I’d heard Fraunces Tavern mentioned so often as a place to visit that I assumed it wasn’t worth visiting. But earlier this year, a friend asked us to go for his birthday dinner. The historic Tavern includes a museum, four distinct bars, and a colonial dining room (the Tallmadge room) complete with long wooden tables and benches. A fan of period pieces (preferably with a strong female lead), I left quite enamored. More recently, I stopped in for an evening tipple, and now I’m quite head over heels. Like a doll house—a collection of little wooden rooms each decorated in a different theme—Fraunces Tavern is really many bars in one, leaving something new to explore with each visit.
Located in the Financial District (54 Pearl Street), Fraunces Tavern was established in 1762 and claims to be New York’s oldest bar and restaurant. According to its website, the Tavern is a NYC Landmark and is preserved by the Sons of the Revolution in the State of New York. I learned all of this later, but eerily enough, after downing a cocktail, I wondered aloud to my boyfriend if perhaps I should renew my Daughters of the American Revolution membership.
The Whiskey Bar is what first drew me in. The small, dark room features an old wooden bar with rows of whiskey bottles behind it, as well as two glass cases filled with additional bottles of the dark liquor. Cozy seating options are nestled along each side of the five-foot-long bar; otherwise, you can sit in leather seats near the fireplace.
A painting of the sea hangs above the fireplace, and the ceiling is lined with staves from whiskey barrels. The staves are stamped with the names of the original investors of the Dingle Whiskey Distillery in Ireland and their family members. The cocktails are on the pricier side (about $18), but they’re boozy, delicious, and served by knowledgeable bartenders. Pricier still are the many aged whiskies that the bar also sells by the glass or bottle.
Just steps away is the Independence Bar—a bit more American, and by that I mean casual. Live performers play almost every evening and even though the tables are reserved for those ordering food, you’re welcome to stand at the bar or around a long high-top in the center of the room. The menu includes beer and cider (on draft or canned), cocktails, wine, and a full food menu. What makes the menu exciting is that, while there’s plenty to please a less adventurous tourist (perhaps a Fiddlehead beer and chicken wings?), there are also options that add to the Tavern’s sense of history. The kitchen produces a steady stream of slow roasted chicken pot pies during dinner service. During happy hour (Monday through Friday from 4 p.m. until 7 p.m.), oysters are $1.50 each in the Independence Bar or Lafayette’s Hideout Bar—an option that would have been a staple in New York back when the Tavern first opened. Mead, an ancient drink made by fermenting honey, is also available in the Hideout Bar.
The extensive beer menus include descriptions that make the online menu lengthy to read, but informative. One evening, I ordered a Belgian-style ale that was described as being infused with Washington and Belgian tart cherries. The seasoned bartender suggested I try a sample of it first—after a sip of what tasted more like brandy than a cherry ale, I ordered a glass of tart, warm mulled wine and sipped it, wondering if I’d have been allowed in here 250 years ago.
Another evening, I was running late to meet a friend at the Independence Bar, but arrived to find he’d made friends at the bar… a number of them. The couple next to him were visiting from Texas. On his other side were regulars who lived a couple of blocks away. The next day they were visiting the town on the Jersey shore where his parents live. The bartender was a young Irishman from Donegal, Ireland, where my friend has family and has visited several times. As I saddled up to the bar, I found him pulling up Facebook on his phone to see if they had any mutual friends in Donegal. Facebook may not have been around in the 18th century, but the desire to find shared roots across the pond was likely even stronger then.
Sitting at the bar, I felt the light tap of something dripping onto my shoulder, but ignored it as I took a sip of my stout. The dark ale and my thick sweater left me unconcerned about the occasional drip from above. “I suppose that’s what happens when you drink in old buildings,” I thought, proud of my taste for historic things.
Seeing me look up once more at the ceiling, the bartender brought me back down to Earth: “It’s the air conditioning.”
