Descend the stairs from Aliceanna Street into the basement shop of Fells Point’s El Suprimo Records and you’ll quickly feel like you’ve entered not so much a record store as an archive, which indeed you have. As many as 7,000 records fill the tiny space, which is 10-by-12 feet at most.

The center is a maze of stacks reaching toward the ceiling, itself decorated by discs like a vinyl version of the tin ceilings that still top many bars in the neighborhood. Bins fill both sides of the shop, divided into genres, with radios and speakers and other sonic paraphernalia jigsawed in between more records. So many records.

In the back, owner Jack Moore spins tunes on a turntable all but hidden by more stacks—John Coltrane, The Talking Heads, P.J. Harvey, Philippe Besombes, Henry Mancini, Chet Baker, Lalo Schifrin, Max Roach. One could go on.

“I’ve always loved music,” says Moore, “ever since I was, like, crawling on my hands and knees, just fascinated by it.”

Moore, 59, a Baltimore native and University of Maryland alum—where he did college radio—is a jack-of-all-trades, so to speak. He’s run the shop for nearly a quarter century—23 years this month—has his own record label, plays in bands, is writing a book, and does DJing gigs across town, notably at the Greyhound Tavern, Idle Hour, and Ottobar.

Recently, he’s been taking his setup across the street to The Wren, the year-old pub run by chef Will Mester, his wife, Millie Powell, and barkeep Adam Estes. That’s because Mester, a vinyl collector who sources records for both himself and the turntable under his bar, asked Moore to come over on Monday nights, when the acclaimed restaurant is otherwise closed, to play music for whomever happened by for a pint.

So Moore makes the yards-long trek once a month to DJ what he calls the Fells Point Troglodyte Ornithological Society Listening Party, where he’ll set up his turntable on the long wooden bar by the front door, or, on winter nights, near the fireplace in the backroom, usually used for darts.

Since this past August, the listening party has drawn neighbors and hospitality-industry folk to pull up a chair and listen to Moore’s playlist, which is mostly folk, acoustic folk, folk pysch (which Moore describes as “electrified European folk music”), and—as the party’s name promises—the occasional bird songs. The bird songs are on LPs, says Moore, and the society’s jokey name is drawn from the pub itself, troglodyte being a reference to the scientific name of wrens, which belong to the troglodytinae family, so named for being “cave dwellers.”

“I do bring records with bird songs, and once or twice during the night, I will mix in a little bird song melody before I play the next song,” says Moore.

“It’s a fun thing to do, to use the bar when it’s closed,” says Estes one night as he expertly pulls a Guinness from the taps at The Wren. “You get a lot of locals in here for it,” he continues, swinging aside a curtain at the corner of the bar—revealing the house turntable and a stack of vinyl underneath.

Back at El Suprimo, Moore points to the 45-disc sleeve he’d made for the Society that he displays to advertise the listening parties. It showcases a Michelangelo-inspired songbird on the front, a list of the tunes he’s prone to spinning—John Fahey, Tawny Owl, Nymphs & Satyrs—on the back.

His shop is a listening party all itself, minus the beer and whiskey. He has, he says, 14,000 more records at home, as well as a self-built record cleaner at the shop. It’s an ultrasonic 40-kilowat water-bath machine that he fashioned with the help of a shish-kabob skewer and a rotisserie motor.

“A big part of the business is restoring,” he says, playing a rare Coltrane LP that he recently fixed.

His nights at The Wren are not about the restoration of records, necessarily, but of the restoration of community, of listening, of attention. And, yes, of a few pints and a few birds.

Jimmy Edgerton had never played pickleball when he decided to open his own court. A few years ago, the engineering consultant had been watching as the game took over his Patterson Park neighborhood—first quietly, then quickly—mirroring its trajectory as the fast-growing sport in America.

“I’d sit on the stoop with [my daughter] and watch people play across the street,” says Edgerton.

Then in late 2022, he and his wife, Heather Keating, purchased a former marble-and-stone warehouse on Spring Street in Fells Point. Soon enough, the couple got an idea: Maybe they could turn the building into a community hub, centered around this increasingly popular pastime. Construction began in 2024, and soon after, Edgerton finally picked up a paddle and became hooked himself.

With the backing of two silent partners, SOS Pickleball opened its doors this past September.

Invented in 1965, pickleball—a combination of tennis, table tennis, and badminton—found a massive resurgence during the COVID-19 pandemic. But what initially felt like a passing trend has proven to have staying power; according to The New York Times, there are now more than 26,000 pickleball courts nationwide.

And now, thanks to Edgerton and Keating, Baltimore City has its first dedicated indoor court.

One of Edgerton’s favorite things about the sport is that anyone can play—something he learned the hard way. His first few games were with neighborhood regulars at Patterson Park. Within about 30 minutes, the lifelong basketball and tennis player had learned most of the rules, rotated through games with strangers, and experienced the sport’s particular brand of humility after repeatedly losing to a 75-year-old named Betsy.

“Pickleball is such an interesting, accessible sport that anyone at any level can play,” says Edgerton.

SOS stands for “serve on spring,” a play on words to evoke the urgency needed to get your pickleball hit. In a nod to the Ravens, its purple walls, handpicked by Keating, span roughly 7,300 square feet, housing two dedicated pickleball courts, table tennis, and billiards rooms, alongside lounge seating and a bar. The club has a full liquor license, a bunch of non-alcoholic options, and food from nearby newcomers Bank St. Deli, which Edgerton helped build.

The temperature-controlled indoor space operates on a self-serve, no-membership-required model, allowing players to reserve courts through an app and play on their own schedule. Because pickleball is most often played in teams of two, the cost breaks down to about $10 per person per hour. Equipment rentals and on-site coaching from a small staff are also available, making the space accessible to first-timers and experienced players alike.

“The thing we’ve really been zeroed in on is creating this space where you can come and learn and be social,” says Keating. “And have a good time as well.”

Pavlina Ilieva remembers when she first became aware of the old Enoch Pratt Free Library Branch No. 19 on South Ann Street, a few blocks north of the Fells Point waterfront. For a decade or so, Ilieva, who runs the Baltimore architecture studio PI.KL with her husband Kuo Pao Lian, would walk their dogs past the circa-1922 building on her way to get coffee at the Daily Grind.

She watched as the historic brick structure, which closed as a library in 2001 and then housed the nonprofit Education Based Latino Outreach center, struggled with maintenance and funding, ultimately being abandoned in 2018. Weeds overran the alleys and back lot; roof leaks degraded the ceilings, leaving cratered holes and paint peeling like laundry.

“It got to a point where the building was dangerous—it was full of black mold,” says Lian, recalling that one time the basement was three feet underwater. “And there was this morning when I just had this moment of like, how long has this been this way; why is it still sitting here?” says Ilieva.

She and Lian contacted the city to ask about the property and learned that they were taking proposals. So they submitted one, won the bid, and, in 2023, bought both the former library and the empty lot behind it.

The pair—who met in architecture school, settled in Fells Point, taught at Morgan State University (Ilieva) and MICA (Lian), and founded PI.KL (their initials) in 2010—have a lot of experience with restoring and developing old Baltimore spaces. They restored the circa-1786 Broadway Market. They converted an old auto body shop into R. House, Remington’s bustling food hall. And they recently completed Cedar House, the new events space connected to Patterson Park’s historic White House.

For the couple, and their three-member team, it’s about more than just fixing old buildings or erecting new ones.

“It’s about creating community through structures,” says Lian, who describes the “adaptive reuse” process as transforming introverted spaces into extroverted ones.

“IT’S ABOUT CREATING COMMUNITY THROUGH STRUCTURES.”

He envisions a warehouse or an old building as an enclosed box; the idea is to open it. “Let people come in and find creative ways to use it.”

“We did not build this building,” says Lian of what is now Library 19. “We’re the architects that were used to help bring it back to life.”

“The vision was always to grow the project with the neighborhood,” says Ilieva, and that now includes not only PI.KL’s new light-filled offices on the second floor, but an adjoining room that has been transformed into an archive called the Reference Collection, an open space lined with shelving that serves as a museum of sorts, housing artifacts from Good Neighbor and art-house books, and also hosts the occasional salon with creative agency partners, Cohere.

The cozy third floor is rented out to the wellness studio Casa de Luz. And the basement—once flooded and now filled with long tables, upholstered chairs, wooden benches, and high-window light—is an events space that recently hosted an Equitea pop-up and a winter market featuring Local Stitch, Cocina Luchadoras, Greedy Reads, and more.

“The neighborhood needs things that are not restaurants and bars and stores, where you don’t have to feel like you have to buy something,” says Ilieva.

Next comes further development, maybe some permanent businesses or an incubator, then a garden behind the library that will connect to another structure behind it and then to Register Street, effectively joining both ends of the block into a thoroughfare composed of public-facing spaces.

“What does a library do?” asks Lian, sitting downstairs at one of the long basement tables next to a woman on a laptop sipping Mexican cocoa. “Could we bring people together, create a new sort of collective that starts to support what Fells Point is? We would love to be a little village here.”

Because libraries have always housed villages, either at tables or on shelves.

A quick look at Oleum’s menu and you might not realize you’re at a vegan restaurant: There are no Impossible burgers or seitan bowls or sandwiches with wacky trademarked names.

Instead, there’s an extensive list of creative, compelling, admirably constructed dishes highlighting spices and international flavors, like charred red-pepper risotto with Aleppo eggplant and smoked paprika; ricotta ravioli sauced with romesco; and pizzas topped with harissa-marinated mushrooms, lacinato kale, tahini and hummus, and roasted artichokes.

A closer read, however, makes clear that everything here—including a variety of cheeses, sausages, and salumi—is made entirely with plants.

Oleum is currently one of the few dedicated vegan restaurants in Baltimore, certainly of this caliber and ambition, especially since troubled celebrity chef Matthew Kenney shuttered Liora two years ago. Open since June in the building that previously housed Bondhouse Kitchen, Oleum had both a circuitous and accelerated journey to its Fells Point corner rowhouse.

Seven years ago, Oleum’s chef-owner, Alisha Adibe, was a personal trainer who wasn’t vegan, didn’t really cook, and, unless you count a long-ago stint at an Applebee’s in her hometown of Leavenworth, Kansas, hadn’t worked in a restaurant kitchen. When her doctor suggested that she go vegan to address some health issues, her first thought was, “That’s crazy.” Her second thought was, “I’m going to show him.”

So she not only became vegan, but started cooking all her own food from scratch. This was not just because she’s admittedly competitive, but because at the time she and her husband, Gabriel, were stationed in San Diego. Soon she was cooking not only for herself and her husband, but for his co-workers and her clients. Over the next few years, the couple moved to Arizona, back to San Diego, and then to Okinawa, Japan, where, again, she found a demand for her cooking, especially when the pandemic hit. Soon she had seven employees in her home kitchen, all of whom were military spouses.

“That all happened really fast, and I enjoyed it,” she says one morning, sitting at the long bar in Oleum’s cozy dining room. “But I did not enjoy the dishes, because we still didn’t have a commercial dishwasher. My staff would leave and I’d just stay there and wash dishes for hours.”

When her husband was transferred to Maryland, where he has family, Adibe decided to find a bigger space—and a dishwasher. “I was like, well, let’s see what I need to do to open a restaurant, to see if people want my food outside of a little island.”

First, in the spring of 2024, she opened a ghost kitchen in Little Italy, then, when demand grew, a full-fledged restaurant in Harborplace. Less than a year later, as demand continued to increase, she moved to Fells Point. (Adibe picked the restaurant’s name after doing a Google-translate search for “olive oil”; oleum is Latin for oil.)

Early on a weekday evening, only six weeks after she opened, the 64-seat place is packed, the clientele is diverse—young and old, vegan and not—the servers are deftly managing the crowd, and Adibe is roaming the floor, chatting with diners. Many tables have pizzas, made with flour sourced from Italy, which arrive on round metal trays, beautifully appointed with a variety of vegan cheeses, including a special blend made in-house, as well as an array of colorful vegetables, spices, fresh herbs, and plant based meats.

The Gabriel, named for Adibe’s husband, has a rich pesto sauce under generous layers of cheeses, vegan Italian sausage, red onions, and Calabrian chiles. A dish of imported Italian bucatini comes threaded around sauteed mushrooms in a marvelously creamy sauce of white wine, thyme, soy cream, Parmesan, and white miso—a nod to Adibe’s time in Japan. One of the seasonal salads, the Salatat Marakech is a towering marvel—both gorgeous and deeply flavorful—built from greens, avocado, fennel, watermelon radish, snap peas, and mint, all doused in a preserved-lemon vinaigrette and sprinkled with pistachios.

Happily—and fittingly for a restaurant that caters to a clientele wishing to avoid ingredients some consider unhealthful—the cocktail menu has as many drinks made alcohol-free as with booze, and they’re as pretty and enticing as the food.

And then there are the desserts: a towering slice of carrot cake, tiramisu made with tofu mascarpone, sticky toffee pudding, chocolate-chip cookies. Made to-order (chocolate chunks, coconut yogurt) and thus arriving warm and gooey from the oven, they’re a perfect end to a generous meal.

“When I went vegan,” says Adibe, “I was like, ‘I have to learn how to make chocolate chip cookies, because I’m going to miss them.’”

She didn’t have to go without and, thankfully, neither do we.

OLEUM: 701 S. Bond St., 410-231-3102. HOURS: Tues.-Thurs. 11 a.m.-3 p.m., 4-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat. 1 a.m.-3 p.m., 4-11 p.m.; Sun. 1 a.m.-3 p.m., 4-9 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $8-30; pizzas, $16-28; mains: $14-32; desserts, $7-23. AMBIANCE: Sophisticated rowhome.

When Ernestine Chambers and Naté Gordon opened Chopped Broadway Bodega & Deli in Fells Point in May, they marked many a milestone as the first Black women-owned bodega and deli in Baltimore—and the first to feature a menu based on chopped sandwiches, the latest TikTok trend.

Chopped sandwiches are just what they sound like—with all the components of a sandwich cut into small pieces and mixed before being loaded into some sort of sub roll.

“Everyone comes in and says they saw us on TikTok,” says Chambers, laughing, “but we just got on TikTok.”

Look for plenty of overstuffed sandwiches (weighing between one and three pounds) like The Godfather, an Italian sub mash-up with peppered ham, Genoa salami, capicola, and provolone, plus onions and peppers tossed with scratch-made Italian dressing; and the vegan Wise Warrior, a colorful combination of vegan cheddar, lettuce, avocado, garlic hummus, tomato, and onions dressed with garlic aioli.

The chopping—done with the help of a rounded mezzaluna blade and a knife—leads to a whole that’s greater than the sum of its parts.

“What happens when we take all the ingredients and chop them together is that your tongue explodes on every bite because you are activating  all your senses in that process,” explains Chambers. “But what keeps people coming back are homemade dressings and sauces.”

In addition to chopped sandwiches, Chambers and Gordon are hoping to serve the community by being the corner store that also sells household products, fresh produce, and dry goods at reasonable prices.

“It’s a convenience store,” says Gordon, whose other job is workforce development, “but it’s also gourmet food in the back of a bodega.”

Thus far, their customers couldn’t be happier.

