In early November, 216 Read Street was abuzz on the western edge of Mount Vernon. People from across the city were browsing through color-coded shelves of clothing at the new Tall Grass boutique. They hugged friends, sipped wine, danced to DJ Pangelica, and admired the beautifully decorated cake at the center of the opening-night celebrations.

Saba McCoy wasn’t quite sure how the night would go, but the packed room was confirmation of her decision to open her first store, which had been a dream of hers for years.

Inspired by the self-help book The Artist’s Way, she finally said those words out loud during a dinner party last February with friends. Serendipitously, Mo Rothman, who was thinking about closing the brick-and-mortar for her beloved Bottle of Bread vintage shop, was there. It suddenly became clear that this was where McCoy’s new business should be. After Rothman made her last sale that summer, McCoy moved in.

“I felt like I would always regret it if I didn’t just take that opportunity,” says McCoy, who also works as a full-time brand strategist.

Part of the allure was that she’d been working from home and wanted to better connect with her community, having returned to her childhood home of Baltimore from New York a few years earlier. She felt eager to contribute something meaningful to her hometown. “I wanted to do a thing where I felt really out in the world.”

That spark, combined with her careful eye and intentional curation, is now a reality in a bright, airy shop with white walls, eclectic accent furniture, and a sophisticated mix of vintage finds and contemporary designer pieces. Everything she sells is stuff she loves or wears herself. And her eye for detail is everywhere.

The opening party also hinted at McCoy’s deeper vision. More than just clothes, the space feels part gallery, part showroom, part creative incubator.

Contemporary artworks, many sourced by her mother—an Eritrean native and lifelong appreciator and collector of the arts—line the interior, celebrating both her individual style and her East African heritage. She plans to activate the outdoor area with intimate performances and collaborate with Therefore, a nearby creative space, for pop-ups.

Located halfway between Park Avenue and Chase Street, Tall Grass sits on a block experiencing a quiet renaissance. Nearby, Black-owned independent businesses such as Mt. Vernon Records, Bluestone Goldsmithing, and a Cakes In The City have also opened, creating a corridor of creativity and design-forward retail.

For McCoy, the goal of Tall Grass is simple: create a space where people feel welcome, connect with objects and each other, and leave inspired. The shop is open on Saturdays and Sundays from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.

“Come in and say hello,” she says.

Home Sweet Home: Our home is a mix of traditional and more contemporary styles. We are drawn more to the design and color of pieces than to particular styles or periods. Each piece we have speaks to us in some way. Our goal is to mix a lot of interesting furniture pieces and art, so it looks like the rooms have evolved over a period of time. We’re also very practical—there’s always a light next to a chair and a small table to rest your glass.

A History Lesson: Our three-story Federal townhouse is one of six brick townhouses built in the Federal style in 1816 by Robert Carey Long Sr. He was the first native-born Baltimore architect who designed several notable buildings, including Davidge Hall at the University of Maryland Medical School and The Peale museum.

Several of the houses were expanded and changed architecturally many years ago, but ours and two others retain their initial footprint and many of the original architectural details. The molding details and stair handrail are very similar to those in The Peale.

Counter Space: It’s always the same in every house we’ve lived in: We hang out in the kitchen. It’s certainly the most transformed room in the house. What we’ve created feels appropriate and respectful of the house and works well for 21st-century living.

The Papered Wall: Powder rooms are follies, and we were searching for a Baltimore toile, something similar to the Harlem toile Sheila Bridges designed for the one off our kitchen. We wanted a very old and traditional form reinterpreted in a thoroughly modern way.

We didn’t discover a toile, but we did discover Elizabeth Graeber’s charming and whimsical wallpaper love letter to Baltimore. It’s very fun and everyone comments on it, whether they’re a local or a transplant.

Sentimental Value: We always seem to be at the head of the line when a family member asks: “Would anyone like this?” We never say no to anything. But, in all seriousness, the stories behind these pieces, and the continuity of a storyline are important to us. The connection and the backstory are often more interesting than the pieces themselves. How do we know where we’re going without knowing where we’ve been?

The Stewards: We bought our home from a man who lived there for over 40 years with his partner. It was important to him that the next owners remain sensitive to the house’s history and architectural integrity. We are trying to live up to these expectations.

