Obscure Bar Reviews - Union Jack's

Justin Call, Proffesional Resturaunt critic\musician\go-cart mogul

My first thoughts as I meandered up to the door at Union Jack's were, “The trail of arrogance is a writhing and vile one which spawns in self-loathing and expires in death.” Well maybe not immediately, but I thought it was rather boastful of them to proclaim “World’s Best Wings” in large print on their front window for all to see. Then again the British can be rather pompous at times, no? But i guess if you're gonna gloat about your wings you might as well go all out and say "World's Best" instead of some meaningless little "Tri-State's Best" right? My mind changed quickly as I entered through the large wooden doors. At first, you’re hit with the feel of a grand Irish pub as the very ample wooden bar running the length of the far interior wall immediately grabs your attention. It beckons to you almost immediately, “Come. Sit. Have a drink with me. You’re always welcome here.” And that is exactly what I did. As I began to give the place the one over, I noticed the little nuances that make a good bar great. For one, the beer selection is stellar. Complete with microbrews from Vermont, California, Pennsylvania, all the way across the pond to jolly old Great Britain, it leaves nothing to be desired for even the biggest connoisseurs. As you take down that first pint of barley and hops, feel free to let your eyes wonder about this candy land of eccentric signs and trinkets. A couple of my favorites to look for, “No tank tops after 8:00pm”, “Good beer served here”, “No whining”. As I mentioned the bar itself was of the long wooden wooden type. Very warm and inviting. Soon after my first sip we moved over to a table. High backed barstools surrounded this throwback from mid-evil Europe. This table had character and class all wrapped up in a sturdy and commanding frame. Full of antiqued scars, from past Eagles losses I can only imagine, it was big enough to command respect, yet personal enough to allow for friendly barroom banter. We settled in and placed food orders while watching the Phils blow yet another crucial game in September. Even if Billy Wagner wasn’t, the barkeep was on his game that evening. From the speed of service to his personalized greetings, “How is everyone tonight fellas? What can I pour ya?” this guy was solid. His attention to detail in remembering what I was drinking and suggesting another immediately after I had finished my last sip was icing on the proverbial cake. Top notch all around good sir. Top notch. Then came the food. Burgers up to par with or better than anything I’ve eaten in the city and almost all of them had a personalized touch of some sort. You might think a bunch of limeys wouldn’t know how to cook a good buffalo wing. Well you would be wrong, dead wrong. Very comparable to CJ & Ecks wings in flavor and texture…but BIGGER!!! By the time I had finished my allotment of ten wings I could barely stand the thought of the giant burger I still had coming to me. No matter. When faced with a seemingly insurmountable challenge, I simply did what any red-blooded, semi-hard-working American man would do, pressed the issue until I was victorious. At one point during a bout of the meat sweats, I glance over my shoulder to find that the wood sign behind me had proclaimed that we were indeed sitting in the Yeohman Room. This apparently was some a British term for a middling social class of people. The rural middling social class. Apparently these people couldn’t be bothered with much at all, kind of like myself and companions that evening. They were just as comfortable shoveling shit as they were reading or enjoying a nice country sport such as hunting or shooting. I like shooting things. So after eating we enjoyed a few more pints and some good-natured ribbing…mostly at Tom’s expense. It was time for us to depart. On my way out I noticed one of the most innovative parts of the bar. Directly above the bar itself there sits a shelf-like structure which housed a long row of old custom tap handles, delectable British and Irish beers I might add, lined up like tombstones of fallen soldiers. An honorary salute to the good men that have helped make our lives better, one sip at a time. Cheers to you Union Jack's…you’re Aces in my book.

Email the Author at Cuddler@sunsoutgunsout.com