“A few days ago, I was sitting in my car and a guy banged on my car window,” says Chambers. “He was like, ‘You have to get in there to make food!’ I went in and he ordered the Frank Lucas, a beef pastrami with melted provolone, mayo, and honey mustard. He came out and stood on the curb dancing while he ate the sandwich—he did this entire joyful shuffle in front of the store.”

Anthony Cushing Jr. walks into a bar on Thames Street. In his standard uniform—a black ballcap, an oxford button-down, silver rings on his fingers, a medallioned chain around his neck—he slips through the crowd, greeted by a seemingly endless procession of hugs, handshakes, and “hey, Tonys!,” before dipping into the service pass for a small pour of whiskey.

As the first band of the day belts out a rockabilly rendition of “Hit the Road Jack,” he checks the cash register, chats with his bartenders, then reaches through the draft taps to kiss the ring of an older patron.

For him, this isn’t just any bar. It’s his bar. And his father’s bar before him.

“I run the circus here,” says Cushing, 41, with a wry smile, talking a mile a minute while a motley crew of customers fills the wooden stools and spreads out across the standing-room dance floor of the Cat’s Eye Pub on this cool Sunday afternoon in June. Most are here to hear the music, which graces the small corner stage seven days a week, 365 days a year, holidays included. Others have simply stopped in to see friends and have a drink. Or three.

Near the front windows, beneath the ceiling’s upside-down Christmas tree and miniature schooner, preppy twenty-somethings take shots and watch the Orioles play between Barry Glazer commercials. Closer to the graffitied bathrooms and in the low-lit backroom, a few gray-haired barflies sip their pints or read the news.

All around them is a museum’s worth of memorabilia: fading photographs, oil paintings of Fells Point’s old working waterfront, flags from around the world brought in by visiting sailors, as the Cat’s Eye—located the flick of a cigarette butt from the Baltimore harbor—has long been the city’s salty-dog watering hole.

It’s the kind of place that today’s hipsters could only wish to emulate. “But nothing in here was bought at a store, or could be replaced,” says Cushing, pointing to the murals of Irish history painted by late local artist C.W. Newton, or behind the stage, to the “Wall of Fallen Soldiers,” hung with portraits of his dad, “Big Tony,” and his original co-owner, Kenny Orye, both of whom have long since passed away.

And boy, after a half-century, if these walls could talk, they would certainly tell some stories. Same goes for Cushing, who’s run the bar for two of those decades, alongside a tight-knit staff and the pub’s matriarch, his mother, Ana Marie. Not that he’ll necessarily remember, though.

“After 21 years? I don’t know what happened yesterday,” says the boyish barkeep. “It’s Groundhog Day in here. It all blends together … But I could be fast asleep, going full Weekend at Bernie’s, and run the bar just fine.”

Still, it’s honest work, and he’s proud of it—placing the orders, tending the bar, buying a round for birthdays, sending the last stragglers home with a bottle of water, keeping the 41 keg lines clean—especially as the neighborhood changes and other long-standing businesses call it a day.

“We’re the last of the Mohicans, the last of our kind,” says Cushing. “And we’re busier now than ever.”

When the Cat’s Eye Pub opened in the spring of 1975, Fells Point was reveling in a moment of rebirth. Residents had just stopped the highway from cutting through their cobblestone streets, and at the water’s edge, the docks still bustled with ships and tugboats. The neighborhood was founded as Baltimore’s first port of call, thanks to its deep harbor, around which blossomed a cultural crossroads of maritime activity. From the very beginning, it was a hard-living, heavy-drinking district, full of boarding houses, brothels, and, of course, bars.

By the middle of the 20th century, you could find one on every corner, many helmed by scrappy young owners—Leadbetter’s, Bertha’s Mussels, Turkey Joe’s, Pete’s Hotel, John Steven’s, The Whistling Oyster, The Horse You Came In On (purchased with winnings from the Pimlico Race Course)—and crammed with a colorful cast of working-class characters: sailors, shift workers, drunks, punks, poets, John Waters with his entourage of eccentric artists, and, of course, the Cat’s Eye’s Kenny Orye.

“The majordomo,” says Steve Bunker, owner of the old China Sea Marine Trading shop, who arrived on the Broadway Square in ’76. “Kenny drank too much and misbehaved a lot. But he was an interesting guy. And all kinds of crazy stuff happened around that bar back then.”

“WE’RE THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS, THE LAST OF OUR KIND. AND WE’RE BUSIER NOW THAN EVER.”

Growing up near Clifton Park, Orye dropped out of high school his senior year to work in the city’s booming steel industry until coming into an inheritance. Instead of using it for college, as was his old man’s wish, the 21-year-old opened up a tavern at 1730 Thames Street with Big Tony, a Texas-born, Europe-raised military brat whom he’d met through a mutual friend. “Liquor Board Growls, And Cat’s Eye Pub Winks” declared The Baltimore Sun within their first six months, after complaints from neighbors about loud music and lewd behavior well past last call.

“It would be open sometimes until sunrise,” says Bunker, 79, a former boat captain whose parrot was known to sit on Orye’s shoulder and curse at customers. “I’d be working late and walking home. The windows would be dark, but I’d hear people inside. I’d knock on the door and Easy Eddie—a Vietnam vet, with his big moon face, who ran the back—would open it and say, ‘Bunker! Come in, man.’ The marijuana smoke would knock you over and everybody would be there. The local beat cop, the state’s attorney, illegal Irishmen, Russian sailors who’d jumped ship, drinking free booze and playing cards and telling war stories. That would go on until Kenny fell asleep at the bar, at which point Jeff Knapp, the bartender, who many say looked like Abraham Lincoln, would rob the cash register to buy us breakfast at Jimmy’s. And then it would start all over again.”

From the beginning, it was an Irish bar, as Orye held a particular soft spot for the Emerald Isle, and the IRA. Many nights, string bands played rebel tunes and seaside ballads to a full house, with other genres eventually added: jazz, blues, rock-and-roll. Beer was cheap. Whiskey flowed freely. (The Cat’s Eye was named after a West Virginia distillery where they bought moonshine in the early days.)

“We had a real saloon society back then,” says Bunker. “So many brilliant people, so many talented people, and so many sad stories, too. But a real community, where an awful lot of people showed up for a second start.”

By ’87, though, they worried the party was over, when Orye died suddenly at age 33. At the time, Big Tony had moved to Florida, and Fells Point was in the midst of a newfound real-estate boom. Forgotten rowhomes were being renovated for families, while factories and warehouses got redeveloped into condos for yuppies. Soon enough, the tugs pulled anchor, and the last of the old guard left in Fells were a few oddball shops and those seedy bars, which were increasingly changing hands and sprucing up.

In fact, with Orye out of the picture, local realtor-cum-preservationist Lucretia Fisher wanted to turn the Cat’s Eye into a tearoom.

“Of course, Kenny wouldn’t hear of it,” says Bunker, recalling the barkeep once pulling out a pistol and blowing a neon sign to bits in the front window, just to quit hearing complaints from Fisher and her county cronies. “She really thought we ought to walk around in three-corner hats and be right out of Colonial Williamsburg. … But then all of a sudden, Big Tony shows back up, and everything changed.”

Anthony Cushing Sr. wore his nickname well. Tall, thin, with a tussle of dark curls, he was larger-than-life to those who knew him, whether gregariously greeting Cat’s Eye regulars—often helping them out during hard times, too—or taking matters into his own hands, tossing troublemakers out onto Thames Street.

“He was the king of leaning in real close and telling a story right to your face,” says Sam Sessa, former nightlife reporter for the Sun, who was told tall tales about tequila-drinking bikers and a rumored second-floor whorehouse from way back when. “He was a rascal, with this sort of devilish smile. Like he was always up to something.”

A raconteur and rambling man, Big Tony ended up in Baltimore by happenstance. After graduating from the University of Maryland’s Munich campus, he worked in publishing in New York City, which in some roundabout way eventually landed him in Fells. He met his wife at 28 and opened the Cat’s Eye with Orye a few months later.

“Neither of them had ever run a bar, but both men had a lot of charm,” says Ana Marie, who, then and now, at 75, handles the business’ books. “And after Kenny died, we did whatever was necessary to make it work.”

Back from Florida with a 5-year-old “Little Tony,” the couple pulled every penny to buy that circa-1810, two-and-a-half-story rowhome building from their retiring landlord. They cleaned up the bar and built a real stage. Friends chipped in. Drinks kept flowing. At one point during repairs, the upstairs fireplace collapsed onto the first floor, sending a plume of dust out the front door. After the last brick fell, they went back inside, topped off their glasses, and carried on their conversations. True to form.

“Ron Furman of Max’s Taphouse once told me that the key to building a bar’s character is to wipe but never scrub, and that’s the Cat’s Eye,” says Sessa, who wrote Big Tony’s Sun obituary, when he died of a heart attack at 62 in 2008. “It is a prism into the past, when Fells Point was full of these gritty bars with cold beer and live music every night. It was a bit like the Wild West back then, and so much of the neighborhood has turned over now. But 50 years later, thanks to the Cushing family, the Cat’s Eye is still there.”

Can Ana Marie believe it? After all, she knows many of the old-timers are either dead or no longer drinking, some now bellying up at the Daily Grind coffee shop next door instead.

“Well … yes,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Because we didn’t give up.”

On this late-spring Sunday, musicians shuffle in—past the Cat’s Eye’s turquoise façade and two Old English signs reading “No Drugs In” and “No Booze Out”—hauling their instruments toward the stage for the afternoon’s second set. Some call that small black platform the “litter box,” and over the years, its tight quarters have become a bona fide stop for not just classic cover bands but some of the city and region’s top talent, booked by the bar’s manager, Jenn Airey. Most of the time, there’s not even a cover charge.

“You’re very much right there, in the crowd, with no distance between you, which actually makes it a great place to play,” says Bud Tiffany, 63, a guitarist with The Kindly Strangers and co-owner of Peter’s Inn, up Ann Street, with his wife, Karin. “On our days off, we always stop in to see who’s playing.”

Tonight, there’s a memorial service for a longtime regular, with an accompanying jam session. Wearing a tie-dye dress and an electric purple hairdo, Kristin Corsi wafts around the bar and waits for her turn at the mic. The local singer has been coming to the Cat’s Eye since the mid-’90s, and loves it so much, she got married here, exchanging vows in the middle of a gig with her bandmate-turned-husband, Bill.

“It’s my church,” says Corsi, who lives a few blocks away on Bank Street. “Nobody cares what you do or where you come from. And that spot, over there, in the middle of the dance floor? We call it the nexus of the universe. I’ve met people from all over the world right there. They come back years later, like, ‘You’re still here!’ Well, I’m always here … In fact, I’ve been thinking about getting a bracelet made that says, ‘If found, return to the Cat’s Eye.’”

On weekends, you can often find “Bowtie” Bob Nelson bopping about, too. Many Sundays, and every St. Patrick’s Day, he attends Mass, then makes his way to Thames Street for his usual: a pint of Guinness and a Jameson, neat. He knows there’s been an influx of fancy restaurants and cocktail lounges around the neighborhood lately, but he likes the lack of pretension in this pub, where anyone and everyone can cut a rug, and the “only gourmet decision to make is if you get the plain or barbecue Utz.”

“The Cat’s Eye is something that Atlas will never be able to take over, because it just wouldn’t work,” says Nelson, 80, referring to the high-end hospitality group that’s gobbled up other stalwarts like the Waterfront Hotel and Admiral’s Cup. “You hope it’s going to be here forever.”

As the band launches into their first song, Little Tony bounces between the front and back bars, holding court beside a black-and-white photograph of him in here as a little kid, his head barely reaching the rail. In his grade-school yearbook, his dream was to “run a successful bar” one day. And by now, he’s had plenty of practice, dropping out of college to learn the ropes from Big Tony, then stepping all the way in after his father’s death.

HE LIKES THE LACK OF PRETENSION IN THIS PUB, WHERE ANYONE AND EVERYONE CAN CUT A RUG, AND THE “ONLY GOURMET DECISION TO MAKE IS IF YOU GET THE PLAIN OR BARBECUE UTZ.”

In one breath, Cushing says he’s got just under a decade left in him—and a recurring nightmare where he can’t catch up on drink orders. And yet, in the next, he’s reminiscing about his first shift, when he ran the bar all by his lonesome, then went home with a grand in tips and an adrenaline rush to last a lifetime, making it hard to imagine him anywhere else.

But sell it to some stranger with deep pockets? He’s clear on that one: “I’d rather burn the place to the fucking ground.”

Besides, he wants to finish his dad’s to-do list—the last item left being an enclosed balcony above the stage, where a 1920s pool table is already waiting. Not that there’s much time to make it happen. The bar doesn’t take a day off and slings some thousand drinks a week year-round. No matter that closing time comes early—the clock above the refrigerator is set 15 minutes ahead.

“I pay my doorman to kick me out, too,” quips Cushing. “I always thank him in the morning.”

Later, on the back patio, for a little quiet while the band grooves on, his mother straightens her blouse, sips a glass of white wine, and remembers that it’s Father’s Day.

Ana Marie still feels Big Tony all around. In fact, many believe that his ghost—along with Orye’s and that Lincoln-esque Knapp’s—still haunts the pub. Making it easy to wonder what he might think of the place these days.

She pauses, grins, then shrugs. “He’d be glad.”

Then Little Tony leans in, his eyes lighting up, just like his dad. “He’d say that we’ve done good.”

Kevin Marshall did not have a hobby before he stumbled upon the night herons nesting a block and a half from his rowhouse. Not really.

“Well, living in Fells Point, it’s easy to get into the ‘hobby’ of watching whatever sports are on TV while you’re drinking,” the 36-year old mortgage under-writer deadpans. “Growing up, I played soccer, so I watched that. I got into baseball once I moved here and started watching baseball. I was hitting the end of that cycle, kind of aging out, when I started getting into the birds, so it was a nice, smooth transition,” he adds, with a self-deprecating smile.

The colony of night herons at Thames Street Park, which Marshall first took interest in two years ago, are not the regular sort of birds you typically find in a dense urban environment. They’re squat and thick, more like the size and shape of an NFL football, but cloudy white, with a distinctive black crown and blue-black back feathers.

Which is not to say there isn’t a diversity of birds in the city. According to the Audubon Society, there are more than 40 resident species just in Patterson Park. A bald eagle was spotted there last year. Two peregrine falcons, “Boh” and “Barb,” famously nest atop the 100 Light Street skyscraper. Among other unique waterfowl, the odd great blue heron gets photographed from time to time at Stony Run and Herring Run Park.

Night herons settling in and starting families in a pocket park are different, however. They’re noisy and loud, for one thing, but certainly not songbirds. At first screech, the squawk of Thames Street night herons could be mistaken for that of a dog which has gotten its paw stepped on. The park is a popular destination for leashed local canines—as well as moms and dads and strollers and soccer balls. But it’s somehow worse than that.

“People will say they sound like monkeys or banshees,” Marshall says, looking up at the canopy of Japanese elms after one such outburst, not even requiring his binoculars to spot the culprit. Some 80 birds this spring—38 monogamous male and female pairs and two bachelors—have either rehabbed or built new nests.