Walk into The Buttonwood, down the street from The Walters Art Museum in Mt. Vernon, and you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d wandered into an interior design store instead of a restaurant.

There are statues, fountains, mirrors, figurines, and illuminated shelves filled with ceramics crowding the front of the space, which is painted showroom white, lit by skylights, and features a gorgeous parquet-style wood floor. When you venture further inside, you realize there are tables and chairs: church benches, marble cafe tables, and fan-like porter chairs with velvet cushions—part Episcopalian shabby-chic, part A Passage to India.

This is Minh Quang Vo’s latest project, envisioned as both restaurant and retail space, though only the former has been realized so far. Vo, who owns The Bun Shop half a mile north on Read Street and another one in Towson, opened The Buttonwood at the end of December.

“It’s a bougie Cracker Barrel with retail,” he says with a wide smile. What that means, at least to Vo, is a menu that travels the globe as much as he did before he got into the restaurant business.

Before opening The Bun Shop, Vo was a PhD candidate in sciences at Johns Hopkins. And before that, he was something of a world traveler, visiting places that would later inspire his menu, including Spain, South America, and Uganda. He moved to Baltimore from West Palm Beach, and The Buttonwood is named for his favorite South Florida tree—he even had plans to replant one from Florida, though it didn’t survive the journey, which is why it’s now been painted gold and installed under a skylight among the tables.

“I like the beauty of a well-designed experiment,” says Vo one afternoon from behind the long marble cocktail bar at the back of the restaurant, his long dark hair secured with a fork.

Vo, it should be said, is not only The Buttonwood’s sole owner and designer but also its chef. The menu thus features a fantastic version of parkora, Indian-style fritters with cilantro chutney; Vietnamese braised spareribs and a stellar version of a bánh mì; a bulgogi melt, kind of like a Korean Reuben sandwich; and tandoori fried chicken.

There’s also a terrific egg sandwich called a Ugandan Rolex. It’s a popular street food that Vo lived on when he was in Uganda, here made from an omelet, vegetables, and paratha, the Indian flat bread.

If you ask nicely, your server may refill your dish of cilantro chutney, a blissful condiment that is somehow both hot and cooling and pairs well with many things on the menu, including the fries that come with that excellent bánh mì.

The Buttonwood is an odd and marvelous mash-up of things, both on the menu and in the space itself. Even the floor has a story: Vo says that he befriended a number of squeegee boys at his Mt. Vernon Bun Shop, who ended up helping him build out The Buttonwood, including the floor, which they fashioned out of used wooden pallets.

“It’s not a cuisine, it’s a concept,” says Vo of his restaurant. “Really, I just wanted to make beautiful spaces.”

THE BUTTONWOOD: 527 N. Charles St., Baltimore, 667-260-4534. HOURS: Fri., Sat. 11 a.m. to midnight; Sun., Mon., Wed., Thurs. 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. PRICES: Starters: $7.50-9.50; sandwiches and entrees: $10.50-22; dessert: $10.

Quincy Goldsmith has lived and worked just about everywhere, thanks to a father who was in the military and, later, because of his own work as an engineer designing steel and aluminum for the Japanese auto industry. And the first thing he always noticed when he flew into any new country—especially when he had his first meal—was the plant life.

“You’re eating different types of plant vegetation and drinking spirits,” says Goldsmith 54. “Many times it’s based on what’s grown in those areas.”

When he retired in November 2018, Goldsmith realized he could combine all the things he loved—plants, cocktails, art, community, and his curiosity about the world—into one business, and Stem & Vine opened its brick-and-mortar in December 2023. He sees a real link between his career as an engineer and what he’s doing now.

“I was working in metals—that’s from the ground—it’s a natural science. And plants are science. They all come out of the ground.”

Goldsmith had been looking for the right space for his plant shop when he heard about Mt. Vernon’s Brown’s Arcade. Back in 1904, architect Henry Brauns had taken a bunch of rowhouses and turned them into the original Brown’s Arcade, a high-end, mixed-use office and retail space that stretched from Charles Street west to Saratoga Street.

