Whisky Sour at The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Co.
I hadn’t been in Philly an hour before my sister was stuffing me with upscale diner food and ushering me to the underground speakeasy where her fiance is a barkeep. The drinks are made from pre prohibition recipes and newer ones as well, with names like “Cowboy Killer” and “Restraining Order”. The place is dark, the ice is chipped by hand, and the bartenders shake drinks like mariachis possesed by the holy spirit. I had a Singapore Sling made from the original early 20th century concoction of gin, rum, pinapple and some other magic. Heather had a whiskey sour made with an egg white, which although it sounds disgusting, was absolute heaven. So far we’ve had a ball. I’m keeping notes of zingers like:
"Are you kidding me? It’s like my woobie." And, "He’s from fucking Maryland and he has a pillow in his rear windshield." Not sure if you had to be there or not, but I’m still laughing.
This ain’t just Halloween
bitches witches, this is P-town. Our day was spent on the farthest tip of Cape Cod where you wouldn’t bat a false eyelash to hear: “I’ll pour the drinks, you get the wig” any day of the year (and I did overhear a bear of ‘fella tell his posse just that). We walked Provincetown from East to West, ate seafood and watched the most glam ghouls get ready for a night of tricks and treats.