Author: Kiki Aranita

During a recent snowstorm, Philly bar owner Chris Fetfatzes dashed around the bustling bar at Sonny’s Cocktail Joint, delivering platters of burgers and fries alongside 1-ounce pours of house-made liqueurs served in tiny, cut-crystal glasses.

One liqueur in particular glowed ruby red, and a sip showed that it had a careful balance of sweetness and tang, its fruitiness cutting through the richness of Sonny’s cracker-thin pizzas. It served as both a pick-me-up and a digestif on a bitter-cold day.

This sunny spirit was a classic sour cherry Portuguese liqueur called ginjinha (“zhin-ZHEEN-yah”). In its home country, you can drink it at the sidewalk-facing counters of historic, pocket-sized stores scattered throughout Lisbon. In the Philly area, you’ll be hard-pressed to find it at most establishments — except for the bars owned and operated by Fetfatzes’ Happy Monday Hospitality: Sonny’s on South Street, Grace & Proper in Bella Vista, and WineDive in Rittenhouse.

The restaurants also make their own green alpine liqueur, chocolate liqueur, coffee liqueur, falernum, fernet, Swedish punsch, and pumpkin tequila, with more to come. (As with ginjinha and house-made amari and vermouth, these all involve steeping botanicals and produce in alcohol, not distilling fresh spirits.)

But the ginjinha is near and dear to Fetfatzes’ heart. The 44-year-old South Philadelphia native is a first-generation American whose mother was Portuguese and father was Greek, and the delicate glasses of liqueur served in his restaurant group’s establishments are part of a quiet legacy of Portuguese immigration to Northeast Philly.

Happy Monday’s ginjinha contains the DNA of Fetfatzes’ original batch, made in 2023 from the fruit of a morello cherry tree that a Portuguese friend planted as a sapling in the Northeast after migrating to the U.S. Fetfatzes and his team harvested 20 gallons of cherries from the tree, grown specifically for ginjinha, in 2023. The fruit was macerated with sugar in a blend of young, unaged brandy and Portuguese red wine for several days, with the occasional agitation to redistribute the cherries.

“It’s [somewhat] like a sangria, as it is a wine-based product,” said Fetfatzes, though it is much sweeter and stronger than typical, easy-drinking Spanish sangria.

The ginjinha recipe was developed through trial and error by Fetfatzes and his beverage director, Scott Rodrigue, who is also of Portuguese descent. “We got a base, messed around with it and branched out to make it our own,” Fetfatzes said. The sour cherry liqueur conjures up the big family parties he partakes in every year when taking his own family back to his mother’s home country.

After landing on a base recipe, subsequent batches of ginjinha — made every three weeks for Happy Monday’s bars — have used flash-frozen cherries sourced from wherever it’s cherry season, whether it’s California, Portugal, Central Europe, or the Middle East.

Fetfatzes and his staff employ the solera method of fractional blending, which is also used to make Champagne and fortified wines like sherry. The 2023 batch has become a “mother” for all of Fetfatzes’ ensuing batches, “like a starter yeast for sourdough,” he explained.

“Like the Italians, we’re peasants living off the land,” said Fetfatzes, whose own mother followed a similar migration path to that of the original batch’s tree. “My mom’s village town was Vergada in the Mozules. She came over solo as a seamstress in 1974.”

The ginjinha is popular at Sonny’s, where several customers who’ve traveled to Portugal like to order it, but it is perhaps best enjoyed at Grace and Proper, where there’s a rotation of homesick Portuguese regulars. They come in for the tiny pours of ginjinha, or have it shaken up with vodka and fresh lime juice for a cocktail called the “Pink Street” ($12), a Portuguese interpretation of a cosmopolitan, along with a bifana sandwich ($7) — one of the best sandwich deals in town — consisting of pork marinated with white wine, garlic, and paprika, and soaking through crusty Portuguese bread.

The ginjinha’a sweetness balances out the sandwich’s salt-kissed meatiness. The flavors, twisted together, balance one another. “Ginjinha has got this pomegranate-like tart-sweet punch that cuts through the garlicky richness of our bifana. It resets your palate, jiving with the bifana’s piri-piri heat and bite of mustard,” said Fetfatzes.

Sonny’s Cocktail Joint, 1508 South St., sonnyscocktailjoint.com; Grace & Proper, 941 S. Eighth St., graceandproper.com; WineDive, 1534 Sansom St., instagram.com/winedivephilly

Del Frisco’s Double Eagle Steakhouse in Center City, with its large round tables, soaring ceilings, and big screens flashing sports games above the bar, regularly attracts many large groups of men.