That first Brown’s Arcade concept essentially died after WWII, but in 2021, it was brought back to life with a $2.5-million renovation that transformed the buildings once again, updating retail space and adding 15 new apartments. Viva Books opened in May of 2021 and, two years later, much to the surprise of his landlord, Goldsmith decided to take the remaining business spaces so he could also have the interior courtyard and fulfill his vision.

The idea behind Stem & Vine is that it’s “aggregated by different parts of the world—Asia, Australia, Africa, and the Americas,” says Goldsmith. He groups the plants, spirits, and wine from those areas together inside the shop. “We want to tell cultural tales that are botanical.” He says this kind of classification can be eye-opening for some customers, who tend to think their plants merely come from the store and rarely consider their origins.

“We’re connecting spirits with plants, but also adding a cultural component to it. I mean, these plants are all tropical. That means they’re from Black or brown places. This is a way that we can connect with our culture,” he says. “It’s a way to educate—you know that plant you have isn’t from Home Depot—it’s from the Cameroons, it’s from Vietnam, it’s from Mexico.”

Goldsmith points to a bottle of Don Papa rum—“my favorite rum is from the Philippines. It’s a little odd, right? But if you think about it, who colonized the Philippines?” (The Philippines was part of the Spanish Empire for over 300 years; Spanish settlers first arrived in the 1500s.) He’s offering merch with a big scoop of history.

“To say we are ‘just a plant shop’ disregards so much else.”

And unlike other plant shops where you shop and leave, Stem & Vine encourages the linger. There is a full bar with beverage director K. Starks on hand. The many weekly programs—Goldsmith has a dedicated classroom—include ceramic pot making, terrarium building, spirit tasting, and herbal skincare. The art on the wall, all plant-inspired, is for sale and curated by Black Art Today, a nonprofit out of Upper Marlboro. The shelves are also filled with items from local businesses. “There are about 50 women-owned businesses that we support,” says Goldsmith.

Goldsmith is also one of the city’s biggest champions, sitting on boards at South Baltimore Gateway Partnership, the Baltimore Museum of Industry, Southwest Baltimore Charter School, and the CURE Scholars Program at University of Maryland, Baltimore.

“There are so many positive things going on,” he says. “I’m very civically involved in the city. And there are wonderful things being done by incredible people, but it’s not out there.”

He hopes Stem & Vine is the kind of place, with its “nurturing, positive, creative atmosphere,” that attracts others who want positive change in the city.

“I’m very glad that we’re not in Towson. I’m glad we’re in this area, where it’s the fastest growing neighborhood in the city. There are tons of people here from all over the world. Hopkins students who can come and have a safe space. Our customers are 80-percent women in a city that’s 35-percent women of color.”

He knows it’s unusual to use the term “safe space” when it comes to a plant shop, but he sees his shop as a kind of cultural therapy. “You get to enjoy this art and see Baltimore in a way that hasn’t been seen by you or others before; we want to be something different.”

He doesn’t allow teleworking in his space, despite all the tables, just good old-fashioned conversations. “I have a minor in psychology and probably use that way more than the engineering,” he laughs. And now he can add horticulturist to his skill set.

When customers ask for recommendations for a starter plant, Goldsmith might suggest a hearty snake plant, but he also has a thing for “big plants.” They are very forgiving, he says. The Union Square home he shares with his wife, Kendrea Clark Goldsmith, is filled with three 10-foot-plus ficus trees. (One made the cover of the BmoreArt “More Is More” issue.)

He doesn’t believe buying plants should happen online. “I call this experiential retail. I want you to come here and see and enjoy this, and make a decision, and then go home. As opposed to just the instant gratification of pushing a button and opening your door and there it is, right?”

The meet and greet between plant and owner is part of the process, he stresses. “I want folks to slow down and learn that these plants are just teachers who say, ‘treat me right, be consistent, do positive things, and then I’m going to reward you with a leaf every now and then.’”

Goldsmith treads lightly when it comes to being downright critical of the “garden industry,” but says he believes they have “done a very, very poor job of recognizing their minority audiences” and teaching about plant pedigree. He knows he can’t reach everyone, but hopes his shop, nestled between Mick O’Shea’s Irish Pub and Lumbini, an Indian and Nepalese restaurant, can bring a bit of clarity without being overly preachy or pigeonholing himself.

