The Jackalope Pub

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One warm room.

The longest bar we can fit, worn to bare wood where the elbows go. Darts in the back. A battered upright piano against the wall — an upright, never a baby grand — for anyone brave enough to play it. The game on with the sound up. Small on purpose. If you can't hear the guy at the end of the bar laughing, we built it wrong.

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The beers we trust.
The whiskeys we argue about.

The handful of beers we'd order ourselves. Guinness, poured the right way — which takes as long as it takes. A whiskey list from every country that makes one worth the trip. And the whole shelf, from the bottle you drink on a Tuesday to the one you open when it's someone's turn to tell the big story.

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Three things, done right.

A cheeseburger you'd cross town for. A pizza you'd stay for. A few other things the kitchen is proud of. That's the menu. The best pubs in the world never needed more than that, and neither do we.

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Every great pub has a few people who make it what it is.

The one who runs darts. The one who plays the piano. The one who takes a night behind the bar and tells the stories they've been saving for thirty years. We're looking for them before we open. If that's you, say so.

You're on the list. We'll be in touch before anyone else knows.

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A pub is a story that keeps getting told.

A jackalope is a rabbit with antlers a man in Wyoming swore he saw, and the story's been passed across bars ever since. It only exists in the telling. That's the kind of place this is. The old-timer who asks if he can pour one and ends up telling you about 1974 instead. The family down the street — dad behind the bar, his boy scrubbing the kitchen, learning the trade the way it's always been learned. Stories old and new, told in one room, until nobody's sure which ones are true. Doesn't matter. They're ours.

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Franklin. Close enough to walk.

We'll tell you where when it's time. Leave your email and you'll hear it first.