And yet, the establishment has recently gone viral, mainly among women, thanks to a bar menu item entitled “Shucked, Fried, Tossed, and Stirred.” A video of 24-year-old Philly native and influencer Hannah Sparkevicius dubbing the $39 combination — which encompasses a cocktail, half a dozen oysters, truffle fries, and a small Caesar salad — “girl dinner” currently has over 100,000 views.

Sparkevicius posts regularly about beauty trends, going out to eat in Philly, and great deals. The Shucked, Fried, Tossed, and Stirred menu item fits the bill, standing out on a menu that otherwise features $20 cocktails and half a dozen oysters for $25. (The sampler debuted on the bar and lounge menus at all 15 Del Frisco’s Double Eagle locations last October.)

“Girl dinner” is a social media trend that took feeds by storm two years ago and it hasn’t waned since. Why? Because girl dinners have always existed. The trend simply put a name to casual, pulled-together meals that might not make sense on a restaurant menu. (You don’t have to be a girl to partake in girl dinner.)

Sparkevicius’ video has inspired legions of social media users tagging one another in her comments section, suggesting future Del Frisco’s outings. It also spurred similar posts on others, like one from the Instagram account Who What When Where Philly — which actually prompted me to gather my own girl group and head to Del Frisco’s.

My three girl friends and I made our way to Del Frisco’s 15th and Chestnut location, an ornate, cavernous 1922 lair that was formerly a First Pennsylvania Bank. We elbowed our way past several groups of bachelor parties, snagged seats at the bar, and ordered our bar specials.

“For me, fries and salad means girl dinner,” said one of my companions. “It’s yin and yang. You have your vegetable, which is healthy and refreshing, and your fries, which are warm, salty, and comforting… If all I eat is a salad, then there’s inadequate satiation. Fries balance out that craving.”

Our server, Bradley, put exceptional care into taking our orders for martinis and didn’t bat an eye when we requested multiple orders of Shucked, Fried, Tossed, and Stirred: “So that will be four girl dinners for the table?”

When he returned, he carefully arranged the oyster towers (cradling East Coast Blue Points) balanced on top of a plate holding fries, romaine Caesars, and ramekins of ketchup and extra Caesar dressing. Bradley walked around the table cracking fresh black pepper over each mini salad.

Sitting by the kitchen, I watched one girl dinner after another emerge through its double swinging doors. Bradley reported that a dozen other guests had also ordered the same special and called it “girl dinner.”

“Since the video went live, we’ve seen a noticeable increase in guests visiting specifically to request the bar special,” said Sawan Thakkar, vice president of operations for Del Frisco’s in Philly. They’ve also seen a “significant rise in new guests ordering it.”

And how does Del Frisco’s feel about their bar special being renamed?

“We love it,” said Thakkar. “We’re happy to embrace the name.”

Kiki Aranita stepped into Craig LaBan’s shoes to review Uchi and followed similar critical practices — for instance, eating multiple meals over a period of time and making reservations under aliases to avoid detection. The Inquirer pays for all travel and meals eaten by its journalists.

When the fast-casual restaurant industry seized on the once-unstoppable poke trend, control over the traditionally composed dish — once marinated and prepared with a singular chef’s vision — transferred to diners, who were now free to decorate their raw fish salads with everything from carrot shavings to chicken.

A similar dynamic is at play in the omakase at Uchi, the upscale Austin-based sushi purveyor that opened a location in Rittenhouse in November. Here, the guest — not the chef, as is tradition in omakase — informs which precious dishes are presented in the restaurant’s trademark “somakase,” in which customers set a budget for their multicourse meal, spelling out their likes and dislikes. (The “s” in somakase is for “server,” since they help guide the order.)

You might say, “I like salmon, let’s have more salmon tonight.” The chef behind the counter, illuminated by the glow of refrigerated cases housing sushi toppings, prepares for you a number of courses selected from Uchi’s menu based on your feedback, peppering in the restaurant’s signature dishes.

The somakase is an adaptation of a traditional Japanese omakase (or “I leave it to you”), which also makes Uchi the perfect venue for those who want sushi but want to stay in their comfort zone. That appeal is furthered by its other “omakase” options: a set menu without the promise of customization, a vegetarian option, and a happy-hour omakase for two, with nine courses for $120.

