Apothecary Bar and Lounge, Philadelphia, Pa.

courtesy of www.apothecarylounge.com

TheDude: What's up G? Was wondering if you thought my Apothecary review had any merit on the Apple. I know it's just a bar, but you sometimes have bar reviews (i.e. The Eldridge), and it's in Philadelphia. I pasted it below, let me know what you think.

Me: Thanks, TheDude! In an ode to my Philly brothers and sisters: ShawDaddy, JDubJr and Sulls, here you go. Lion and I hope to head to Philly soon, preferably before ShawDaddy's B-school graduation, and from what I learned below, I will have to hit up Apothecary.

I'm obsessed with a good cocktail. It's all about the right balance of cordial, appropriate temperature and of course the right spirit (both in ardor and booze, or elixir in APO-speak). As an unsubstantiated, self-proclaimed, cocktail aficionado in New York City, I've been to almost every prohibitionary-style cocktail den, lounge and speakeasy. Apothecary in Philadelphia produces by far the best cocktail of all of them, and better yet, it comes with a history lesson.

Christian, Apothecary's self-proclaimed "alcohologist," according to his Web site Fahrenheit 173, took care of us one evening. The man knows everything about every spirit on the shelf and many more that aren't. He is a true superhero of the bartending world. The professionals behind the bar can make you anything you want with as little or as much direction as you'd like to give them, or you could always order off the incredibly creative menu.

As a serious critic, I had the pleasure of service as anally attentive to every detail as I am. The glassware is carefully thought out and matched appropriately to its beverage. They use ice that is made especially dense from a special machine so that it doesn't melt as quickly and disrupt the balance of the cocktail. (Did I mention Christian knows all about ice also, including where the best lake ice in the country is for drinking?) The décor has a contemporary, clean and simple touch, showcasing Emmo-style bar stools pushed under white marble bar tops. There is also a second floor terrace that is open in the summer.

I need to repeat that Apothecary is not just another "speakcheesy," prohibitionary cocktail establishment that seems to be capitalizing on the current Manhattan craze. The staff of Apothecary is made up of true professionals and enthusiasts, who really really know what they're doing. I can't wait to go back the next time I am in Philadelphia.

Can I come?

102 S. 13th Street
Philadelphia, PA 19107
(215) 735-7500

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Staying Strong

"I still can't believe he's dead."

I texted Lion Wednesday night following the Dave Matthews concert in New Jersey. NovaCat invited me and I was thrilled to go and be uplifted by Dave's joyous strumming and dancing. What I took away from the concert: I still love Dave as much as I did in high school, if not more, Carter is a bada** and the IZOD center becomes one giant bong hit during shows. I had a blast, minus the mom in front of me covering her ears every time I yelled "WOOOOO!" in excitement. Why bother going to a concert if you have sensitive eardrums? Her tween daughter and son and husband (who had a killer hippy swing, by the way) were mortified by her ridiculous display of intolerance.

The concert was just the sort of activity I could handle and I was very thankful NovaCat thought of me that night. I was in great spirits until my cab ride home from Penn Station. I put my iPod on and stared into the city lights around me and the tide of tears that had been low for a few days rose again. Sadness. Grief. Anger. At my city. The "sleepless" city and its roaring nightlife killed Connor; it wasn't just a driver.

Luckily, Lion was up to answer me before I sobbed myself to sleep.

"M-. I know. Hang tough now. He'll always be with us," he wrote back.

"I'm trying... I've been OK this week, until now. Sorry, I know you have a bachelor party to get psyched for."

"No, don't worry. I feel the same as you. Can't make sense of it... or believe it really."

It's been two weeks since Connor's death and I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. We all are. I'll think I'm doing OK then "Father and Son" plays on my iPhone or "Bring Him Home" from "Les Miserables" pops up in my dorky "Best of Musicals" playlist. I should edit the song titles to read "DO NOT PLAY RIGHT NOW." Why? How? Who? We were drinking and having a grand ol' time at Brother Jimmy's and Whiskey River just a couple of weeks prior and now none of us can ever look forward to seeing him again, but in memories.

I haven't been motivated to exercise, write or socialize. If you made a pie chart of my priorities, maintaining some sort of athleticism, blogging and spending time with family and friends would make up approximately 85 percent of the circle. I promise to get back on my B (as in blogging) -game very soon. Partying was not in the cards this past weekend so I escaped to Connecticut to spend some down time with mom and dad. Sadly, my intentions to surprise them backfired. Typical. Mom was in high shopping mode for a friend's wedding gift and dad spent both days working in the city. Oh well. At least I got to relax, enjoy a couple of long runs in the sticks, get my doggie fix on for the week, soak up a couple of margaritas with AlyCat and sneak in two solid meals with mom.

