WASHINGTON'S OLDEST SALOON RECENTLY CELEBRATED its 150th birthday. An enduring and endearing D.C. institution, like the Willard Hotel across the street, Old Ebbitt Grill predates the Washington Monument. To employees and patrons alike, it's a bar/restaurant like no other, the one that sets the standard, the
Casablanca of watering holes.
For bartender Chris, much of the Ebbitt's uniqueness comes thanks to its customers. "They're complex people with interesting jobs" who "tend not to be the kind of people who spend a lot of time in bars," he observes, perched on a wooden stool worn smooth, after his daytime shift has ended.
So is Chris. Tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair, his leathery skin attests to the cigarette smoke to which he contributes, mild by bar standards but still enough to mask the aroma of food and drink, as well as his life's path. Chris put himself through graduate school by tending bar in the 1970s, taught English at a couple of California colleges, trekked to D.C. to work for the Peace Corps, and then circled back to pouring drinks. He's been with Old Ebbitt for seven years, unheard-of job longevity in Washington, where the political appointees whose cocktails and cordials he serves have an average tenure of 18 months.
Chris works in Grant's Bar, one of the crowded smaller rooms in an expanse that includes three other lounges, a Main Dining Room, an Atrium eating area, a downstairs "Cabinet Room" for private parties, an almost always packed foyer, and a cramped take-out shop optimistically called Ebbitt Express.
The most memorable altercation was more cat fight than bar brawl. Two women in their late 20s discovered that they were dating the same guy and attacked each other instead of him. Bodily injury was minimal. No noses broken, no blood spilled, just some long brown hair yanked out.
Grant's Bar is named for the late President and Civil War general who was once a frequent customer. Today, his image, impeccable in a Union uniform outside a battlefield campground tent, lingers in the form of a prominently displayed small portrait.
Working there is "like watching C-Span at home," says Chris.
Sometimes, exactly like it. Newt Gingrich came in once and "just started pontificating like he's on TV." Two guys, young and much-impressed, ran over to the Borders that sits catty-cornered with the Ebbitt in a downtown building that also houses dozens of law firms and lobbying shops. They bought the former House Speaker's book and ran back to have him sign it. The gentleman from Georgia was eager to oblige.
Who else drinks in Grant's Bar?
Chris recalls the time, three days before the invasion of Iraq, when he noticed a group of Secret Service agents guarding one of the six dark brown, velvet-upholstered, wooden booths beneath lace-curtained windows.
"Who's in that booth?" he asked a colleague.
"Wayne Newton."
"Wayne Newton gets Secret Service protection?"
"He's with Tommy Franks."
"What is Tommy Franks doing having lunch with Wayne Newton? Planning a USO tour?"
"No, they've been good friends for about 30 years."
Mike, the evening bartender, has seen things get a little rowdier during his tenure, which stretches back to the first President Bush's single-term Administration. "That little bathroom has gotten more business than a whorehouse," he quips, pointing toward a supposedly one-at-a-time, co-ed lavatory next to the service area. "Before the remodelling" in 2002, "there were notches on the door."
But even so, the place is usually as tame as Cheers.
The most memorable altercation was more cat fight than bar brawl. Two women in their late 20s discovered that they were dating the same guy and attacked each other instead of him. Bodily injury was minimal. No noses broken, no blood spilled, just some long brown hair yanked out.
It happened "circa 2002," according to a suspenders-sporting patron who wouldn't identify himself. In Washington, sometimes you want to go where nobody knows your name.
Suspenders seem part of the Ebbitt uniform. Mike's red pair matches his bow tie, a striking contrast against his white dress shirt.
Twice-weekly customer Don's navy pair matches his suit. The Department of Education employee has barely selected his backless barstool when Mike pours his usual Grand Marnier into a snifter.
"Oysters?" comes Mike's greeting.
"What do you have tonight?"
The Ebbitt is famous for its oysters, and offers a selection of at least four varieties every night. They're better than Legal Sea Food's, Don raves.
But it's the service as much as the fare that not only keeps Don a regular but also makes him somebody who should be put on retainer for word-of-mouth advertising. Despite its reputation as the watering hole of choice for the most important people in the most important city in the world, the service at Old Ebbitt is excellent for everybody, the career civil servant gushes.
Perhaps that's the key to Old Ebbitt's survival through 30 presidencies, two World Wars, and countless shocking, shocking scandals. Even in a city where a career can have more lives than a cat, each with the longevity of a gnat, and the currency is attitude-by-association, the long-term fundamentals of great service, top-notch food, and a pleasant atmosphere keep people coming back.
And they keep Old Ebbitt Grill at the pinnacle of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world.