Even forgoing an omakase, Uchi’s individual dishes defy culinary conventions. Because the restaurant’s approach is divorced from any notion of traditional Japanese cuisine, the choices and customization possibilities for your experience are vast. The food — and the rest of a night out here — are simply Japanese-inspired fusion.

Specials change constantly. Half the menu had completely flipped with each of my three visits, over the course of almost two months. There were some repeated duds. Both times I ordered the “ham and eggs” roll, the rice was gummy. The once-probably-crispy katsu pork was soggy and reminiscent of Chicken McNuggets; its beer-mustard dipping sauce seemed silly and overwrought. Why force these ingredients to be sushi?

The big draw is Uchi’s core menu, including the sake tom kha, a muddling of Japanese and Vietnamese flavors. It’s a lovely balance of creamy coconut, crunchy candied maitakes, and lovely, unguent salmon. The Uchi salad consists of beautifully bundled lettuces sprinkled with puffed rice. The “hama chili” of yellowtail sashimi swims in ponzu with fresh Thai chiles and orange. And a sizzling hunk of Wagyu is presented on a blazingly hot rock with sidecars of shio koji butter and maple-laced ponzu. The rock is gimmicky, but it’s also fun. Uchi’s greatest hits really hit.

Uchi’s ownership group, Hai Hospitality, has been on an opening rampage, fueled by the 2020 investment of Denver-based private equity firm. “Uchi” means “home” in Japanese. It pays tribute to Uchi’s first location, which chef Tyson Cole opened in 2003 in a little red house in South Austin. Cole has earned scores of accolades over the years, including a James Beard Foundation Award for Best Chef: Southwest in 2011.

Uchi Philadelphia’s chef de cuisine Ford Sonnenberg came up in Uchi’s Austin empire, which also includes steak house- and izakaya-inspired spinoffs. The 29-year-old chef has never been to Japan, and moving here for the job is his first time in Philly, save for a couple of events leading up to the opening.

Each Uchi location (soon there will be 11) makes some city-specific dishes. Uchi Philadelphia’s tributes miss the mark. A Wagyu-cream gyudon — a clever way of using the excellent Australian Wagyu that doesn’t get sliced for the main menu’s nigiri — is meant to evoke a cheesesteak. But the koji cream is overwhelming when paired with the fatty Wagyu, and the diner must rely on an oversize clump of turnip kimchi to cut through the richness. A broccoli rabe dish made with sesame milk, shishito relish, and pickled red pepper was overwhelmingly salty and unbalanced, an unsuccessful homage to a roast pork sandwich.

Other playful dishes also fell flat. After biting into the maguro goat — tuna draped over apple slices with a tiny plume of goat cheese and whole pumpkin seeds — my dining companion commented, “I don’t want to eat goat cheese on tuna again.” (This was a rare example of an Uchi classic that flopped.) Curled to one side of an oversize bowl, the bok choy with tomato and cashew felt like the product of a competent focus group. Creamy? Check. Crunch? Check. A hefty price tag ($18)? Also check.

After subpar specials, my sinking spirits soared when presented with sashimi. Pristine slices of kanpachi came in a wooden box, protected from a bite of snow on artfully arranged ti leaves and a generous sprinkling of caviar-esque finger lime and flake salt. Nigiri is similarly restrained: silken slices of tuna brushed with tare and dotted with fresh wasabi, and buttery salmon splayed over a delicate finger of rice, its only adornment a thin shaving of radish.

This may be the key to optimizing your Uchi experience: The menu is vast, but stick to the classics and straightforward fish, and you’ll likely leave happy.

Uchi fares better when it comes to drinks, with some exceptions. The sake list is decent and servers were generally well-trained. The nikko martini, their version of a vesper martini, was spectacular, laced with savory umami bitters and decorated with cornichons and a pickled onion.

But Uchi’s adherence to traditions is haphazard. The tea selection and service were sorely lacking, consisting of tea bags steeped in lukewarm water, poured table-side into large, awkward mugs. If Uchi’s staff bothers to go through the ceremony of serving sake in a glass placed inside a wooden masu box to catch overflow — a Japanese gesture that signifies the generosity of a host — why not apply that same attention to detail to tea? Even switching to a loose-leaf brew would be an upgrade.