“I’d describe it as ‘prehistoric,’” he says of their cacophony. Most of the chatter, Marshall notes, is between couples as they take turns gathering food, repairing the nest, incubating the eggs, etc.

Meanwhile, despite the dissonance—or maybe in a small way because of it—a flock of night heron admirers has sprouted around Thames Street. Marshall’s Instagram page (@thamesstreetnightherons), which he started last year, now has 700 followers.

Also, each spring, random Fells Point residents on their morning perambulations have rescued injured heron hatchlings who’ve fallen from their nest to the packed gravel path below—with the good Samaritans driving the fallen baby birds to Phoenix Wildlife Center for rehabilitation.

To that end, Marshall has been working with another night heron lover on a grant proposal to replace some of the park’s packed gravel that runs beneath many Thames Street trees with native plants—thereby softening the landing for plummeting hatchings.

This spring, he also co-hosted the first two Saturday morning tours of the Thames Street rookery with the Baltimore Bird Club and Phoenix Wildlife Center. Marshall, in fact, has become a citizen scientist himself. He has a notebook full of maps, data, sketches, and observations regarding the arrival of each pair of birds, the location of their nests, and the number of chicks.

Unfortunately, first-year mortality rate is high, 60-70 percent. However, if they survive past three years, adults can live for more than 20 years. Once the young ones learn to fly, the night herons generally decamp elsewhere around the southeast side of the harbor, typically in places with good trees and access to the water, like Canton’s Boston Street Pier Park.

On one recent, pleasant evening, Marshall showed another Thames Street night heron volunteer what he tracked and how, before he headed out of town for a week. (Full circle moment: Het met the volunteer after his birding talk at a Fells Point bar earlier this year.)

“I’m going on a trip this weekend to Wisconsin for a migration; I have a college friend who lives out there,” Marshall explains. “I’ve got a Canon R7 camera with a telephoto lens and all that, which I’m taking with me to hopefully get some sweet shots. Photography was something I was interested in, but never got into until the birds, but yeah, I fell in love with it, too, so…two hobbies now, I guess.”

Most nights of the week, through the leaf-green door at 1712 Aliceanna Street, Will Mester will be in the back corner, a white apron tied around his waist, drifting between the two induction cooktops of his ad-hoc kitchen, the smell of melting butter in the air, as he quietly cooks up a storm under the lamplight of The Wren.

It’s not exactly where you might expect to find him. Over the last 15 years, Mester has emerged as a star of the Baltimore food scene, his career evolving from culinary-school drop-out to cook at revered restaurants like Woodberry Kitchen to owner of the nationally lauded Le Comptoir du Vin in Station North—along the way mastering his own singular style: a simple yet sophisticated ode to European country cooking.

And yet despite his success, he’s grown increasingly estranged from the fast-paced, fad-crazed fuss of the hospitality industry, and it’s clear that here, in this dimly lit bar—chatting with patrons over pints of Guinness, grabbing fresh eggs from the wicker basket for the day’s omelet, handing plates over the pass to his wife, Millie Powell, a seasoned maître d’ who runs the front-of-house—he is, by all measures, in his element.

“It was the right place at the right time,” says Mester on a Monday off at the end of March, after a weekend of whipping up homemade terrine, smoked haddock, and a nettle soup for early spring.

And that right time was the weekend after Thanksgiving in 2023, when veteran bartender Adam Estes introduced him to this rowhome building, back when it was still the hole-in-the-wall Scotch bar, Birds of a Feather, known for strong pours and an eclectic crowd over its 40-odd years. The owner was ready to sell and, by the following spring, Mester bought the place with Powell and Comptoir co-owner Rosemary Liss, who assists with business operations at The Wren.

For them, it was a no-brainer—this circa-1890 stalwart being one of the last of old Fells Point, as longtime spaces have been gutted for modern tastes, like The Wharf Rat, or outright closed, like Bertha’s Mussels.

Here, details from the past remain, like the tin ceiling, oak bar, terracotta tiles, and back-lounge fireplace, alongside fresh coats of paint, a new draft beer system, and a shiny backsplash behind Mester’s prep station.

The Wren is warm, intimate, and in many ways, out of time—no QR codes, no Spotify soundtracks, no reservations or even table service—which is what makes it so transportive. The night slows. The record player crackles. With a Rob Roy in hand on one of the 20 wooden barstools, just two blocks from the Baltimore harbor, you could very well be in a pub off the English Channel or, more specifically, the Irish Sea.

TWO BLOCKS FROM THE BALTIMORE HARBOR, YOU COULD VERY WELL BE IN A PUB OFF THE IRISH SEA.

Powell is a Dublin native, who met Mester there through Liss one summer, on an open-water swim no less. Undoubtedly their partnership, and years of travel for Mester, informed the strong desire to open a pub—the kind of place in Ireland that serves not just as a drinking den but also a vital third space outside of work and home for the local community.

“They are one of the only public spaces left where anything deep or interesting happens,” says Mester. “You need a place that’s democratic, that everyone can go to, that everyone can afford to go to, with some degree of frequency, where people aren’t going to hold your hand and walk you through what the concept is. You go just for a very basic need, to connect with people.”

And it might sound sacrilege, but food isn’t even necessary, he adds. That said, if you visit, we highly recommend having something to eat.

Despite the humble approach, Mester is a meticulous chef, imbuing intention into every detail and ingredient. On the eve of April, a thick slice of black pudding (aka blood sausage, imported from Ireland) came out extra crispy with a sage-fried egg and smokey-sweet “brown sauce,” made of winter fruit and warming spices—imagine the best scrapple you’ve ever had.

Tender pork cheeks also swam in a nourishing broth with bright turnips, sweet sauteed chard, and salty slivers of bacon. And a savory pot of lentils was saddled with sausage from Ostrowski’s, just up Ann Street. Even the basics are blissful, like a gorgeous green salad, swirled in Dijon vinaigrette with a dash of nutmeg, and the Ovenbird Bakery bread, which arrives with an almost indecent slather of Kerrygold butter and a proper pinch of flake salt.

Tuesday through Saturday, the chalkboard menu features a dozen daily dishes, all rooted in the rustic and resourceful pantry of pastoral Europe, inspired by seasons and history.

“It’s what we like to eat,” says Powell, which she calls “good, honest, comforting, classic” food, and that includes her homemade desserts, like apple cakes with vanilla custard and baked-to-order madeleines, each tinged with a touch of nostalgia. “So much of cooking back home, it’s almost like folk tradition—in that things are passed down.”

Much like this pub, which keeps the candle burning for its ever-changing neighborhood. Old regulars return, while newcomers amble in, perhaps to hear an Orioles game on the radio, or catch a set of traditional Irish music, or try a hand at the weekly dart league, or shoot the breeze with Estes, who now runs the bar, its inventory stocked with leftover Scotch from Birds of a Feather.

If you look closely, a tiny taxidermied creature keeps watch behind him. The Wren was named in part after a Celtic tradition,  based on the ancient myth that this unsung but savvy songbird once outsmarted the eagle to be crowned the king of all fowl.

On Aliceanna, this old-soul watering hole proves that small can mean mighty, too.

THE WREN: 1712 Aliceanna St. HOURS: Tues.-Sat. 3 p.m.-10:30 p.m.; dinner starting at 5:30 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers, $5-18; entrees, $20 38; desserts, $14-20. AMBIANCE: Classic pub.

You could feel the buzz from down the street. On a picture-perfect Tuesday in March—the kind of early spring evening when everyone wants to be sipping summery drinks outside—the patio at Baja Tap was crowded. The taco and tequila bar opened in November, and seemingly everyone had been waiting for weather like this to pack the outdoor space.

“Fells Point was definitely our dream neighborhood to open something in Baltimore,” says co-owner Scott Parker, a veteran of the restaurant industry who has owned establishments in Washington and Northern Virginia. “We loved the corner location and the patio with the view of the water.”

Baja Tap occupies the space that previously housed Bond Street Social. The interior, highlighted by a long bar and communal, beer hall-style tables, is utilitarian with a bit of a Southwestern flair. Parker said the concept was inspired by trips to Mexico and Southern California, and that does shine through.

Margaritas are the star here, unsurprisingly, and they’re done well. The classic version (available for $7 during weekday happy hour) is the top-seller, but for those who like a little more spice, the Caliente, made with jalapeño-infused Jose Cuervo Silver tequila, habanero agave, and house margarita mix, delivers a jolt.

The Cucumber Skinny, which uses Milagro Silver tequila, doesn’t skimp on the cucumber flavor. Our favorite was the Smoke Paloma, a mezcal drink with lime juice, grapefruit soda, and simple syrup. Red and white sangria are also available, along with a selection of Mexican and American beers on tap.

The food that emerges from chef Greg Lloyd’s kitchen is inspired by the cuisine of Baja California. Among the best things we tried was the guacamole, which comes in three varieties, including one with grilled pineapple and puffed corn, and another with crabmeat and Old Bay.

Nachos, quesadillas, and other standards are here, but tacos are the main attraction. Two of the best are the birria and the Buffalo chicken, which had plenty of hot chicken chunks jammed into the flour tortilla. If the large number of options paralyzes you with indecision, go with the Torre de Tacos, a selection of 24 street-style tacos for $95. Bring some friends. Most people do just that.

A party vibe envelops Baja Tap, which offers bottle service and features DJs and live music. While we have only visited during happy hour and dinner, the place turns raucous late-night on weekends. We know this because televisions behind the bar play scenes of twenty- and thirtysomethings dancing and drinking the night away. (Oh, to be young.)

That March night on the patio, the crowd was more mixed. Parents with their kids, people out for a post-work drink, and couples with dogs (which are welcome on the patio) all happily munched on chips and queso, grilled sweet corn, and, of course, tacos while they savored salty sips of margaritas.

It felt like summer, and Baja Tap felt like the place to be.

The environs of Broadway and Eastern in Fells Point are the epicenter of tacos in Baltimore, with three classic taquerías, one taco truck, and a taquería that’s also a high-production tortilleria all within a few hundred yards of each other.

Head a little further down Broadway, though, and you’ll find a new, more formal Mexican restaurant, where you can not only get stellar tacos, but a more expansive menu, a full cocktail bar with a happy hour—and a weekend brunch that features tres leches brioche French toast, steak and eggs with poblano chimichurri, and mezcal espresso martinis.

La Calle, which means “the street” in Spanish, is not so much a new restaurant as a relocated one; it first opened downtown in 2018, closed four years later—another casualty of the pandemic—and moved to Fells last summer.

Originally opened by the four Sandoval brothers—Luis, Agustin, Odilon, and Valentino—La Calle is now owned and operated by just Luis and Agustin, as Odilon moved to Philadelphia to open a Mexican pizzeria and Valentino opened one of those taquerías on Eastern, Bmore Taquería.

The Sandovals are from Puebla, a city southeast of Mexico City with a vibrant culinary tradition. Puebla is the home of tacos árabes (tacos al pastor on flour tortillas); chiles en nogada, considered Mexico’s national dish; and mole poblano, a rich, brick-colored sauce made of ancho chiles and chocolate, among many ingredients.

Mole is at the heart of La Calle’s menu: It smothers the enchiladas and the chilaquiles, forms the base of the pollo con mole, where roast chicken is perched atop panela cheese and a vast circle of mole, and is brushed across both the duck confit and the short-rib tacos.

“It’s been with us for two generations,” says Luis Sandoval of the mole recipe. “There’s over 30 ingredients in that sauce,” he says. “If you talk to someone from Oaxaca, they’re gonna say that they have the best mole. For us, mole poblano is the best.”

La Calle’s white-walled, minimalist dining room is a sanctuary compared to the bars lining the nearby waterfront, with service more suggestive of a white-tablecloth-dining establishment than a taquería.

And that pollo con mole looks as good as it tastes, with micro-cilantro adorning the artfully constructed chicken and the accompanying red rice bestowed in a pretty white bowl. The ceviches are also first-rate and gorgeous, particularly an aquachile of raw fluke, a perfect brunoise of mango, batards of crunchy jicama, and slivers of red onion in a golden pool of passion fruit sauce that is somehow both tart and soothing.

Chef Miguel A. Hernandez took over the stoves at the original La Calle when Valentino left and added many of the dishes, including that aquachile, a whole branzino with pipian sauce, and cochinita pibil, a classic dish of slow-roasted, citrus-marinated pork. Hernandez is family, too; he’s a cousin of the Sandoval brothers and is also from Puebla.

The mole, says Hernadez, has always been on the menu—as is fitting of such a glorious, generational recipe.

LA CALLE: 623 S. Broadway, Fells Point. 443-835- 2215. HOURS: Mon.-Thurs. 4-10 p.m.; Fri. 4-10:30 p.m.; Sat. 11 a.m.-3 p.m., 4-10:30 p.m.; Sun. 11-3 p.m., 4-9 p.m. PRICES: Starters: $6-20; ceviches, tacos, and entrees: $15-35 (plato placero: $110); desserts: $10

Two hours before dawn in the second-floor kitchen of their Fells Point pâtisserie, Sacré Sucré, Manuel Sanchez and Dane Thibodeaux are piping pâte à choux and making caramel. Thibodeaux has already cut and decorated the opera cakes: strata of cake, ganache, buttercream, and chocolate layered like a study in geology. The room is quiet and kept purposefully cool, the windows still dark.

On this Wednesday in March, it’s surprisingly peaceful for a pastry kitchen, but then much about Sacré Sucré is surprising. That a pastry shop of this caliber exists in a Baltimore harbor rowhouse. That it’s owned and operated almost entirely by two local men. And that those men are self-taught, having learned their craft not at a Parisian école, but through cookbooks and YouTube.

Sanchez and Thibodeaux opened their shop in January, after moving the pâtisserie from Fleet Street to Fell Street, half a mile south. Before that Sanchez, 36, worked as a computer engineer and Thibodeaux, 42, as a hotel manager. They first fell in love with each other in Baltimore and then, on a trip to France, with macarons, the dainty French meringue sandwich cookies. That love turned into a hobby and then a fixation—as the two, unable to find Paris-quality macarons at home, learned how to make the delicacies themselves.

Sacré Sucré’s second floor is impressive: A wooden staircase ascends to a light-filled, updated kitchen outfitted with a state-of-the-art cooler and proofer; a three-tier deck oven; a mixer the size of a washing machine; counters with KitchenAid mixers; chemistry class cabinets stocked with colorings, gelling agents, aromas, and spices; and speed racks loaded with bags of chocolate, couvertures (a kind of tempered chocolate), tart shells, and components of the various pastries.

“You get better with the years,” says Sanchez as he dips frozen orbs of cherry-blossom mousse into a mauve mirror glaze. “I look back at 2018 and think, this looks so bad.”

For him, as with so many of us, Instagram functions as both archive and inspiration.

“Manny is the master piper; I don’t pipe,” says Thibodeaux, who’s splattering silver powder across the tops of the pale-blue petits gâteaux called Planèt Bleu like an Abstract Expressionist let loose in a kitchen. After fanning the cakes dry, he lowers concentric rings of white chocolate, then lays tiny bits of edible silver on the pinnacles of the confections.

