Dive bar report: Cookie's Tavern
Please note: This article is published as an archive copy from Philadelphia City Paper. My City Paper is not affiliated with Philadelphia City Paper. Philadelphia City Paper was an alternative weekly newspaper in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The last edition was published on October 8, 2015.
We like to call it Pint Sighs.
Caroline Russock
Cookie’s Tavern | 2654 S. Alder St., 215-271-9487
Smoking: Yes Jukebox/Entertainment: Touch Tunes, Megatouch and some well-used video poker machines Bathrooms: Recently re-tiled, pristine and well-stocked Head Count/Tab: Two people, $32 before tip: Two Heinekens, two Jamesons
"This is the kind of place where Homer goes to get away from Marge,” my date said walking into Cookie's. Panning the bar, it was clear that everyone here was more than content watching Sunday night football in relative silence, with occasional breaks to rehash a play or regale a stoolmate with a story from the holiday weekend. Of course, the stories were 100 percent about some very gritty-sounding fights involving clumps of hair getting ripped out of someone’s head and not a word about stuffing.
Frank, the gravelly voiced, tough-but-kind bartender, cracked open two beers for us. (“I don’t know, there’s just something about Frank that makes me feel safe,” my date told me.) Then there was DJ, a gray-and-white shih tzu with a soul-melting snaggletooth, splayed out on the linoleum tiles under my stool.
“This is the most dog-friendly bar in the world,” a regular in a Cookie’s sweatshirt sporting a semper fi emblem told us. “Yeah, we’ve got dog biscuits and everything,” said Frank. “We get some great dogs in here. Way better than the customers.” Somehow this sentiment didn’t exactly line up with the fact that he’s one of the most on-top-of-it bartenders I’ve seen in a while, knowing everyone's orders and making sure that no one was ever even close to empty.
The decor at Cookie’s is veterans’ hall all the way, with Marines memorabilia and a well-stocked bar that’s home to everything from an untouched bottle of Chambord to Valor vodka, perhaps the only clear liquor that feels at home next to a wall full of mounted rifles that have no doubt seen action.
Midway through our generous pours of Jameson, another patron launched into a serious round of sneezes. “Eleven times in a row, every time.” he announced to no one in particular. “Three more and then I’m done.” Three sneezes later, he was still sneezing.