Desserts were well-thought-out exercises in layering flavors, temperatures, and crumbly-creamy textures. The cilantro granita on the jasmine cream dessert was both daring and delicious, and every other dessert I tasted — fried milk with vanilla custard and salted fudge, Thai tea okashi with mango and lime leaf — was simply stunning.

It’s possible to look at this restaurant purely through the lens of food, and it frequently sends out dishes that are very pretty and generally well-executed. But the fusing of different culinary traditions can create discordance on the plate, and that discordance is echoed throughout the restaurant.

There are the enormous lanterns — lots of them, as if to signpost: “This is an Asian restaurant” — in a sleek, dark space that gets more illumination from its exit signs. Dining booths are flanked by pale wood-framed glass panes, evoking shoji screens. The design was executed by Hai Hospitality’s in-house design studio in collaboration with the architecture firm Zebra and local interior design studio Rohe Creative, a familiar name to astute Philly diners. (Rohe also decorated Dear Daphni, La Chinesca, Irwin’s, and many other vibey, immersive restaurants.)

At 4,900 square feet, the 148-seat restaurant is massive, but it doesn’t feel cavernous by virtue of how it’s cleverly subdivided into a bar, sushi bar, and dining room, which is packed with tables with thoughtful design flourishes like hidden cubbies to store menus in between ordering. Would that there were such a functional place to put one’s winter coats. The vast majority of diners on my visits were sitting on top of their jackets, making the high-end dining room feel like more like a Christmas party at someone’s house. (Oddly, this was the only time when I felt Uchi lived up to the meaning of its name.)

Service was consistently anticipatory and jovial, though unshakably corporate. Informing staff of my mild crustacean allergy meant that every dish was dropped with a standard short description plus the refrain “and no crustaceans,” even single-ingredient sashimi and dessert — thorough but tedious.

Private equity has parachuted this Texas-born fusion sushi concept into Philadelphia at a curious time, in the midst of a proliferation of homegrown restaurants serving their interpretations of Japanese cuisine. Uchi is in the same neighborhood as Kissho House, and it’s steps away from Jesse Ito and Justin Bacharach’s dancerobot. Outside of Center City, more recent entries like Yanaga Kappo Izakaya, Nakama, and Javelin have put Philly in its heyday of interesting Japanese and Japanese-esque options.

I found that my enjoyment at Uchi was correlated with how much alcohol I consumed. The dinner where I tried several cocktails? Fantastic. One glass of wine and one glass of sake? Mixed feelings. Stone-cold sober? It was just OK.

This is not to say one has to imbibe in order to enjoy Uchi, but an excellent cocktail does smooth the edges. You can have a great time here if in good, raucous company. Order sashimi and all the desserts. And definitely get a couple of drinks.

Uchi

1620 Sansom St., 215-647-7611, uchi.uchirestaurants.com

Dinner daily, 4 to 10 p.m. Sunday through Wednesday, 4 to 11 p.m. Friday and Saturday. Happy hour is 4 to 6 p.m. daily.

Entrees $21-40, omakase menus $120 and up

Menu highlights: sashimi; hama chili; Uchi salad; sake tom kha; fried milk; jasmine cream

Drinks: There’s a robust menu of signature cocktails with sake integrated into the martinis. There’s also a handful of low-ABV and zero-proof mixed drinks, an international wine list, and a small, but decent sake list that leans heavily on offerings from Brooklyn Kura.

At Aldi on Washington Ave. on Thursday, the bread section contained but a few crumbs. The vegetables and bagged lettuces were almost non-existent. At Sprouts on Broad Street on the same day, the fresh produce section has also been decimated. There were also no potatoes. “Did people come in and wipe out your potatoes?” I asked my cashier. “Yes. And you’re the third person to have just asked me that,” he said.

Perhaps even at home, this is the year of the baked potato.

Today and yesterday, I traversed the city on foot, from the Inquirer’s offices on Independence Mall to Point Breeze to peer into people’s baskets in grocery stores and inspect the stores’ shelves. I found that Philadelphians in these neighborhoods are clearly carb-loading, as there was nary a potato or loaf to be found, and that they were hitting the produce sections harder than any others. But unlike preparing for other disasters, it doesn’t seem like we’re in this for the long haul. And every store I checked had robustly stocked canned food aisles.

“When we see storms forecasted like this weekend, we see baking ingredients and items to make soups such as leeks and onions go quickly,” said Vincent Finazzo, 39, the owner of Riverswards Produce, with locations in Kensington and Old City. “Whole chickens and roasts get bought up, and we see big lifts on ice cream as well. And of course bread, milk, and eggs go quickly.”