“People think it’s aluminum foil,” says Sanchez. “It does look like it,” says Thibodeaux, who finishes decorating a tray of chocolate éclairs, then goes downstairs to make himself and Sanchez espresso drinks, a break he takes once every morning during production. (Another aspect of being a pâtissier means monitoring not only sleep-deprivation, but caffeine and sugar consumption.)

By this point, light has crept through the windows and many of the morning’s pastries are finished, then loaded onto sheet trays and into the carefully calibrated refrigerator. The Viennoiseries, made with laminated dough, are now proofed and baked in the deck oven. They include croissants, pain au chocolat, almond croissants, the Swedish-style cinnamon rolls called kanelbullar, Breton-style Kouignamann, and, perhaps best of all, monkey bread—those crazy buns made of dough twirled into spires, dusted with cardamom sugar, and drizzled with caramel. They look less like pastries than miniature churches designed by Antoni Gaudí.

As Sanchez pipes vanilla mascarpone cream onto lime-green matcha cakes for the matcha tiramisu, one of the new spring items, he describes a recent trend in pastry that calls for manual assembly rather than the flexible silicone molds that have long been standard practice.

“Cédric Grolet uses a lot of free-hand and piping,” he says, referencing the French pastry chef who, along with Cronut-inventor Dominique Ansel, is at the top of the pastry game. (Grolet’s Instagram has over 10 million followers.) “The hand-forming provides a more human touch and differentiates between pastry chefs, as everyone uses the same molds. We’re transitioning.”

They’ve also moved toward using natural colors and flavors, and less sugar, not only in the pastries—which are fruit-forward and appreciably less sweet than other versions—but in the macarons that have been a staple at Sacré Sucré since the beginning.

That beginning was in 2011, when Sanchez and Thibodeaux first met in Hampden. Sanchez, who is from Puerto Rico and has a master’s degree in computer security from Johns Hopkins, had landed a job in Baltimore.

“Government cyber stuff,” he says. Thibodeaux,a native of Louisiana, had gone to Johnson & Wales in Rhode Island for culinary school—which is distinct, it should be said, from pastry—and was working at Mt. Washington Conference Center. “When we started living  together, Dane used to cook all the time,” says Sanchez of Thibodeaux, who started cooking with his family as a child.

The pair, who  married in 2015, began cooking together, making pasta and jams, and everything they ate at home was made from scratch. Shortly after they married, Sanchez took a job in Northern California. On weekends, the couple started making pastries and collecting cookbooks.

“And then we traveled to France,” says Sanchez, “and we had our first real macaron.” “In the Lyon marketplace, walking around, not even thinking about the pastries,” adds Thibodeaux. “We didn’t go there for the pastries; we went there for the wine.”

That macaron, a fig macaron, “blew us away,” says Thibodeaux, and became the catalyst for a macaron obsession—not just consuming them but learning how to make them. “We couldn’t figure out how they put figs into a macaron,” says Thibodeaux. “And that started [the questions]: What is a macaron? How do you make a macaron?”

Back in California, they started baking. “I failed like 10 times with that [first] recipe. And then it just became a challenge,” says Sanchez. “And then I started bringing them to my coworkers. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were macaron fanatics. Science and computer people, they get into certain things.” Sanchez’s co-workers not only loved the macarons, but started buying them, too.

Soon the pair began selling the macarons at area farmers markets, eventually expanding their repertoire to include hand-cut marshmallows and a simple pound cake. “[People were] like, Who are you? Are you French? But then they’d try them,” says Sanchez.

After two years in California, the couple started thinking about opening a business—and moving back to Baltimore. “We knew that Baltimore didn’t offer [a dedicated macaron shop] at that time,” Sanchez says, “and I wasn’t done with Baltimore.” So they came back, found a corner rowhouse on Fleet Street in Fells—and, in 2018, opened Sacré Sucré.

At the start, the shop had a small menu: the macarons, which drove the business, éclairs, and tea, another of Thibodeaux’s interests. After lobbying from customers, they added an espresso menu and started making croissants, eventually buying a dough-laminating machine—an expensive undertaking, especially because, along with its owners being self-taught, Sacré Sucré is entirely self-funded. (Thibodeaux also sews Sacré Sucré’s Hedley & Bennett-style aprons himself.)

So there they were, open four days a week, making boutique pastries largely by hand and by themselves, selling eight croissants a day in a Baltimore rowhouse, and wondering how long they could survive.

“For the first two years, nobody came to our store,” says Sanchez, though neighbors would come in, buy a few things (special-occasion macarons, one of those eight croissants) and offer support. “And during those two years, I was in the kitchen, making stuff constantly. Dane was like, ‘Why are you making more product? We have no customers.’ And I was like, ‘Well, they’re gonna come. You just have to wait.’”

And then the pandemic hit, which, as it turned out, saved the business. “Once the masks came on and the doors opened,” says Thibodeaux, “we didn’t stop.” “I think there was a bakery wave in Baltimore, and in the U.S.,” says Sanchez, recalling the immediate aftermath of the COVID shutdown, when folks stayed home baking sourdough bread, watching The Great British Baking Show, and ordering from Grubhub.

“On the weekends,” says Sanchez, “we would have lines outside.”

As business grew, so did the pastry case, as Sanchez and Thibodeaux added classic French confections like Paris-Brest, Ispahan, canelés de Bordeaux, Mont-Blanc, plus king cakes, galettes, and more, not to mention macarons in flavors like calamansi, matcha, and orangeblossom. It wasn’t long before they outgrew not only that case but the rowhouse.

With most of the production behind them that Wednesday morning, Thibodeaux heats the bowl of a metal teaspoon over a heat gun, then presses it into a row of cremeaux teardrops decorating more éclairs. He fills the cavities with house-made dulce de leche, then sets the tray of pastries out for the staff to take downstairs when the shop opens at 9 a.m.

Meanwhile, Sanchez, now wearing black Valrhona “chocolate gloves,” is affixing shards of white chocolate onto the mauve globes of cherry-blossom mousse that have become the Sakura petits gâteaux. Between the heat guns, pylon-orange immersion blenders the size of bowling pins, and the electric paint sprayer they use for egg-washing the croissants and pain au chocolat, the kitchen looks less like a  quaint pâtisserie than it does the electrical aisle of a Home Depot.

The new Sacré Sucré expanded the available space, from 1,200 to 5,000 square feet, and includes a third floor with a massive walk-in cooler, an office, and a chilled room for the dough-laminating machine.

“THEY’RE THE GOLD STANDARD FOR AESTHETICS. THEY MAKE ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL THINGS.”

Their staff has grown to a dozen, including Nicolas Tupin, a French pastry chef hired to help make the Viennoiserie. Born in Reims, outside of Paris, Tupin went to pastry school in Grenoble, worked for a dozen years in Miami, then moved to Baltimore to be closer to his wife’s family in Towson. He came to Sacré Sucré because “they bake everything from scratch. That’s really important,” he says, and not always the case in American bakeries. Having Tupin means that Thibodeaux and Sanchez have more time to work on their pastries, though “Manny and he fight over how long to bake the croissants,” says Thibodeaux, smiling.

Downstairs, the small crew of staffers have loaded the pastry case and fired up the espresso machines and the soft-serve ice cream machine, a new addition to the repertoire. The ice cream, in flavors like mango and pink grapefruit, is swirled into “croix-cones,” made from toasted halved croissants, and decorated with miniature pink macaron shells. (“Pierre Hermé puts them on his gelato, so I figured we can, too,” says Sanchez of the famed French pastry chef, who specializes in macarons.)

The shop is also now open at 7 a.m. on Mondays and Tuesdays, when the case is filled with scones, pound cake, and individual quiches, a homier menu that gives the customers a change of pace and the bakers a break from the more intricate pastry work.

“They’re the gold standard for aesthetics. They make absolutely beautiful things,” says Ovenbird Bakery’s Keiller Kyle of Sacré Sucré. Kyle not only knows something about making pastries, but also about jigsawing a bakery into an old Baltimore rowhouse.

“What they were doing in the [former] space they were doing it in—I have incredible empathy for that,” says Kyle, whose bakery first opened in Little Italy, until production outgrew the rowhouse basement and Kyle moved it to a larger space in Highlandtown. Kyle, like Sanchez and Thibodeaux, intentionally opened in an old-school Baltimore neighborhood—and in an old-school Baltimore building—rather than in an area more designed for shopping and tourism: Whitehall Mill, say, or Harbor East.

Not everyone has been as understanding of Sacré Sucré’s need for larger digs. Before they could open in January, the owners found themselves mired in a drawn-out fight with their new neighbor over plans to enlarge the pâtisserie’s second-floor kitchen (at issue is the neighbor’s garden view and historic-home property value).

Sanchez and Thibodeaux say this expansion is necessary for them to begin baking bread and making sandwiches for a lunch menu. What’s more, they note, the city approved the proposal. As the conflict played out, a neighborhood petition circulated against the bakery’s liquor license, which predated the pâtisserie but had been restricted when the location was a short-lived burger bar. (Before that, the location had been a tavern; Thibodeaux and Sanchez bought the building hoping to re-activate the liquor license and offer cocktails and natural wines with their desserts.) Then another petition circulated in favor of the bakery.

“We’re two people; we’re not H&S,” says Thibodeaux of the impasse, which is ongoing. “From worrying about croissants, now I’m going to get into politics? It’s a lot of things that we never thought about when we wanted a bakery,” says Sanchez.

The customers, at least, aren’t complaining. On Easter morning, the dining room was crowded with folks lining up for holiday pastries, including egg-shaped macarons in pastel colors.

Boomer Kennedy, a retired auto mechanic from Patterson Park, was sampling a few of the confections. Kennedy had been one of Sacré Sucré first customers at the old location. “I went every day for a while; I couldn’t stay away,” says Kennedy. She appreciates the craftsmanship more than most, as she went to pastry school and was one of the opening pastry chefs at Bouchon, Thomas Keller’s lauded bakery in Yountville, California.

“The pastries aren’t too sweet, which is a really good sign,” she says. “They’re paying attention to taste; they don’t just seduce you with the sugar high.”

The promise of sweets may get you in the door, but it’s the technique, the mastery of flavors, and the artistry that have become the draw.

One look at the jewel-box pastry case—filled with vertical rows of confections in a palette of colors, many now shaped like spring flower—and that artistry is more than evident, a display that seems too pretty to eat, until you have a taste and, within moments, a faint trail of pastry flakes and meringue crumbs is all that’s left behind.

Restaurants evolve and grow. Last fall, when we first visited Osteria Pirata, Ashish Alfred’s lively take on the too-often stodgily executed classic Italian restaurant concept, it was newly open and still trying to find its footing. While the food was excellent, the service lacked, shall we say, polish. When we returned in January, we found a smattering of new dishes, originals that we loved, and servers and bartenders who knew their stuff.

Alfred, whose original Baltimore restaurant, the exquisite Duck Duck Goose, is around the corner in Fells Point, has worked in Italian restaurants throughout his career, and finds the food approachable. The same can be said for the design of the Osteria Pirata, which means Pirate Tavern in Italian. (The backs of coasters detail why the British dubbed Baltimore a “nest of pirates” during the War of 1812.) Baltimore design firms Cohere and PI.KL Studio created an interior that’s bright and airy. Yellow is a primary color here, and there are fun quirks, like a motorbike that hangs above the stairway to the lower level.

From our first visits, we found the atmosphere welcoming and the food fantastic. The menu has ebbed and flowed since the restaurant’s opening, but its core remains the same: contemporary takes on Italian classics. Starters are particularly strong. You won’t find fried calamari, ubiquitous on many Italian restaurant menus, here. Instead, it’s braised and served with fregola pearl pasta and a jalapeño pesto sauce that provides pop. Chilled shrimp puttanesca, served atop diced tomatoes and cucumbers with a chile aioli sauce, is crisp and refreshing.

But the star is a giant arancini ball that could easily be a meal. During a trip to Italy, Alfred didn’t encounter many of the smaller, golf ball-sized arancini often found in American restaurants. “All I had were standalone, ostrich-egg-sized things,” he said. “It was people’s entire lunch.” The interior of risotto with melted mozzarella melds together perfectly after the ball is fried then finished in the oven.

Mains include stalwarts like chicken and eggplant Parm, and on our last visit, a tasty gnocchi piccata. But we’d steer most people toward the pastas, many of which are made in-house. The best of the bunch was the soul-warming gemelli with pesto and sweet Italian sausage and the 40-layer lasagna. It arrives on its side (all the better to count the layers) in a wonderful tomato sugo. While its edges were crisp, its interior was nice and gooey—yet it held its form.

Even the best of food can’t overcome spotty service, and while everyone we encountered during our first two visits was perfectly nice, the operation was leaky. When we walked through the door, we weren’t greeted for quite some time. Eventually we were seated—at a table that wasn’t set. During a chat with a friendly server, she mentioned that she hadn’t eaten at the restaurant. She didn’t know whether a pasta dish we inquired about was served with red or white sauce. But these issues are easily corrected when a restaurant has potential. Upon our return in January, the service was on its way.

Osteria Pirata has grown up quickly, and we’re fans of what it’s become.

OSTERIA PIRATA: 1640 Thames St., Fells Point, 443-835-4106. HOURS: Mon.-Thurs. 4-9:30 p.m.; Fri. 4-10 p.m.; Sat. 10 a.m.-10 p.m.; Sun. 10 a.m.- 9:30 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $14-24; pastas and entrees: $18-39; desserts: $12.

Walk down the cobblestones on Wolfe Street, under a sign of a red star and into The Dara, and you’ll find yourself in what feels like a lofty cabin, with high ceilings, exposed beams and bricks, a wood stove near the door, and a wood-and-mirror bar extending down one side of the restaurant. There’s dim lighting and bottles gleaming invitingly. Yet, you’re not in a country inn or an unusually tasteful gastropub but, happily, in a Thai restaurant in the heart of Fells Point.

The Dara opened last October in the old Red Star space—“dara” means star in Thai, Lao, and Khmer—keeping much of the pub’s cozy interior, as well as the star sign outside.

It may look like a pub, but what’s on the menu is a far cry from pizza, chicken wings, and mozzarella sticks. Instead, The Dara brings excellent Thai food from a Bangkok chef to a neighborhood of bars and Italian joints, a welcome addition not only to Fells Point but to a city with not nearly enough Thai food, especially after the sudden closing of Thai Restaurant in Waverly, which shuttered in January after more than 40 years, though the owners recently announced relocation plans.

The Dara is the first restaurant from co-owner-chef Putthipat “Jeff” Wannapithipat, who was born and raised in Bangkok, where he also earned a hospitality degree. After graduating, he worked in hotels and cruise ships, then came to the U.S., where he cooked in Las Vegas Thai restaurants, ultimately landing in Baltimore and cooking at Bodhi Corner and Thai Street in the Broadway Market, just a few blocks from The Dara.

There are many of the expected dishes on the menu—pad Thai, drunken noodles, pad si eew (stir-fried noodles)—and a few that are distinctly Baltimore-friendly, like a crab fried rice; the gaeng ga-ti pu, a curry made with jumbo lump crab; and a soft-shell crab dish with mango, toasted rice, and lime.