I find writing is usually cathartic for me, but I haven't wanted to sit in front of a computer for any amount of time beyond my work shift. Healing for me is talking with friends, spending time alone in my apartment, singing (belting in some cases) along to my favorite music and taking long walks.

Tonight I am meeting three of my closest friends: CalGal, TriGal and Fashionista for dinner at Minetta Tavern. From what I've read so far on Keith McNally's latest endeavor, it seems this evening will be nothing short of inspiring and just the right prescription for Mona's Relaunch 2009.

"This year blows." I wrote my coworker on IM.

"It'll get better," he responded.

One can only hope.

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Missing Connor

To the O'Gormans,

Warrior is one of my best friends and he introduced me to Connor several years ago at Connor’s New Year’s Eve party at his old apartment. It was crush at first sight. I loved his smile, I loved his warmth, I loved his spirit and most of all I loved that laugh, and whenever I was around him, I made it my mission to get him going as often as I could.

Lion forwarded me the e-mail about the memorial plans this weekend and I hope to be there. Only thing is, my cousin is getting married on Saturday in Raleigh, with the rehearsal dinner on Friday. I know myself and I know I will be consumed with the sadness and pain of losing Connor (though I know my heart-sickness is not even 1/1,000,000,000th of what you are going through). I will be happy for my cousin and her fiancé, but all the while I will be thinking of Connor, and the fact that he will never be able to give another wedding toast, or rip his tie off on the dance floor or wait for his wife-to-be to walk down the aisle to meet him in love forever. Instead, unfairly and horrifically, we will all be walking down the aisle towards him this weekend, to honor him and his life that, though lived with joy and fervor, was ripped away from him 60, maybe even 70, years too soon.

I’m not writing to say I’m sorry, rather, I’m writing to say thank you. Thank you for the amazing brother, man, son, friend that will forever be Connor. Connor was the type of guy you met once and the friendship/bond was instantaneous. A couple of months ago a few of us went down to D.C. to welcome Warrior home from his six-month tour in Afghanistan. You can imagine the heaven I was in – me, the only girl among six guys-- seeing our friend home from combat safe and sound. I could have stayed there happily forever. Connor and I bonded over a couple of wild and crazy nights at Smith Point in Georgetown and in the car ride home to New York. We both realized we spent time growing up overseas -- my family's three years in Paris and three years in Tokyo and your family's time in Singapore. With one wrong turn after the next, it was a toss-up between me and Lion to see who’d win the “worst navigator” award. Chatting about long-lost loves, crushes and dates in New York, I had this moment, thinking, why do Connor and I only wait until Warrior’s around to hang out? I was excited to get to know Connor better, to plan our trip out to Colorado for Warrior’s wedding, to play golf with him, to go to baseball games with him and most of all, to just laugh together over beers.

Connor dropped me off right by my subway when we got home from D.C. that Sunday. I kept saying, “Here’s fine… here’s fine… I can walk… HERE’S FINE, CONNOR!?!” He wouldn’t let me out of the car until I was an inch away from the subway entrance. He tried to drive me to my doorstep, but I stubbornly refused (much like he refused to ever let me pay for my own cocktails). My upper-upper west side digs are a big enough inconvenience to me, I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone else.

I wasn’t ready to get out of the car that night. I wasn’t ready to go home to my apartment. I wasn’t ready for our weekend to end. But most of all, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Connor. None of us ever were.

Just like he took care of me on the drive home that day, Connor will be taking care of all of us for the rest of our lives. It brings me little comfort now, since I’d do anything to be meeting him for dinner and drinks tomorrow, but I know in time I will feel lucky for the guardian angel who started to watch over me this week, and his name is Connor.

Sending you my thoughts, prayers and a big hug -- one I hope to give you all in person tomorrow,

-M

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Feed the Birds

Meet the Upper West Side's friendly "Larry" Poppins. For months now I've been hoping to run into the Spanish-speaking pigeon-ado with a camera to click him in action. The iPhone can't hold a megapixel to my previous Nokia or Sony Ericsson phones, but in broad daylight the shots come out quasi-legible.

With a wave of his hand like a conductor the hundreds of pigeons rise and fall to his seeds. He even has cut-out milk cartons with rocks in them filled with water, as a sort of pigeon watering trough. What's next, a bath station? Lord knows they could use it.

I've mentioned it before on this blog. I'm a huge animal lover. I balk at having to kill anything, even spiders, which I detest. What if it's Charlotte? In my early blogging stages I created "Mona's Ark" that I hoped to fill with animal news, stories and pictures. That lasted about a month.

So when I see a man who looks like he can barely afford to feed himself throwing food to the third least desirable creature in this city (whether you're a musophobe or an entomophobe the top two -- cockroaches and rats -- are probably interchangeable), my heart quivers. We could have reached out and touched the projects, a word that may as well be a synonym for poverty and crime, and that day a man walked in front of them with a smile and a gift for friends he thinks are in need. God, I love New York.

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