The small Heirloom Market at the Gray’s Ferry Triangle on Thursday was well-stocked with produce, but there were none of their usually-abundant rotisserie chickens.

As I waited in line to purchase sour cream from South Square Market, the customers to either side of me had baskets filled with bread, sausage, bananas, and lettuce. The man in front of me bought the last bag of sidewalk salt and the line behind me emitted a collective groan. “We’ll have more tomorrow,” said the cashier, consoling everyone.

“On the wholesale side, we’re basically getting hit hard with all the essential stuff, you know, like the staples, the lettuce, tomato, and onions, for the weekend,” said Marcello Giordano, 52, of Giordano’s Garden Groceries, which supplies both Stephen Starr restaurants like Parc and Borromini to individual households. “People are just stocking up for the weekend. I actually got a deal on some rock salt, and we put it on the website. I got 2000 pounds of salt and I’m almost sold out already,” said Giordano.

His household customers, to whom he also delivers, have been stocking up on eggs, milk, and butter in particular. “And we’re going to be delivering Monday,” he assured me. “I’m bringing in eight ATVs from our farm in Hammonton on tractor trailers so that we can make deliveries in the city.”

The fresh tofu section today at Hung Vuong on Washington Ave. was also unusually empty, save for some economy-sized packs of firm tofu. But there’s lots of fresh produce, and people of all ethnicities are buying everything from bok choy to durian. Peering into people’s baskets, I spot lots of beef bones for stew, fresh meat and fish, cabbage, and just a few pantry items. Seems like everyone is making soup.

“Instead of buying too much, I’m making everyone eat what we have in the freezer,” said Rachel Street, 42, whose household is filled with hungry teenagers. “But I’m still getting meat for the men, rice, beans, coffee, milk and eggs – if the power fails we can leave them outside.” Her grocery list also included vegetables for homemade soup, hot chocolate and baking supplies – “We’re planning on making lots of treats.” And of course, breakfast supplies. “Sleeping in means making big continental breakfasts,” said Street.

I caught Roland Bui, 40, whose blended Mexican-Vietnamese family also includes kids who will be off from school, right before a run to H Mart. His grocery list included: rice, sour cream, chicken thighs, ready-made Korean stews, frozen dumplings, hot pot ingredients like noodles, fishballs, cabbage, wood ear mushrooms and hot pot broth base, and garnishes for pho. “I always have broth in the freezer.”

Anna Kereszi, 36 posted on her Facebook wall that she was “so excited” and asked, “What’s on everyone’s snow day menus? I’m thinking beef stew and chicken pot pie, and also chicken cutlets because why not?” Her posts received dozens of responses, some of which indicated that she had inspired others to also run out for ingredients to make beef stew, chicken pot pie, and chicken cutlets.

If your neighborhood restaurant closes due to the weather, consider purchasing a gift card from them to help them recover from a day or two of loss sales – such can be detrimental for small businesses.

Remember that essentials can also be purchased at restaurants. On Thursday, the Bread Room’s display case was teeming with artisanal loaves and unlike grocery stores, no apparent shortages.

Some restaurants are even running snow day specials, like Paffuto, which posted, “Pre-orders are OPEN until this Saturday 11am, for our snow day panzerotti boxes!
$50 for a box of 4 panzerotti (Plain, Pepperoni, Egg & Cheese, and Bacon Egg & Cheese) + 2 muffins (Chocolate Chip & Crumb) 🤤 Pickup between 2pm-5pm on Saturday. Includes reheat instructions so you can enjoy at home on Sunday.”

If you’re ordering delivery from any restaurant or local business, remember to tip your delivery person extra – especially if they dash through the snow and arrive at your house on a re-purposed ATV.

Third culture bakeries have seen a meteoric rise recently and are a significant part of the bakery boom fueled by the “little treat culture” that has swept cities from New York to London to Philly.

In Philly, the children of immigrants have opened bakeries that appeal to many palates, whether Asian, Western, Middle Eastern, or Latin American. We see ingredients like za’atar and shatta being used in unexpected bakeries, united by love stories, Japanese matcha being baked into both Filipino and Indonesian desserts, and many more baked goods that have arisen from immigrants cooking and eating together. But not only are the baked goods and ingredients themselves trending, the stories behind them also are, and in some cases, even their long, shared histories.