But there are also offerings that trace to Wannapithipat’s hometown of Bangkok (“the capital of street food,” he says), such as shaw muang, a dish of chicken and preserved radish dumplings; and a gorgeous bowl of seafood tom yum soup, a lemongrass-doused seafood still life. The curries—massaman, panang, and a spicier green curry—are wonders, each with a distinctive flavor profile, torqued with chiles and the makrut lime leaves Wannapithipat imports from Thailand. The bowls are garnished with fresh herbs and marked with coconut milk like latte art, further distinguishing dishes that are often unremarkable in less capable hands.

Dishes like the Hatyai fried chicken are paired not with the standard jasmine rice but a careful mound of butterfly pea flower rice, flavored and tinged a lovely blue by dehydrated pea flower powder, also from Thailand. In other words, these are traditional dishes that hungry diners wandering along the Fells wharf will recognize and comfort in, yet they far exceed expectations, even of those folks who are familiar with the regional dishes.

And maybe best of all—better even than the duck larb, the curry with crispy pork belly, and the rib-eye jim jaew—there is an exemplary version of khao soi, the Northern Thai yellow curry-coconut noodle soup. Khao soi is often difficult to find (perhaps unsurprisingly, Thai Street serves possibly the only other khao soi dish in town), likely because it requires so many different components, but it is furiously addictive once discovered.

Made with egg noodles, fermented greens, a second batch of crispy noodles, and a whole chicken leg, the dish is spicy, thick, rich, and deeply soothing. The Dara’s version is deftly spiced, strewn with crunchy noodles, and loaded with a chicken drumstick, crispy shallots, and slices of lime. The dish is so thick that you can stand that drumstick vertically in the bowl while you twirl up the curry-doused noodles. Try it, if only to plant a flag and mark the dish as your own, as you will not want to share.

The cocktails made behind that impressively long bar are as inventive as the food, a half-dozen concoctions showcasing ingredients like house jasmine and tamarind syrups, Thai tea, mango foam, and an abundance of lime. As befits a former pub, the place also has a long beer and wine list, with local beers, Singha (of course), and non-alcoholic drinks that feature that pretty butterfly pea flower.

Long before the Wolfe Street building began turning out bowls of curry and crab fried rice, before it was a gastropub, it was a restaurant and meeting place—and apparently a brothel—for sailors, built in 1873. It was called “The Red Star,” according to a plaque on The Dara’s second floor banquet room, because women would paint red stars on the sidewalks to guide sailors needing solace to their doors, as the red lights that were the more customary marker were prohibited.

So here we are in 2024, sidling up to the bar to order a Jasmine Gold Rush (bourbon, jasmine syrup, honey, lime, bitters) and a crab curry, the red star still outside to mark a place to find some of the most exquisite (and legal) comfort available these days on the Fells Point waterfront.

THE DARA: 906 S. Wolfe St., Fells Point, 443-438-6311. HOURS: Daily, 11 a.m.-10 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $11-16; noodles, rice bowls, and entrées: $16-35; desserts: $7-9. AMBIANCE: Cozy wood-cabin chic.

The buzz starts outside, where from the sidewalk passersby can tell that something is happening inside 1724 Thames Street. Part of it is the loud music emanating from Prima Dopo, the new Italian restaurant and bar with a club-like feel in Fells Point. One can sense that the spot is going for a place-to-be vibe, and judging by the crowds we encountered during our visits in the fall, it’s working.

The concept, from Dragonfly Hospitality, which also operates Canton’s El Bufalo and Raw & Refined, is more lounge than luxury, although it aims to serve upscale food. The focal point of the interior, designed by Anne Stahl of LUUA Design Studio, is a long, slender bar. There’s a large mural of a hummingbird, hand-painted by contemporary Portuguese street artist Luis Martins, aka L7Matrix, plenty of vibrant lighting, and space for a DJ (who was spinning tunes on one of the nights that we were there) near the booths and tables. It all makes for a bit of a Miami Beach feel.

Starting with a cocktail feels natural here, and several that we tried were quite good. The Smokey Italian, made with mezcal, amaro, cucumber puree, lime juice, and agave, is an in depth combination of flavors, and the In the ’Loupe, a tequila-based drink, scores points for using cantaloupe, which isn’t commonly in cocktails. The Buckcherry Showalter is on the sweeter side—and how can you not love that name?

The menu is broken into nine parts, each with just a few offerings. The largest is the Bites section, which includes Tuscan chicken lollipops, two expertly fried drumsticks served on garlic mashed potatoes with a glaze of hot honey and chile oil. The skin is impossibly crunchy with nice spice, and the meat is juicy.

A large pizza oven looms over the back of the restaurant, and five varieties are on the menu. We opted for the spicy salami. While the crust was a bit soggy, the thinly shaved salami lived up to its spicy billing, and balls of garlic and a hot honey glaze added complexity to the pie.

Five pastas are offered, and the two we tried were the best dishes we had over multiple meals. Mafalde with a veal ragu sauce arrived with a generous dollop of cheese. The sauce was appropriately rich, the ribbon-shaped noodles were tender. Likewise, the ink chitarra was teeming with crabmeat and clams, and the white wine sauce complemented the pasta rather than overpowering it.

Four “Classic(ish)” entrees are available, but on the night we ordered the scallop and crab risotto we were told that it was being prepared with mushrooms instead of crab. Quite a change, although the finished product was still tasty. Less so was the crab toast, which arrived on stale pieces of sourdough bread. It never should have left the kitchen.

Among the flashy design touches in Prima Dopo—which means “before and after” in Italian—is the word “vibes” spelled out on the spherical lights hanging from the ceiling in the back. Prima Dopo is not a classic Italian restaurant, but it has a vibe that can’t be ignored.

PRIMA DOPO: 1724 Thames St., Fells Point, 443-449-5605. HOURS: Mon.-Tue. 4 p.m.-midnight, Wed. 11:30 a.m.-midnight, Thur.-Fri. 11:30 a.m.- 2 a.m., Sat. 11 a.m.-2 a.m., Sun. 11 a.m.-10 p.m. PRICES: Toasts and bites: $12-36; pizza: $20-25; sandwiches: $16-22; pasta: $24-36; entrees: $24-45. AMBIANCE: Nouveau Italian.

One of the hosts at Chilango’s Tequila Bar and Mexican Grill in Fells Point looks, well, a little stiff.

Chilanguito, as he’s named, stands just 41 inches tall and weighs 75 pounds. He has no arms, legs, or for that matter, any flesh or bone. Even so, he cheerily greets diners as he leads them to their table. “Welcome to Chilango’s,” he says. “Please follow me.” Chilanguito is a Servi, a robot that its creator, California-based Bear Robotics, hopes will revolutionize the food service industry.

Chilango’s owner, Carlos Cruz, is a true believer. He began using the Servi in January not because he wants to replace human workers, but because he can’t hire enough of them.

“I’m old-school,” Cruz says. “I never thought I was going to see something like this. But I’m impressed by what he can do.”

When customers arrive, they are still met by a human. The host uses the Servi’s touch screen to enter a table number and places the menus on its tray. From there, the robot leads diners to their table. When it arrives at the table, it instructs the customers, “Please take your menus and have a seat.”

Servi is, in part, the brainchild of John Ha, Bear’s co-founder and CEO, who worked for Google and owned a Korean restaurant. Today, nearly 10,000 Servis are deployed in food service businesses around the globe. They’re also designed to run drinks from the bar or food from the kitchen and transport dirty dishes.

“We’re not trying to replace people—we keep the servers on the floor,” says Aaron Mayer, Bear’s director of sales. “Because the servers have an extra set of hands, they can take more tables and make more tips.”

It’s also a novelty for the pint-sized patrons. “Kids go crazy when they see him,” Cruz says. “We were all stressed out, and when he came here it was a lot of fun.”

From the minute you enter the space, it’s hard not to succumb to the eclectic charms of Bunny’s, Buckets & Bubbles, with its pale pink walls and Lawrence Welk-worthy bubble chandeliers. There are also, as the name implies, bunnies, lots of bunnies that seem to, well, multiply throughout the space—from the bunny artwork on the walls to the bunny drawer pulls behind the U-shaped bar, and even Playboy bunnies in a bathroom. In other words, it’s a far cry from its earlier incarnation as Fells Point rustic watering hole The Wharf Rat.

Co-owner-chef Jesse Sandlin (a Top Chef alum) has always had a knack for opening cute concepts, from her elevated bar, The Dive, in Canton to her quirky neighborhood bar, Sally O’s, in Highlandtown. But if the place was nothing more than a clever conceit, it wouldn’t work.

Since its summer opening, it can be tough to score a seat, not only because everyone loves a little alliteration, but because the food is so damn delicious. It helps that beverage supervisor Jake Tarr, late of the Bluebird Cocktail Room and Sally O’s, offers an inventive list of cocktails as well as a lovely inventory of “bubbles” (Champagne), making this place the whole package.

There are many ways to approach the menu here. As with most of Sandlin’s spots, the emphasis is on rich and decadent, calories-be-damned Southern flavors. You can make a meal out of small snacks and starters, a substantial sandwich, or one of the eight or so elevated entrees.

Across several visits, we enjoyed an order of the smoky trout dip with chervil and roe served with our favorite Ritz crackers, whose buttery sweetness tempers the flavor of the fish, then moved on to a deviled egg sampler, three egg halves, each one crowned with a different topping—lump crab, mustard seed, pimento cheese, and crispy chicken skin. The eggs were tasty, though the toppings were on the skimpy side, making it difficult to discern the difference among them. The pickled vegetable plate, which arrives in a glass jar, is an assortment of tangy pickled peppers, carrots, and radishes and looks like something out of Peter Cottontail’s garden, though the portion was just big enough for a small rabbit.

The delectable pimento dip (known as the “pâté of the South” or “cowboy caviar”)—a mixture of shredded cheddar cheese, cream cheese, mayonnaise, and pimentos, plus a shower of scallions—fits right in with the theme of the menu. Even the Caesar salad, a riff on a kale salad, has a Southern accent here. This version features chopped collard greens as a base, tossed with pickled red onions, boiled peanuts, and cornbread croutons all doused with a classic but kicky Caesar dressing that balances the slight bitterness of the greens and shows off Sandlin’s ability to put a new spin on traditional dishes.

Unsurprisingly, fried chicken gets top billing here—and for good reason. Sandlin’s version is twice dredged in rice flour and fried in canola oil, making it gluten-free. It comes in orders of two or four pieces or a bucket (eight pieces), accompanied by pickle slices, biscuits, and a variety of sauces. (Spring for the honey butter for an additional dollar to complete the feast.)

On our visit, we dug into a breast and a thigh served on a blue tray with blue and white checked wax paper. (Again, the thigh was on the small side—best to fork over an additional $4 for two breasts.) We savored the copper-colored crust that flaked off the chicken in shards, revealing well-seasoned meat. It’s also served with a housemade sauce of your choosing. (The miso-hot-honey sauce was a winner.)

And while the high-low combination of Champagne and a bucket of fried chicken might seem like strange bedfellows, once you try it, you’ll really like it. The marriage of grease from the chicken and acidity from the Champagne makes the perfect pairing. Sparkling wines, which are also offered, work well, too.

THE MARRIAGE OF GREASE FROM THE CHICKEN AND ACIDITY FROM THE CHAMPAGNE MAKES THE PERFECT PAIRING.

We also loved Sandlin’s trademark smashburger—two four-ounce patties topped with lettuce, cheese, pickles, and a proprietary sauce on a sesame seed bun. It’s engineered for maximum impact, as all the ingredients meld together into one terrific and wonderfully messy sandwich.

While the bar food is great, make no mistake, the kitchen is just as nimble with more upscale, chef-driven entrees. On one visit, my dining companion declared the Baltimore crab rice, a heaping portion of Carolina Gold rice middlins tossed with jumbo lump crab, asparagus, and cherry tomatoes, his favorite dish. The fat rice middlins gave the dish an almost polenta-like texture. On our second visit, an intensely flavorful shrimp and grits—five fat prawns resting in a pool of bacon-flecked velvety grits—was an outstanding interpretation of the Low Country favorite.

As she’s proven with past projects, Sandlin is a master of reinvention, coming up with quirky, original concepts and dishes that are both unique to her brand and feel oh-so-Baltimore. With Buckets, Bunny’s & Bubbles, she’s pulled yet another rabbit out of her hat.

BUNNY’S, BUCKETS & BUBBLES: 801 S. Ann St., 443-708-3861. HOURS: Kitchen: Sun.-Thurs. 4-10 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 4-11 p.m. Bar: Sun.-Mon. 4 p.m.-midnight. PRICES: Salads, snacks, starters: $4-24; entrees: $24-48; desserts: $10. AMBIANCE: Barnyard chic.

Karin Tiffany is embracing change these days. At 57, she’s seen plenty of it, with more than half of her life spent on the quiet, tree-lined, 500 block of South Ann Street near Eastern Avenue at Peter’s Inn.

Inside her beloved rowhome restaurant, the taxidermied marlin and neon “cocktails” sign still hang, as they have for decades. But there’s also a new tin ceiling, shiny glass chandeliers, and a fresh coat of paint on the cleaned-up walls, with much of the iconic bric-a-brac that once graced them—string lights, folk art, knickknacks, even the occasional Ouija board—never replaced after a cigarette fire engulfed the place in 2017.

“I’m a little hoard-y,” admits Karin, recalling her kitschy collection with an ever-so-slight Bawlmer accent. “It’s fun to watch yourself grow up—I was like, ‘Goodbye! Good riddance!’ I don’t need everything that I’ve liked my entire life out here collecting dust.”

Outside, her neighborhood has evolved, too: Long gone are all the little Polish ladies who used to live up and down the block, along with the freight train that ran along Aliceanna Street, and the slew of vintage stores, junk shops, and dive bars that catered to the eclectic, rough-around-the-edges crossroads that was old Fells Point.

“There were the two ex-cops who had that jewelry store by E.J. Bugs Saloon,” recalls her husband, Bud, 61, dressed in a black chef’s shirt, his gray goatee dyed an azure shade of blue, as the couple racks their brains about other lifetimes from the back dining room.

“Look at your memory!” cracks Karin, her bracelets jangling above fading tattoos, including one small heart on her left wrist, filled in with the black-and-yellow flag of Baltimore City. “When we got married, I said nobody would have a playdate here. Whereas nowadays, a mother will be sitting at the bar with her baby, drinking wine, like no big deal. And I’m into it.”

Still, then and now, Peter’s Inn has never been a puritan’s playground—even if the owner finds herself cussing less, and fewer and fewer customers pull up on Harley-Davidsons—and that’s part of its magic.

Baltimore was once home to a motley crew of epicurean eccentrics—Martick’s, Haussner’s, Gampy’s, the Cultured Pearl—with each bottling the city’s underdog spirit in their own idiosyncratic, irreverent, oftentimes beatnik way. But the baby-doll décor, snakeskin wallpaper, and surly barmaids of yesteryear have since given way to a high-end, highly sanitized homogeny of dining establishments, and so it’s no surprise that, for many residents, Peter’s is now a respite.

Here, the pours are potent, the butter is liberally lacquered, and the bathroom art includes the occasional naked woman, all adding to its tongue-in-cheek charm. There’s little room for fools or fuss—unless the latter involves Karin fretting over the ideal garnish. And it doesn’t hurt that the food is good. Even great, too.

