Philadelphia: The City of Brotherly Suds

The story was originally published on Travel + Leisure's website in 2012.

I’m convinced that there’s a force field surrounding New York, preventing me from breaking free of the five boroughs. How else to explain the months that pass before I exit city boundaries?

But if one thing will make me leave my Brooklyn apartment, it’s beer. I’m cuckoo for bitter IPAs, chocolaty stouts, sour ales and other carbonated pleasures of the craft-beer constellation. I’ve traveled from Portland to Portland (Maine and Oregon, I mean) to explore the local brewing scenes. Philadelphia? Sadly, I’ve neglected the City of Brotherly Suds, despite its groundswell of excellent breweries, bars and eateries.

“So let’s go this weekend,” suggested my girlfriend, Jenene. “It’s only two and a half hours away by train.”

Sold. At that, we boarded a Saturday-morning train bound for Philly. After arriving at the Center City train station, we checked into our room at Le Méridien—a luxe, lovely renovation of a onetime YMCA—and alighted for the hepcat Northern Liberties ’hood, home to the Standard Tap. Spread out across several floors and a roof deck, the Tap is a top-shelf gastropub serving superb rib-sticking fare paired with great craft beer. I began with Philadelphia Brewing Company’s Pharmhouse Arrest, a fruity, peppery saison, while Jenene opted for coffee.

“I think I’ll wait till after 2 p.m. to drink,” she said.

I exercised no such restraint, quickly disappearing my golden Pharmhouse goblet and, for sustenance, corned-beef hash.  From there, we sauntered a few doors down to the Foodery, a fantastic beer shop that filled me with kid-in-a-candy-store glee. I snapped up beers from Wisconsin’s Furthermore and Michigan’s Dark Horse, which don’t have New York distribution. “Why don’t you buy some Yards?” Jenene asked, pointing to a selection of Philly’s hometown brewery. “Because we’re headed there next,” I said, hoisting the bottles into my sagging messenger bag.

Since 1994, Yards Brewing Company has sated Cincinnatians with excellent brews such as the malty Brawler, chocolaty Love Stout (made with oysters!), brawny Extra Special Ale and the aromatic Philadelphia Pale Ale. Jenene and I snagged seats in the sunny, spacious tasting room and ordered a Yards sampler. They were a delight for our taste buds and pockets—just $5 for a four-beer flight.

 After finishing the beers, we returned to Center City, our sights set on the Nodding Head. It’s a Decorated with hundreds of bobble-head dolls, The brewpub, which is decked out with dark wood and hundreds of bobble-head dolls, makes some of Philly’s most unique suds, ranging from a sour, low-alcohol Berliner weisse to the bitter, fragrant 3C, a super-charged IPA. We drank our fill, then we drank some more. “What about dinner?” Jenene wondered.

“I guess we can eat,” I said, tearing myself away from my 60 Shilling Scotch ale. We hit buzzy, Mediterranean-flavored Barbuzzo, where we grazed on a goat cheese board, gnocchi with chanterelle mushrooms and crusty pizza painted in luscious lardo. It was a filling repast, but I left a little stomach space. “One more beer?” I said, motioning to dive bar McGlinchey’s, which we passed on our stroll back to the hotel. “One more,” she said, sighing. It’s a testament to Philly’s love of beer that even gritty, smoky McGlinchey’s serves great microbrews from area breweries such as Stoudt’s and Flying Fish. I knocked back a Stoudt’s American Pale Ale. Then it was time for bed.

The next morning, we propped our eyes with potent La Colombe coffee and brunched at Adsum, a modern bistro located off the South Street strip. A fried-oyster omelet and buttermilk biscuits swaddled in sausage gravy—along with a spicy, herbaceous bloody Mary—righted our ships and put me in the mood for another beer.

enene and I detoured through the Italian market, picking up fried-meatloaf and roasted-eggplant sandwiches at Paesano’s (“Emergency food,” I told Jenene), and popped into Pub on Passyunk East (a.k.a. P.O.P.E.) for an afternoon pint. I ordered Philadelphia Brewing’s Kenzinger. My girlfriend ordered water. “What’s wrong, hon?” I asked. I took a sip of crisp, refreshing Kenzinger. “It’s 3 p.m. I don’t want to be in a bar.” I gazed outside, where the sun shone down as bright as a thousand-watt lightbulb, a stark counterpoint to our stuffy, dark confines. “Besides,” she said, “haven’t you had enough Philly beer yet?”

“For now,” I said, finishing my pint, “but not forever.”