The linked story of Mexican conchas and Chinese bo lo bao predates “little treat culture” by hundreds of years.

Crackled, cookie-like crusts sit on top of round, fluffy milk bread, sometimes filled with cream, jam, or custard, or char siu, a vibrant red Cantonese roast pork.

At dim sum and in Chinese bakeries, they’re the other mainstay classic, along with egg tarts. At first glance, the bo lo bao and the concha might not seem to have that much in common, aside from both being buns. Conchas are staples of the Mexican bakery, bo la bao are popular at dim sum houses.

This popular item at East Asian-leaning bakeries, both new wave and old school, shares its origins with traditional Mexican bakeries. While in Spanish it’s the concha, named for its shell that resembles the outside of the seashell (though it also can be manipulated with crosshatching to look more like tic tac toe), in Chinese, it’s “bo lo bao,” which translates to “pineapple bun,” though the bun never contains any pineapple. Rather, its namesake gives the bun a way to describe its crusty, often cross-hatched texture.

It’s a narrative that has been trending on social media, as people of Chinese heritage dig into the origins of their favorite foods.

One theory on how these buns evolved in separate cultures is that after Chinese immigrants built railroads in Mexico in the early 1900s and returned to China, they brought conchas with them. Chinese bakeries are also heavily influenced by the Portuguese, who ruled Macao and also introduced egg tarts to Chinese cuisine.

There’s another bread narrative that has been simultaneously making waves on social media. British baker Richard Hart, co-owner and founder of the lauded Copenhagen bakery Hart Bageri and the Green Rhino bakery in Mexico City, insulted the entirety of Mexican bread culture on a podcast, dismissing it as nonexistent. His words incensed the internet. And you’ll find that by tasting through even the Mexican breads available in Philly, he’s quite incorrect.

At Tequilas, an airy concha, flavored with hoja santa and filled with avocado whipped cream, is a coda to dinners of teeming molcajetes and similarly light tamales. At the adjacent La Jefa, you can pick up jam-filled concha, made by the same kitchen, to pair with your morning cappuccino. They’re the work of pastry chef Jessica Delgado, who comes from a baking family in Mexico City; the first taste of them nearly brought Tequilas founder David Suro to tears. “She said when she was a little kid, she helped her uncle deliver bread in big baskets and her pay was a concha,” he said.

In Mexico City, conchas abound. At traditional bakeries, grab a pair of tongs and heap them onto a plastic tray to bring them to a cashier. Repeat the process at any traditional bakery in Philly’s Chinatown, whether it’s Mayflower or Bread Top House (where you can get both bo lo bao and a “Mexican bun.” Dodo Bakery also makes them, though its diminutive footprint means you order from a counter).

In each case, a layer of fat (butter, shortening, or lard) is mixed with flour and sugar, and placed over a bun prior to baking. The Chinese versions are also brushed with egg yolk for a lacquered finish. The coating splits apart in the oven, sometimes eased along by delicate cuts made on it, to create the buns’ unique crusts.

Some of Philly’s best versions are found at dim sum parlors like Grand Palace on Washington Ave and China Gourmet in Northeast. Go easy on the siu mai and congee during dim sum so you can save some room for bo lo bao.

A curious thing is happening behind bars: The bottles of liquors and liqueurs are disappearing, stored somewhere unseen. Instead, the backbar shelves are stacked with vinyl records. And the sound systems are also very, very good.

In the last few years, as the speakeasy trend has waned, listening bars have popped up all over, including in Philly. The perpetually full 48 Record Bar, above Old City standby Sassafras, boasts an “ultra-high-fidelity audiophile vinyl sound system.” Solar Myth, on South Broad Street, might be one of the coolest places to grab a drink — whether you’re looking for coffee or wine — and discover music you might never have otherwise.

Percy, which opened in May, has a listening lounge where you can sip on their house-made wines and spirits in what looks like the set of That ’70s Show. When a DJ isn’t spinning, the staff plays vintage reggae, punk, and calypso records — including ones that co-owner Seth Kligerman’s dad collected in the ’70s and ’80s, ranging from Jimmy Cliff to The Clash.

“The first thing I did when we got our listening room speakers hooked up … I blasted the New York Dolls, my dad’s favorite band,” said Kligerman. (Percy’s speakers — four original Altec Lansing A7 Voice of the Theatre — are also from the ’70s.)