At the end of an era, Peter’s is arguably the most bona fide Baltimore restaurant, if not the last one left in town.

Though don’t take our word for it:

“Peter’s Inn is my favorite restaurant in Baltimore,” says local filmmaker John Waters, who was treated to a cake featuring his own likeness during his last birthday dinner here, special ordered by Karin from Herman’s Bakery in Dundalk. “It is shabbily upscale, foodie elitist in a bohemian way, and totally unpretentious, yet has an attitude.”

As it always has been.

When Peter’s Inn opened in 1977, it was, for all intents and purposes, a biker bar, helmed by its namesake owner, the late Peter Denzer—a well-to-do D.C. native turned gravedigger, locomotive repairman, cab driver, and newspaperman who rode a Triumph, loved Ernest Hemingway, and made a cameo in Desperate Living, the 1977 dark comedy by Waters, who was a regular back then, too.

“Peter’s Inn was easy to spot,” wrote The Sun in 1979, detailing its then-Formstone façade and glass-brick windows. “The big black motorcycle parked in front helped; so did the loud, cheerful voices spilling out the door.”

At the time, there were no white tablecloths or martini glasses, but Denzer kept hydrangeas on the small tables, a jukebox spinning country tunes, and business cards that declared this place to be “a no-B.S. drinking bar,” one that was treasured by a sundry crowd: Sparrows Point shift workers, artists, nurses, cops, including mounted police, whose horses, tied up outside, would stick their heads in through the open windows.

The Tiffanys arrived in the early 1990s. Growing up between Joppatowne and Bolton Hill, Karin learned to cook in the Coast Guard’s culinary school before eventually landing back in her hometown, bartending around Fells Point—the stomping grounds of her rebellious teen years (she had her first drink at Bertha’s at age 13).

She met Bud, a bass player and land surveyor from Pennsylvania, on the Broadway Square, where he played impromptu games of cricket, and from which the couple would scramble to watering holes like John Stevens and 1919.

But getting her first job at Peter’s was not as simple as inquiring with the owner—instead, quite literally, she would have to arm-wrestle his wife.

“This is the honest truth,” declares Karin today, dressed in a white polka-dot blouse, bolo-tie necklace, and thick-rimmed glasses, her style somewhere between retro feminine and art-school punk. “Needless to say, I won.”

At that point, the bar had already started to become a restaurant. A galley kitchen was installed in the back for meals on weekends, and Sun critic Elizabeth Large hailed its menu “home-cooked food with a little pizzazz”—a cuisine that Karin would elevate upon her takeover. When she got engaged to Bud in 1995, her boss presented the young couple with a proposition.

“Pete was like, ‘You’re getting married, you should buy a bar,’” says Bud. “And we did—the day after.”

With Denzer off to retirement in West Virginia, the Tiffanys, then in their late 20s and early 30s, bought the two-story building and moved into the upstairs apartment. But they spent most of their waking hours on the first floor, beyond the brick steps, through the lipstick-red front door.

From the start, they did it all—making the food, scrubbing the floors, tending the bar after Bud got home from his day job. Over time, they added their own flair, taking inspiration from other restaurants and reviews from The New York Times to Bon Appétit. Better wine. Soft lighting. A New American menu that somehow straddled the line between down-home comfort food, haute fine-dining, and your quirky aunt’s mystery Jell-O salad.

“I don’t have ethnicity—we’re Mayflower trash, so the world is my oyster,” says Karin matter-of-factly, her food drawing on European techniques and international touches. “I’m not committed to what my mom made—that was boiled eggs and Salisbury steak, man. This is all just instinct.”

“IT IS SHABBILY UPSCALE, FOODIE ELITIST IN A BOHEMIAN WAY, AND TOTALLY UNPRETENTIOUS, YET HAS AN ATTITUDE.”

In truth, the menu is an embodiment of its creator—no frills, yet properly festive, and always delightfully unconventional.

Take, for instance, one of her weekly hand-written menus from this past June—number 1,308—which encouraged diners to not only “be well” and “tip well” but “floss daily,” too. A “bump” of caviar could be ordered alongside fresh oysters on the half-shell, accompanied by mini bottles of Tabasco. There was also chicken liver pâtè in a crystal jar and Low Country shrimp and grits on blue-and-white china. Every meal must begin with the signature house salad and, of course, the garlic bread—a thick Italian slice topped with an almost indecent slather of alliums, herbs, and Gorgonzola that is reason enough to visit. Meanwhile, the long-loved filet mignon, topped with “100% pure butter,” could be a final supper.

“I don’t eat steak anymore, but if I’m going to Peter’s, I will absolutely order one there,” says Richard Gorelick, former food critic for the City Paper and Sun, who once likened dining here to that scene in another Waters film, 1998’s Pecker, where actress Christina Ricci steps off a bus from New York City and kisses the concrete streets of Baltimore. “I don’t want to say that the place is perfect, because that’s a liability. But it always pleases me so much.”

In fact, from every angle, it’s a beautiful chaos, and a wide-ranging congregation comes to be a part of it: “Old people, young people, Black people, white people, Hons, Roland Park ladies, Orthodox Jews, artists,” as Karin once rattled off to us, noting that Sen. Barbara Mikulski likes the back table beneath the oil painting of Karin’s fifth-great-grandfather. “Peter’s is a great equalizer.”

Of course, the “Le Booze” list doesn’t hurt, either. It’s equipped with both martini and Manhattan service—which arrive on a silver platter like some baroque still life, with a sidecar that equals a second drink—as well as a scribbled note wishing that “all your pain be Champagne!” There is also Fresca “in a pretty glass,” and for dessert, French-press pots of coffee to sip with Bud’s decadent pots de crème. Always, a holy grail of Underberg digestifs sits on the bar for the hospitality industry, who usually roll in late-night.

“Peter’s is unabashedly an expression of Karin and Bud’s joie de vivre,” says restaurateur Lane Harlan of Clavel, Fadensonnen, and The Coral Wig, who has dined here for over a decade. “They are remarkable people who have committed themselves to the long haul of hosting. May they continue to sing their song and always bet high on butter and booze.”

Indeed, there is an old-school hospitality instilled into every floorboard of Peter’s Inn, even if it comes with a side of sass. In the past, Karin was known to chastise customers for, say, salting their food before they tasted it, aka “the smartass shit I used to do.”

At first glance, the restaurant can come across as a simple dive bar, and in the most endearing of ways, it is, still encouraging just enough debauchery until last call at 1 a.m., at times devolving into something more bacchanalian, with the bar growing louder and lewder as the hours wane.

But if you look closely, the finer details come into focus. For starters, there are no iPads, no QR codes, no online platforms for reservations—to make one, diners must email Karin directly, which she checks on her phone regularly between the whistles of her catcall ringtone, liking the ability to squeeze a couple in last-minute or rearrange the room for large parties.

“Because we have no TVs, there used to be a bunch of old-timers who would come in with Sun papers under their arms and they’d sit there and read the sports section and argue over a few beers before moving down the street,” says Bud. “I think the only time we put one up was once or twice for the Preakness or when the Orioles went to the series.”

There is a level of refinement, even as The Clash and Dire Straits jangle out of the stereo: the towers of fresh-cut fruit, the folded placemats, the pepper grinders on every table. “I’m kind of a sociopath,” says Karin. “I’ll notice if your ketchup bottle is dirty.”

“IT IS UNABASHEDLY AN EXPRESSION OF KARIN AND BUD’S JOIE DE VIVRE.”

That ethos shows up in the kitchen, too. There are no false buzzwords like “hyper-local” or “sustainable” here; instead, the goal is quality—for the most part, proteins are sourced from Fells Point Wholesale Meats, seafood hails from Philadelphia’s Samuels & Son, produce gets dropped off by the regional Chesapeake Farm to Table collective, and loaves of bread for that vampire-defying appetizer are picked up at Maranto Bakery on Pearl Street. Each dish contains a dash of whimsy, and Karin takes great pride in their unexpected yet elegant simplicity.

“The look on some people’s faces, when they come in and are clearly like, ‘Oh, no … what is this place, what are we doing here?’” she says. “I love surprising them. To see people enjoying this food—particularly the really bitchy ones—it still astounds me.”

When composing their weekly menu, she and Bud tweak ingredients here and there, whispering to one another, what do you think, what do you think?

“We collaborate all the time,” says Karin, calling him her official taste-tester.

“She’s the taskmaster,” he adds. “And because of that, and there being the two of us, there’s consistency.”

Both spouses agree that one balances out the other—him being the cool calm to her capriciousness, and there’s a clear camaraderie and quiet affection coursing between the two. A photograph from the early days captures it well, with the young couple exchanging a smile outside of their little red restaurant, with Bud’s old motorcycle in view. And then there’s the cover of this magazine’s 2000 “Best Restaurants” issue, when they posed as the straight-faced farmers in “American Gothic”—just one of the many times that local press pampered them with praise.

“I mean, we do fight,” says Karin, even occasionally in front of the small staff. “We’ve employed a million people here over the years, and during that time, we’ve had to say, ‘We’re not your parents, don’t get upset, just move along.’ But I barely raise my voice anymore. A few weeks ago, I screamed at one of the cats and they were all taken aback. Though she’s a Bengal, and an asshole, so it was appropriate.”

Just before service on that June afternoon, her six “co-workers,” as she calls them, were readying the dining room for dinner, which now takes place Thursday through Saturday, compared to its former five days a week. On Sundays, Karin starts brewing the next week’s menu, then she and Bud go out day-drinking, often listening to live music around the neighborhood before doing their best to make it in bed by 9 p.m. On Mondays, they clean and tend to their to-do list, and on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, deliveries arrive, then prep begins.

Kate Bennett maintains the bar, topping off drinks when guests aren’t looking, while chef de cuisine Dale Fields swings in and out of the dark-blue back door, adorned with an Alice in Wonderland-like, giant’s-sized spoon, beneath a glowing vintage sign that deems the “Kitchen Open.” Bud usually joins him, firing proteins over the gas range between running plates and snapping pictures for the Instagram. And throughout it all, Karin serves as supervisor, though she rarely works the line these days.

“Not unless I can’t avoid it,” she says, choosing instead to hold court on the sidewalk patio this soft, warm evening.

At this point, Karin is culinary royalty here in Baltimore, and after three decades on the local food scene—aka forever—she deserves a moment to just preside.

Particularly after the fire, which the restaurant only survived thanks to the community raising $22,000 via a GoFundMe. And the pandemic, during which they pivoted to carryout for the first, and only, time. And then one particularly distressing run-in with the Baltimore City Health Department last fall, when inspectors barged in on a Friday night as a packed house devoured Caesar-style deviled eggs and tomahawk steaks. They would ultimately have to close their doors to upgrade the refrigeration.

“Over the course of a lifetime, so many things happen, and the stuff that used to piss me off just doesn’t bother me anymore,” says Karin. “Besides, I’m on Lexapro. It should be in the drinking water.”

“THERE IS AN OLD-SCHOOL HOSPITALITY INSTILLED INTO EVERY FLOORBOARD OF PETER’S INN, EVEN IF IT COMES WITH A SIDE OF SASS.”

At 5 p.m., both loyal habitués and wide-eyed newcomers begin to amble in through the open door. There is a lone twenty-something walk-in at the end of the bar, a pair of blue-haired ladies pulled up to a nearby two-top, and a gaggle of gussied-up Irishmen who stumble out of the back room, seemingly in celebration mode—to name a few.

Whatever their reasons for coming, it is certain that they each have made this pilgrimage to experience the je ne sais quoi of Peter’s Inn.

And whether they know it or not, as the lights dim and the drinks flow, they can linger in a disappearing version of Baltimore, a place where duckpin bowling alleys, VFW halls, and working-class wharves used to flourish. Most of those have since shuttered, replaced by fancy restaurants, five-star hotels, and modern apartment buildings. But for a few hours, that old torch can burn just a little bit longer here. And then they can grab an after-dinner fireball candy on their way out the door, as they stumble out into the night.

Karin doesn’t have time for the nostalgia, though. She likes all the dogs that now live in the neighborhood, as well as her street’s new permit parking. And anyway, there is a restaurant to run, with no plans for retirement anytime soon.

“We don’t have an exit strategy,” says Karin, calling Peter’s their “own little weird world.” “Life goes on, and on, and on, and we’ll still be here.”

“After all, we live upstairs,” says Bud. “Instead of home sweet home, it’s home sweet bar.”

Sometimes, you don’t even know something is missing from your life until it appears. While there are plenty of great bars in Fells Point serving cold pints and the occasional Jack and Coke, relatively few focus on making well-crafted cocktails. The ones that do tend to take themselves quite seriously—not that there’s anything wrong with that. We’re fans of many of them. But until Southpaw opened last July, it didn’t really occur to us that another approach was possible.

A handwritten sign on the front door of the somewhat off-the-beaten-path bar at the corner of Fleet and Bond streets instructs patrons to “Pull, Like You Mean It.” You’ll be glad you did.

A laid-back vibe permeates the simply decorated one-room establishment, which has a few tables and a stylish wooden bar. There’s a jukebox along one wall, but as the front of the menu hints, it doesn’t work. No matter. During our two recent visits, a mixture of soul and rock played through a different sound system, providing the perfect soundtrack to what were outstanding experiences.

Proprietor Doug Atwell, who cut his teeth at high-quality cocktail bars like Dylan’s Oyster Cellar, has created a relaxed environment in which neighbors can talk to each other while enjoying an elevated drink that doesn’t break the bank.

The Amen Break, made with aged rum, sweet vermouth, sloeberry, and lemon, is well balanced, with tart and citrus notes. A Café Varo, Atwell’s non-traditional take on an espresso martini, will open your eyes. The Corpse Reviver No. Blue, with dry gin, Lillet blanc, lemon, and Curaçao, is not too sweet and not as in-your-face as its deep blue color suggests. The pink Surfer Rosa with reposado tequila, hibiscus, and blackberry is a sight for sore eyes. Southpaw’s Forever Happy Hour menu of classics—Old-Fashioned, Sazerac, daiquiri, a dry martini, and a Moscow Mule—are always just $9.

“I have a thing about cocktails not being fussy,” Atwell says. “The ingredients are house-made, but there’s nothing too out-of-the-ordinary. They’re either classics or riffs on those classics.”

Beers include locals like Key and Monument, but also old standbys like Coors and Miller High Life. Then there’s the Let’s Get Weird section of the menu. Six bucks gets you a Spagett—a bottle of High Life with Aperol—and for $7 you can enjoy a pony bottle of High Life with amaretto and rum. It tastes eerily like a Dr. Pepper.

If you’re hungry, your best bet, in fact your only bet, is the burgers. The smashburger and accompanying fries are the lone items consistently on the menu—and both hit the spot. They’re only available on weekends when pop-ups and food trucks also occasionally visit. During the week, food from outside is allowed in.

Atwell signed the lease for Southpaw, named for his love of baseball and dogs, a month before the pandemic hit. It’s been a long road since then, and he still has plans to expand the food menu, add outdoor seating, and one day even get that jukebox working. “It’s older than I am,” he jokes.

Based on Southpaw’s rookie year success, he’ll have to fix it.

