a webmistress simultaneously doing the Charleston and disco moves, and a few high kicks from this modern girl, it’s the best time I’ve ever had in the suburbs. My finicky fiancé even was able to play a few games of pool with a sublimely drunk union fellow.