Stephen Starr’s LMNO has a listening lounge outfitted with a hi-fi sound system and record collection spanning soul, funk, disco, and Latin genres. “The focus is on immersive room sound rather than headphones — so the music feels shared, not isolated,” said Kayla Hagar, LMNO’s general manager. Programming ranges from DJ-led nights, vinyl-focused sessions, and ambient background listening. Once a week, at LMNO’s “Off the Walls” series, guests are encouraged to browse their vinyl wall and select records to be played. It draws Fishtown’s “younger creative crowd, an art and music-oriented demographic — audiophiles, record-collectors, and music lovers,” said Hagar. “Not necessarily a heavy mainstream dance-club crowd, but more niche, design-forward, scene-aware visitors.”

In 2024, after Milkcrate Cafe in West Philly and Fishtown called off vinyl nights, it seemed like the budding listening room boom may have been a scratch. But in the year and a half since, the concept has spread all over the country.

Listening rooms are seemingly everywhere — in New York, Chicago, Portland, and beyond. They integrate music into drinking experiences, often weaving in Japanese influences across menus. In L.A., chef Sean Brock, famous for specializing in Southern foodways, opened Darling, a hi-fi bar inspired by Japanese jazz kissas, or cafes where listening to records is central to the experience. In Austin, the Equipment Room serves record-inspired cocktail omakases, blurring the line between DJ and bartender.

At Press Club, a “record bar” in Washington, D.C., I snacked on chicken karaage and sipped an ume- and nori-infused shochu cocktail made by the same staffer who was spinning tracks. Press Club managing partner Will Patton listens to songs repeatedly to look for lyrical themes, and develops drink flavors according to rhythm and beat. (Think funky rum for a funky song, or melancholy music translating to cocktails with long, bitter finishes.) A rotating cocktail omakase menu, featuring multiple drinks paired with bites, is based on albums, most recently by Oasis and Bad Bunny.

Listening bars are starting to proliferate the way speakeasy-style cocktail bars did in the 2010s — popularizing hidden entrances and an Art Deco aesthetic so successfully that the speakeasy concept has been adapted to Italian restaurants and cookie stores.

At the listening bars, thoughtful, elevated beverages still reign, but bars are giving more and more physical space over to vinyl collections. They’re also hosting events throughout the day, often with visiting DJs.

An Eater article recently heralded Philly’s listening lounges as the “antidote to the loneliness.” They’re community-oriented in the sense that you commune with others. (Just don’t talk too loud.)

The community-mindedness is palpable at Solar Myth, which opened in November 2022 and serves many purposes. Housed in the former Boot & Saddle, it’s still a live music venue, but it’s also a bottle shop and cafe serving pastries, tomato pie from Cacia’s Bakery, and Rival Brothers’ coffee. They have a staggering amaro list, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at the bar, which features a collection of records — organized by vibe, from chill-out to Willie Nelson, with extensive collections of Ethio-jazz and electronic krautrock. They play the music of many small, avant-garde artists. (They also sometimes employ them: A member from the Philly-based band Knifeplay works at Solar Myth. “I feel so proud playing their record,” said barista Rachel Byrd.)

48 Record Bar’s bar shelves feature a collection of about 300 records. At 35 seats, it’s small, with a living room vibe. Up a winding staircase from Sassafras, the space is draped in dove-gray curtains; sound panels are upholstered in the same fabric. The bar’s host doubles as a DJ, who spun Sade and the Temptations on a recent evening. “We call that the record-butler shift,” said 48 Record Bar creative director Joey Sweeney.

Japanese ingredients are sprinkled all over the cocktail menu: yuzu, kombu, genmaicha, matcha, and of course, Japanese whiskies.

But drinks are only part of the experience, said Sweeney. “All the elements need to sing together.” The bar also hosts tiny-desk-style live music shows, author events, and deep listening events that start at 10 a.m. on some Sundays with coffee from Thank You Thank You.

But mostly the bar’s soundtrack is whatever records are playing. Seven years ago, Sweeney went to London and visited Japanese listening bars there. He and Sassafras owner Donal McCoy opened 48 Record Bar in December 2023.

“We want to honor the tradition of these Japanese listening bars without being mawkish about it, and not doing a cosplay.”

That wouldn’t suit Philadelphia. The night I went in, I could still hold a conversation at the bar over a mock milk punch. Try that in Japan and “they will shush you,” Sweeney said. “We can’t shush you. This is Philly.”