The peripatetic chef Cyrus Keefer can sometimes be as difficult to find as Waldo. But the talented kitchen maestro, who left positive culinary imprints on such restaurants as Birroteca and the now-closed Fork & Wrench and The Alexander Brown Restaurant, is worth searching for as he moves around the city.

These days, Keefer has set up shop at The Red Star in Fells Point, where he’s been turning out an array of pizzas, homemade pasta dishes, and intriguing small and large plates for the past year. Keefer, who is also the restaurant’s GM, wants to “give the place new direction and heart,” he says.

He’s on the right track. At a recent visit, we started our meal with risotto croquettes, a terrific arancini adaptation, before digging into a sumptuous bucatini carbonara, showcasing a nest of long, fat pasta strands, glistening with a delicate cream sauce and studded with crispy bacon chunks. An explosion of smoked pecorino cheese finished the dish.

We also enjoyed the BBQ shrimp and grits, a spicy play on the Southern favorite, and the hot honey fried chicken, which is having a moment right now in the food world. Keefer’s version featured crunchy poultry pieces housing tender meat and served with an elixir of tangy honey sauce.

Another time, we stopped by for one of the restaurant’s pizzas and a burger. Pizza-wise, we chose the tomato and basil pie (there are six choices) and were glad we did. The perfectly charred crust was lathered with a flavorful to- mato sauce and dolloped with fresh mozzarella cheese and fragrant basil leaves.

There was only one burger on the menu, a bacon cheeseburger—and it was a superb one with a Creekstone Farms beef patty layered with romaine lettuce, American cheese, bacon strips, and a secret sauce (a version of McDonald’s Big Mac sauce, the chef says). The fries, enhanced with fresh thyme and rosemary, were an indulgent treat.

The place looks the same as it has in previous years. That’s not a bad thing. The wood-and-brick space with a soaring ceiling offers a stylish setting with low lighting, comfy booths, communal tables, and a long bar.

There weren’t many customers during our visits. One reason could be that some people may not realize that the building, located around the corner from the busy eateries and bars on Thames Street, is a dining establishment.

“It looks like an antique store,” Keefer says. “I’m working on a different marquee.”

He’s also working on attracting families by offering a kids’ menu with toddler temptations like a cheeseburger and pepperoni pizza. He says he wants to get away from the “people falling off the barstools” perception of the restaurant’s previous days. But that doesn’t mean adults can’t enjoy a craft beer, wine, or cocktail while there.

We’re happy we found Keefer. His vagabond days may be over.

The most popular drink on Bondhouse Kitchen’s extensive and creative cocktail list isn’t Margaret from Fresno, a refreshing mix of Fresno-infused tequila, pineapple sour, and simple syrup. It’s not the Farmer’s Daughter, a delicious combination of vodka, cucumber juice, lemon, basil, simple syrup, and club soda. It’s whatever pops into the bartender’s mind.

Listed first among the 10 cocktails on the menu is Bartender’s Choice. The drinker picks the spirit, and after answering a few questions about their tastes, the mixologist does the rest.

When we visited for happy hour on a sunny day, it felt like a bourbon kind of evening. Bartender Todd Dalgliesh took it from there, whipping up a whiskey-based libation with sweet vermouth, Aperol, yellow chartreuse, and lemon zest. It tasted like an unsweetened bourbon tea—and it hit the spot.

“We wanted to allow the bartenders to be creative and allow people to try something they normally wouldn’t,” general manager Kate Bennett says.

That’s evident on the seasonally inspired food menu, as well. Chef Arthur Palarata, formerly of Woodberry Kitchen, offers dishes not found in many other restaurants, including the spatchcock chicken, Maryland blue catfish and chips, and lamb ragu. There are comfort-food favorites like burgers and chicken corn dogs, and a fantastic mac and cheese. Served piping hot in a small cast iron crock, its crispy crust and gooey cheddar mix creates a decadent treat. The dish is one of five snacks available for $6 each during happy hour. (Drinks are discounted as well.)

The restaurant opened in November in a corner location in Fells Point that has previously housed the Get Down and Fletcher’s. Fans of those spots wouldn’t recognize its interior. The space went through an extensive renovation that moved the location of the bar and created a farmhouse feel. Most impressive is the outdoor dining space on Bond Street, which Bennett calls the “barn.” A permanent wooden structure surrounded by plants and flowers, it’s an oasis in the middle of its bustling neighborhood.

The cocktail menu will change seasonally, Bennett says, and was designed to meet a variety of tastes. It’s not driven by one spirit. The Negroni Bianco features Forager gin, Lillet, dry vermouth, and Maraschino liqueur. The Ouroboros is made with mezcal, Aperol, yellow chartreuse, and egg white. The Walking Dead is a combination of pineapple-infused rum, white rum, apricot brandy, lemon, and club soda.

If none of those appeal, ask your bartender for their choice. You won’t be disappointed.

Locals who have recently strolled along the Fells Point waterfront have likely noticed that the neighborhood has stepped up its outdoor dining game.

The community has erected a number of “parklets”—parking spaces-turned-al fresco dining areas made out of recycled materials and greenery—adjacent to many eateries on the 1700 block of Thames Street.

The goal is to safely expand outdoor seating, while also supporting the bars, restaurants, and retail shops that have been hammered by the coronavirus shutdown.

Kooper’s Tavern was the first to host a parklet last month, and since then the Department of Transportation has approved dining areas outside of Waterfront Hotel and The Point in Fells. The Kooper’s parklet is divided into sections for neighboring sister-restaurants Slainte and Woody’s, to use, as well. Another is currently in the works for Riptide by the Bay.

“We’re hoping this helps turn 2020 into a profitable year for businesses,” says Maureen Sweeney Smith, executive director of Fells Point Main Street.

Residents and restaurant owners share the same hope. Many volunteers flocked to Thames Street last week to help construct the parklets. The setup outside of Kooper’s, which has been used as a prototype, was designed by Fells Point Main Street board member and resident Bryce Turner, along with his firm BCT Architects.

“I have a theory that people really enjoy being places they’re not supposed to,” Turner says. “I think that’s true in Fells. If you can have seating in a parking space, even in the road, it can be an interesting experience. We needed a perimeter around the seating area, and we thought, ‘How can we do that?’ We didn’t have a lot of funding. So we decided to use repurposed materials.”

The parklets are constructed from reclaimed pallets, crates, and large electrical cable spools, and they’re accented with plants and flowers.

“We didn’t want businesses who are already hurting to have to spend a bunch of money on planters and dividers,” Smith says. “I’m just bowled over with the creativity of what people are doing and how great they’re making these look. It’s been really impressive.”

On Tuesday, June 23, volunteers and restaurant staff brought their own circle saws and got to work cutting pallets, cleaning bike racks, and sprucing up the landscaping.

“It was very community-based,” says volunteer and Fells Point resident Samantha Wilkes. “There was coffee and donuts. Folks were walking by and were interested in what was going on. Some people stopped to help for a bit, then kept walking. Everyone was sharing tools. There were good vibes all around.”

The Point in Fells owner Erica Russo says that she worked with fellow Thames Street bar and restaurant owners to come up with parklets that mimicked Turner’s design.

“We bounced ideas off each other to make sure they were structurally sound and safe,” she says. Around 10 members of Russo’s staff helped construct The Point’s parklet, along with two regulars who came out to lend a hand.

“Some people aren’t ready to sit inside a restaurant, even with 50 percent capacity,” she says. “I think being outside in the summer, [the parklets] will revitalize the area and bring life to restaurants that might not have survived without them.”

The designs are also meant to help curb some of the crowds that have routinely gathered in Broadway Square, a practice that began when bars and restaurants were only serving takeout.

“We hope the outdoor dining will have a positive effect on the neighborhood,” Smith says. “We don’t know whether [the crowds] will continue or not, but we’re hoping the outdoor dining displaces some of the partiers.”

Adds Russo: “With such a thriving area of locals, tourists, and visitors, it’s been rough trying to get everyone back open and follow the rules. Fells Point is a big public open space, so we’re hoping that by using some of that space to create areas for people to sit and dine and enjoy beverages, it will help control the crowds. I think this is really a lifesaver to a lot of restaurants down here.”

And it might not be long before we see the parklets expand beyond Thames. Smith says she’s been discussing outdoor dining expansion plans with businesses on the 700 and 800 blocks of Broadway—including Abbey Burger Bistro and Max’s Taphouse.

“We’re putting a lot of effort into making the neighborhood safe and friendly to all,” Russo says. “Whether they’re tourists or residents, we want everyone to be able to come out in a respectable manner, feel safe, and support local.”

Ashish Alfred, owner of Duck Duck Goose in Fells Point, as well as Duck Duck Goose and George’s Chophouse in Bethesda, has long shared his harrowing story of drug addiction. Ironically, he says, in some ways getting sober—exactly six years ago this month—has helped him cope with the COVID crisis.

“People in sobriety are almost better armed for this,” says Alfred. “We are somewhat accustomed to being with our own thoughts and dealing with those things and processing things.”

Hospitality workers are particularly poised for survival, he says. “Restaurant people are some of the toughest people in the world—we will find a way to get all of our people back to work and we will find a way to come back better than before, though it’s going to be a tough road getting there.”

How are you doing?
What’s really tough is that any time you find a moment of peace, the first thing that crosses your mind is your staff. We do our due diligence to make sure that everyone who works for us is within the letter of the law as far as their immigration status goes, but, in spite of that, people are still able to get forged documents and get hired. I worry about that group of people very, very much and it gives me a very uneasy, almost nauseating feeling to think about how these people are getting through. These people have worked so hard, be it a year or eight years, to build a life for themselves. For them to not know where their next meal is coming from is awful.

You’ve had your struggles, you’ve been brought to your knees from drug addiction—has that steeled you to survive this?
I’m not one to preach to anyone, but I would give caution that sooner or later, we will come out on the other side of this. If people don’t take steps to care for themselves in the right way during this downtime, it’s going to be very difficult to transition back to regular life at the end of all this. Sleeping all day is not the answer, drinking all day is not the answer. My two cents that I’ve given my staff is to try to find some sense of normalcy.

Everyone I know in my sober network has been doing pretty well, though I’m sure that’s not the case for everyone. For me, it knocked me out of my routine—it messed up my eating, sleeping, and gym schedule. For the first six or eight days, I was unreachable. I was hardly eating. I was lying in bed all day and sleeping. I was super-depressed.

“If people don’t take steps to care for themselves in the right way during this downtime, it’s going to be very difficult to transition back to regular life at the end of all this. Sleeping all day is not the answer, drinking all day is not the answer.”
—Ashish Alfred

I know you emptied your inventory after you closed and gave the food to your staff. That must have been such a difficult day.
It was heartbreaking. I cried in front of the staff. I didn’t know what to tell them. These people have come to me for everything, ‘Can you help me fill out this paper for my daughter’s school?’ Of if they buy a car, they want to bring the car to me so I can see it. It was an indescribable event.

You’ve been outspoken about encouraging consumers not to use dining apps, even making an Instagram video with a plea to consumers. Can you talk about that?
Restaurants in Baltimore and D.C. have done well because we’ve come together as family to support each other. I’m not in a position where I can donate a lot of money to a whole bunch of people, but if I can somehow make a difference and save restaurants from paying super high commissions, then that’s a good day at the office.

[Dining app companies] are saying, ‘Hey help us help restaurants. Order from them now to help them out.’ They’ll say no delivery fees, well that does nothing for the restaurant. I’d like to see them waive their fees until we see our way out of this thing.

You haven’t been offering carryout, but I know you plan to start this week. Why the change of heart?

We’re going to try to do takeout, and, because I’ve made such a stink of it, were going to try to be open without the apps. We will launch this Friday at all three restaurants. People need to realize that the money restaurants are making from carryout is just to support their staff. No one is making money. People are doing this just to keep their staff afloat.

What kinds of things will be on the carryout menu at Duck Duck Goose?

We are going to do foods that will travel well and we will include a set of instructions for heating. We will definitely have our foie gras tournedos. Nothing makes quarantine better than foie gras. We will also have risotto and zero-proof cocktails for people who are tired of drinking or people who are tired of drinking soda water.

“I have learned from this that I am not my restaurants, my restaurants are not me. Life and things will be okay. That’s not what anyone wants to hear right now, but it’s important to remember that.”

What do you think the landscape will look like when this is over?
I had a dinner scheduled at the James Beard house in May, which was cancelled. I had the opportunity to talk to their director, Izabela Wojcik, and we talked for 30 minutes about what restaurants will look like at the end of this. I am sure it will be a little while before people are eager to pile on top of each other into a place, or wait in an eight-by-eight foyer while they are on a 45-minute wait for a table, but I’m sure we will find a way.

Will people leave the profession?
If you’ve been a restauranteur for five, 10, or 20 years, you’re not going to say, ‘I’m going to be an accountant.’ No, you’re going to go right back to restaurants. People will always need a place to go eat.

What have you learned from all of this?

The liberating thing that might be important for other restaurateurs to hear is that this is a very busy business—we give all of ourselves to this, whether you’ve got a bar that serves wings and pizza or a fine-dining restaurant. If you’re in the restaurant business, it really takes up a lot of your time, but I have learned from this that I am not my restaurants, my restaurants are not me. Life and things will be okay. That’s not what anyone wants to hear right now, but it’s important to remember that.

What’s the first thing you’re going to do when this is over?

I’m going to hug my mother. And put a post-dated paycheck in the hands of every single person who works for me.

6:15 A.M. FRESH START

This is way earlier than I usually wake up. The store opens at 11, and my sleep schedule has definitely adjusted to the later start. That said, the past two years have seen a lot of good habits fall by the wayside. A 7 a.m. class at Pilates House in Fells Point is an attempt to get one of them back.

9 A.M. PLAYTIME

Time to walk the dog in Patterson
Park. Audie is pretty much my
constant companion. As much as
she likes being in the shop and
getting love all day every day
from her regular visitors, I try to
give her enough outdoor time to
keep her energetic and healthy. Plus, she loves to watch the squirrels run around.

10:30 A.M. BACK TO WORK

Head to the Remington store to open up and begin the day. I start by filling special orders and reordering anything we need back in stock. A few vendors come by and drop off products. I love working with other small businesses in the city; it’s such a collaborative and supportive environment.

12 P.M. IN THE WEEDS

Meet with a publisher’s sales rep to go over my order for the upcoming season. I heard a bookstore owner joke once that opening a bookstore means you stop reading books and start reading catalogs. That’s not entirely, or even remotely, wrong.

3 P.M. HUSTLIN’

Leave the store in the capable hands of my new booksellers to run errands. The second store has been a big adjustment to my schedule; I’m busier but also have more time and flexibility to get housekeeping and administrative things done.

5 P.M. AFTER HOURS

Pick up Audie and walk to the Fells Point store. I’ve been doing special evening hours for book club members. It’s a fun way to see and thank this great group of people who have become my reading community.

9 P.M. IN A DAY’S WORK

Home. Take out the laptop to answer emails and do some buying for the store. I read for a while, but my eyes and brain are tired. I’ll fall asleep to the dulcet tones of Paul Hollywood critiquing people’s proofing times on the Great British Baking Show, and get ready to do it all again tomorrow.

Since 2016, Baby’s on Fire, the cozy coffee spot/record store in Mt. Vernon, has been a haven for vinyl lovers and chai latte-sippers alike.

