The Chapel Bar had been on my "to go to" list for quite some time, and finally the mister and I were able to wander in on a sleepy Monday happy hour. Perhaps Monday is a poor representation of an establishment or perhaps the specific bartender on duty was an aberration, but I am truly sorry to say that the only reason one should duck into Capitol Hill's The Chapel Bar is simply to sneak a peek at the fabulously designed dining room. Yes, it's a converted funeral home, but aside from this curiosity, this place is seriously dead.
At $5 a martini, the prices for happy hour were awesome. But be prepared to imbibe a concoction that tastes nothing like a martini. Our mentally vacant but sweet bartender mixed the worst cocktails I have tasted on the Hill to date. The mister was reduced to beer at place touting their horn all around town,"Martini Bar." He asked her what her favorite drink there was and she said something about pineapple, coconut, cherries, and rum. We both adjusted our expectations from there. A necessary and wise choice, me thinks.
My lavender martini tasted like simple syrup, and sweet thing that she was, my bartender messed up on one so I got another sugary infusion set in front of me (you may be scoffing at the audacity of complaining about a free drink, but the only person who would enjoy this drink is a 15 year old vodka virgin). I drank it politely and then ordered a house vodka martini. Because their well vodka was some sort of unpronounceable grotesqueness, I ordered the next best up from well, Absolute. To this, Blondie said, "I love that you know that Absolute is not top shelf." Who the hell is this lady used to serving?!!!
And speaking of the crowd...
Well, it was Monday night...so there was none. Literally. We were the ONLY two people in the bar, save two other couples on their outdoor patio (a converted alley at best). This, dear friends, in a region where one can walk to any number of drunkeries, is NOT A GOOD SIGN. I could put up with a flakey, vapid barkeep if only the drinks were actually drinkable.
Skip this trendy hipster hot-spot if you actually like the taste of booze.
At $5 a martini, the prices for happy hour were awesome. But be prepared to imbibe a concoction that tastes nothing like a martini. Our mentally vacant but sweet bartender mixed the worst cocktails I have tasted on the Hill to date. The mister was reduced to beer at place touting their horn all around town,"Martini Bar." He asked her what her favorite drink there was and she said something about pineapple, coconut, cherries, and rum. We both adjusted our expectations from there. A necessary and wise choice, me thinks.
My lavender martini tasted like simple syrup, and sweet thing that she was, my bartender messed up on one so I got another sugary infusion set in front of me (you may be scoffing at the audacity of complaining about a free drink, but the only person who would enjoy this drink is a 15 year old vodka virgin). I drank it politely and then ordered a house vodka martini. Because their well vodka was some sort of unpronounceable grotesqueness, I ordered the next best up from well, Absolute. To this, Blondie said, "I love that you know that Absolute is not top shelf." Who the hell is this lady used to serving?!!!
And speaking of the crowd...
Well, it was Monday night...so there was none. Literally. We were the ONLY two people in the bar, save two other couples on their outdoor patio (a converted alley at best). This, dear friends, in a region where one can walk to any number of drunkeries, is NOT A GOOD SIGN. I could put up with a flakey, vapid barkeep if only the drinks were actually drinkable.
Skip this trendy hipster hot-spot if you actually like the taste of booze.
Bottom Line
No snob would be caught dead here.
No snob would be caught dead here.
the secret snob
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