So when it was announced that owners David and Shirlé Koslowski were partnering with Michael Bowen (formerly of the Ottobar) to bring their musical minds and cafe fare to Fells Point in November, there was plenty of local buzz. Combine that with a location in the former vinyl room of seminal record store The Sound Garden and a new bar program, and you’ve got a recipe for an irresistible all-day hangout. In a neighborhood with plenty of options for beer, wings, and a raucous evening crowd, Baby’s offers a calmer, more conversational atmosphere.

The Sound Garden’s records have been cleared out (not to worry, they still fill the back half of the store) to reveal a large space filled with comfy window seats, a tall communal table, and a custom bar. Local art hangs on the walls, and a chalkboard calendar gives a run-down of the week’s events: karaoke, a free art opening, industry night. It’s a small sampling of what the Koslowskis and Bowen want to do with the space.

In December, The Sound Garden hosted alt-rockers Silversun Pickups ahead of their Rams Head Live! stop, bringing fans into the cafe for a sort of intimate pregame with the band, including a performance and record signing. Events like that—as well as singer- songwriter performances and residencies, art openings, and trivia nights—are fun additions to the everyday vibe of Baby’s Fells Point, which has managed to mimic what makes its big sister spot so good: It’s for everybody.

“We want to get back to that sense of community,” says David. “It’s been really rewarding for us, and it sort of like feels like we can give back to our city by feeding them, keeping them caffeinated, or giving them a safe space to hang out and meet people.”

Affordable quality was top of mind when David and Bowen developed the new bar program, which is unique to the Fells Point location. Old world wines and local beers dominate the bar menu, but no glass will set you back more than $12. When it comes to breakfast and lunch, omnivores have plenty of options, but vegetarians and vegans will welcome Shirlé’s menu of plant-forward sandwiches, salads, and even a rotating twist on vegan mac and cheese.

“There’s a few things that Baby’s has wanted to do from the get go, and we’re continu- ing to do them here. One is to have a really friendly staff, two is to deliver quality food and drink, and three is to do it in an unpretentious way,” David says. “Everybody can enjoy good things.”

Beginning with the opening of the Greek-isles-inspired Ouzo Bay in 2012, Atlas Restaurant Group has gone all over the globe, with stops in Japan (Azumi), Italy (Tagliata, Italian Disco), Latin America (Maximón), and, soon, France (Monarque). But while the restaurant group has been around the world, it’s finally firmly rooted in Baltimore with The Choptank. Inside the newly renovated Broadway Market in Fells Point, Choptank bills itself as a “classic fish and crabhouse,” but it’s way more than that.

For starters, there’s a locally loved chef—Andrew Weinzirl of Maggie’s Farm fame—an adult playground with ping-pong, pool, and foosball tables, cornhole in place of the usual Keno, century-old photographs of Fells Point (no stuffed marlins or knotty pine here), and live music nightly. If there’s smoke outside on the patio, it’s likely from cigars, not cigarettes.

It’s a crabhouse, yes, but one with swagger. There’s also a menu full of finds and all the bells and whistles of a landmark in the making. When it comes to Maryland menus, it doesn’t get more Old Line than this: There’s crab soup, Monkton-sourced Roseda pit beef, Maryland crab dip, hard shells (sourced locally when available), Sweet Jesus oysters from the Chesapeake Bay, and Natty Boh’s Beer Can Chicken.

In many ways, this might be my favorite of Atlas’ 13 local spots, which can sometimes feel overly thematic. There’s a theme here for sure, but it’s the story of our state and one fitting for a restaurant set inside the historic south shed of Broadway Market, a place that once served the sailors and immigrants of Fells and is named for the Native American tribe that occupied the Choptank river basin in 1668.

Pretzel monkey bread

Rockfish Oscar

In addition to Atlas co-owners, and born-and-bred Maryland brothers, Alex and Eric Smith, there’s a third partner, Vasilios “Bill” Tserkis, who owns the nearby Captain James Landing crabhouse, which his family has owned and operated for more than five decades. Which is to say, the fabric of that heritage and history are woven into the walls here.

On my first visit, the place was packed in the still-warm fall weather. Of course, there was buzz surrounding the controversial dress code rules (no baggy clothing, no shorts below the knee, no sunglasses after dark) when the place opened in August, which seems to only have increased its popularity. (The dress code has since been amended.)

Throngs of patrons crowded outside, and since it was still in season, the requisite mallets and brown paper lined every picnic table. Inside is a more refined, yet casual space, where designer Patrick Sutton wisely retained the look and the feel of the original market, with its soaring wood-beamed ceilings. Blue and white table- ware and napkins and servers in denim shirts and boating shoes carry through the nautical theme, as does a giant crab rising like a phoenix over the raw-bar area. A Black-Eyed Susan, our state flower, graces every table.

Food-wise, we enjoyed almost everything we ate. The Maryland crab soup was a classic rendition with a tasty tomato broth and large chunks of crab meat; fried green tomatoes add a southern spin to the appetizer section, this version was topped with a blue crab and corn salad and Old Bay aioli. We also enjoyed the pull-apart pretzel monkey bread with Old Bay butter, a dippable cheese sauce, and mustard. An ahi tuna salad was nicely presented with thick slices of seared tuna coated in sesame seeds, served over greens with a tart-and-tangy ponzu dressing.

Our entrees included a luscious crab cake platter with broiled jumbo lump. While many places say that they serve Maryland or Gulf crab meat, there’s no question you’re getting quality crustaceans here. The cake was well-portioned and incredibly sweet, with that great crabby flavor that only comes from blue crab. (Little did I know that the following week, The Sun would publish a scathing review, leading the publication and the restaurant to get into a crab cake kerfuffle.)

I also enjoyed the accompanying sides. The fries and coleslaw, ordinarily throwaway accoutrements, were house-made. We also shared the beer-battered fish tacos. While tasty, they were overly fried, though I took note of the price point of this item, and many items, on the menu at a restaurant group that usually offers much more expensive plates.

Since no night out is complete without a sweet, we settled on the Berger cookie bread pudding: Berger cookies and a heap of Old Bay caramel ice cream from Maryland’s own Taharka Brothers mixed into chocolate brioche bread budding. It was the right side of sweet, and I appreciated the effort that went into creating house-made cookies.

By the time of my second visit, the crab controversy was the talk of the town, and I knew that I needed to return for another visit. Taste is, after all, subjective, but just in case my palate was having an off night, I brought along one of the preeminent experts on Chesapeake cuisine as my dining companion. This time, we ordered the buttermilk fried chicken sandwich (move over, Popeye’s) and a crab cake sandwich.

The verdict? While it seemed to have slightly less lump than the cakes on the platter, I loved the pairing of creamy (tartar-style remoulade) and crisp (fennel slaw) to offset the sweet meat. It’s a damn good cake, with made-in-Maryland pride evident in every bite. My mallet has fallen.

THE CHOPTANK 1641 Aliceanna St., 443-707-3364. HOURS: Sun.-Sat. 11 a.m.-2 a.m. PRICES: Appetizers, soups, salads: $6-18; sandwiches: $12-29; entrees: $18-39; desserts: $6-8. AMBIANCE: Upscale crabhouse.

From boarding sailors to hosting the Association of Maryland Pilots in the mid nineteenth century, the rounded corner building on Thames and Bond streets comes with a storied history. For 70 years, it’s been operating as the family-run Duda’s Tavern, established in 1949 by Walter and Pauline Duda.

Their daughter, Antoinette, and her husband, John Flury, have owned the Fells Point tavern for many years now, and they added the kitchen in the ‘70s—which now turns out some of the best crab cakes in town. (The bar has also become a destination for weekly specials including $15 crab cakes on Tuesdays, half-price burgers on Wednesdays, and steak nights every Thursday.)

“Back then, the only places serving food at the time were Jimmy’s [Restaurant] and Bertha’s,” Flury says. “We got in on the ground floor, and it took off from there.”

Today, Antoinette and John’s son, Scott Curlee, runs Duda’s day-to-day operations as general manager. Curlee worked in Duda’s kitchen as a teenager until he joined the marines. After his service, he returned to Baltimore and bartended at Duda’s for several years.

“I’ve seen everything change around us,” Curlee says. “The things I remember before being here, now it’s just empty warehouses. But we’ve always adapted and kept moving forward, just trying to keep people in here. Reaching 70 years is definitely a huge milestone.”

When Walter and Pauline first opened Duda’s, the tavern was a beer-and-shot bar. A mortician, Walter previously owned a funeral home until, as Curlee explains it, he left the trade because, “he wanted to start working with the living.”

At the time of Duda’s debut, Fells Point’s economic basis had “bottomed out,” says David Gleason, president of the Society for the Preservation of Federal Hill and Fell’s Point. Waterfront warehouses had little activity. Some shipping was coming in to the docks, but not much.

“There really hadn’t been any investment in Fells Point since the 1900s,” Gleason says. “Blocks on Thames, Bond, and Caroline were pretty much empty. A lot of [Duda’s clientele] were retirees, people who worked in the shipyards. A lot of them rented rooms in the neighboring houses.”

By the time Antoinette and John took the reigns, the tavern was often serving the blue-collar workers in the neighborhood from nearby factories like the Allied Chemical Company. Gleason says in the ’70s, Fells Point was rediscovered as a great bar scene, which reinvigorated the neighborhood.

After they added the kitchen, Flury, who had a restaurant background, says there was no full menu—just a raw bar with some oysters and clams. Dining tables and chairs replaced the pool table.

“When the factories closed in the mid-80s, we lost that business,” Flury explains. Duda’s Tavern might not have survived after that, he adds, especially if a certain proposed highway expansion, which included I-83 running through Fells Point, had succeeded. That proposal, of course, was shot down after community opposition.

“All of those boarded up houses in the neighborhood were then sold to people,” Flury says. “So it was a smooth segway from factory workers to young people renovating those homes. That highway would have probably killed us—or at least put in a serious dent.”

On its corner perch, Duda’s prevails today, and its history is on display before you even walk in. Situated to the right of the entrance is a plaque commemorating the building as the original home of the Association of Maryland Pilots, founded in 1852. It operated there for 30 years. The association even celebrated its 150th anniversary at Duda’s, with a party and live band.

“One thing Duda’s still has: It’s a neighborhood gathering spot,” Gleason says. “It’s really one of those special places in Fells Point that gives the neighborhood its unique character.”

John says he and Antoinette hope to stay on until the tavern reaches 75 years, but it’s increasingly tough for them. “It’s a lot of work,” he says. But Curlee is ready to step into their shoes when the time comes.

“It’s been a fun ride,” Flury says. “And what makes it so fun is the people.”

Baltimore-born chef Andrew Weinzirl made his name with the farm-to-fork Maggie’s Farm in Lauraville. His newest gig is executive chef at The Choptank, Atlas Restaurant Group’s classic seafood house in Fells Point. Weinzirl’s first job in the industry was at a Ruby Tuesday’s in Westminster. “I was amazed that I could make eight dollars an hour,” he says with a laugh. “I took the job and immediately liked the intensity of it. In every place I’ve worked, I’ve always enjoyed the camaraderie in the kitchen. You become this family with these people you see more than any other family members.” We spoke with chef about his transition from smaller spots to The Choptank, where he likes to dine in Charm City, and whether the farm-to-table trend has gone too far.

What’s it been like for you to transition from smaller places like Maggie’s Farm, and more recently The Brewer’s Art, to The Choptank?
Making that leap to Atlas and working with [co-owners] Alex and Eric [Smith] and [partner] Billy [Tserkis] has been a great experience from the beginning. Billy and I put our heads together to find balance between the food I’d done before and what’s served at traditional Maryland crab house. When we were doing the tastings, I definitely had some ambitious goals on the menu. When we opened the first weekend with 1,000 covers on a Saturday, the stuff I couldn’t conceptualize before it happened had to be scaled down and leveled out.

So what went by the wayside?
The more chef-driven things the little garnishes at The Brewer’s Art or Maggie’s Farm. I had a lot more time to detail dishes and add garnishes. It was a little different owning a 50-seat restaurant or working at The Brewer’s Art with 150 seats.

What did you eat when you were growing up?
My family wasn’t big into food at all. We ate a lot of fast food and convenience food when I was growing up in Arundel and Carroll County. We had our spots that we went to as a family. They were mostly Italian-American spots for special occasions. We weren’t into fine dining.

How did you learn to cook?
I went to Baltimore International College and externed at Linwoods in Owings Mills. I worked with a great sous chef who took me under his wing, and that was it.

Where do you like to eat in Baltimore?
Right now, Azumi is my favorite restaurant in the city. Outside of that, I love Hersh’s and Orto—those are the places I gravitate to more. I know both of those chefs really well.

What are your thoughts on the farm-to-table trend as someone who was practicing it a decade ago? Has it gone too far?
At a certain point, restaurants were taking themselves way too seriously and it got to the point of satire with paragraph explanations about sourcing on menus, though it was all well-intentioned. There are a lot of great farms in Maryland and they work really hard to supply the restaurants. For the amount of restaurants trying to source sustainability, there’s not enough product to go around and chefs want it all the same time of year. There are only so many One Straw Farms and Moon Valley Farms. You have to supplement it somewhere. It’s great that it got people to pay attention to where their food is from.

Give us your elevator pitch for why people should patronize The Choptank?
The owners are people who grew up in this area and wanted to build a restaurant that was going to be an icon—not only for Fells Point, but for Baltimore. When people have friends and family here, they want people to come and taste Baltimore and elevated Maryland food that’s done right. That’s what this place is going to become.

Editor’s Note: The Points South drag brunch has found a new home. Starting this Sunday, November 10, the event will be held at Bookmakers Cocktail Club in Federal Hill. Check out the event’s Facebook page for more info.

Last Friday, Points South Latin Kitchen in Fells Point was abruptly shut down by its landlords. Though official details behind the closure are still unknown, it left one of Baltimore’s most popular and celebrated drag brunches without a home.

Drag queen Brooklyn Heights, the host and impresario of the brunch, now finds herself in the unfortunate position of having to find a new venue for the recurring Sunday event, which is sold out through November.

Guests who purchased tickets for last Sunday’s brunch received direct notification from Brooklyn that the event was cancelled, as well as a refund. But Brooklyn is determined that this weekend’s show will go on.

“We have the reservations,” she says. “We have the people. We just need to find the venue.”

A few places have reached out and offered up their space, including The Hard Rock Cafe and Power Plant Live. Right now, Brooklyn is weighing her options.

“I don’t want to jump from here to here,” she says. “It’s not a good look. It’ll just confuse patrons.”

For now, she says that those with brunch reservations should stand by until further notice.

“We’ve been doing this every Sunday for four years,” sighs Brooklyn, who admits it’s been a “rough” few days. “I just want people to know that we’re doing everything we can to find a new home.”

Points South opened in the former home of Anastasia on Thames Street in March 2016. It quickly became known for its Latin American fare and accompanying margaritas and sangria, and debuted its weekly drag brunches soon after.

As Points South co-owner and managing partner Bryson Keens—whom Brooklyn said is like a “father” to the drag queens—sadly told Brooklyn: “It’s not the end [of the brunch]. It’s just the end of an era.”