“My target audience is 38-year-old Black women professionals in Baltimore,” he says. “But this is for everybody. I don’t want this to be the ‘Black plant shop.’ That’s definitely not what I want. I want everyone to come here and be comfortable and enjoy everyone. And they are,” he stresses.

“It’s funny—three times a day people come in and ask, ‘Are the plants for sale?’ Like, okay, it’s a lot of decoration otherwise. ‘Yes, they’re for sale! Please buy them and take them home.’ You know, everybody’s like, ‘Oh, I want to live here.’ No, you can’t live here. But you can take what’s here home with you and make your home look like this.”

He’s joking, but he has struggled a bit to clarify the store’s hybrid identity. Still, Goldsmith sees that as motivation, not a deterrent.

When he was putting together his original business plan, he kept being told, “Don’t try to do too much, focus on one thing, be the best at that one thing, don’t confuse the audience,” he says. “And I’m like, you know what? I hear you. But this all ties together. There’s nothing that I’m doing that’s an outlier. This all works, even though it’s a lot. I guess there’s no name for it. But maybe we can come up with one.”

Two large doors on the corner of Preston and Cathedral streets manage to both beckon and deter. They’re mirrored so you can see yourself, but you can’t see in. “The Anonymous. Fine Dining & Lounge. Curve your Curiosity” is written on the awning above. We were indeed curious, so we opened them and stepped inside.

What we found was a stylish and surprisingly large space broken into three distinct areas: the main bar and dining room, a hookah bar, and a lounge in the basement that’s usually open on weekends. On the night we visited, it was hosting a painting event. Each offers its own flair and sense of style. The primary space features large red velvet curtains, eye-catching paintings by Cameroonian artist Awassume Mobune Epie Paul, and a faux grass wall with a large neon “The Anonymous” sign.

Neon is a favorite here. Above a line of flowers behind the bar in the hookah section is another such sign, which proclaims “Worth The Wait.” Downstairs in the lounge is a mural of a bird and yet a third neon sign that reads “The Birdcage.” The building seems familiar, perhaps because it once housed the bookstore Red Emma’s.

It all makes for a showy and stimulating atmosphere, which is what co-owner Raissa Batchankwe was going for when she opened The Anonymous in December 2022.

“Every area has its own aspect—its own vibe, its own colors, its own type of service,” she says.

Top-notch cocktails are available in every part of The Anonymous. The Baecation is Hennessey-based, with blue Curaçao, pineapple juice, and peach schnapps. The Anonymous is made with sweet red wine, orange juice, and pineapple juice. We had an excellent blueberry-basil lemonade and the Legend, a strong drink made with bourbon, melon liqueur, pineapple and cranberry juices, and Sprite. The cocktails are stiff in more ways than one; they don’t lack for liquor but they’re not cheap, ranging in price from $18-22.

The menu includes bar staples like wings and tacos (which are available for discounted prices during happy hour), but also dishes like oxtail eggrolls and sautéed crevette, which is marinated shrimp stir-fried with onion, garlic, peppers, and green onions. It’s served with rice and plantains. There are also steaks, a crab cake, fried catfish, and several sandwiches.

“Most of the food is Western or American food, but we use traditional African spices to make it a little more flavorful,” says Batchankwe, who hails from Cameroon. “We play around with the taste of it. Next year we’re looking to add more African dishes. I really want to present some authentic African cuisine.”

Located across from the Meyerhoff, The Anonymous is a much-needed addition to a neighborhood that lacks pre- and post-show food and drink options. We have a feeling it won’t be a secret for long.

The power is not out at The Coral Wig. We know because music is emanating from the speakers that are…somewhere. We can’t see them, or much of anything else, not that it really matters.

While this might be one of Baltimore’s darkest bars, The Coral Wig is a beacon.

First, about that music. It’s not every day you’re greeted in a bar by a rousing rendition of “Ave Maria” on the sound system. In creating the concept for this stylish bar, located in Mt. Vernon’s Ulysses hotel, Lane Harlan and her musician husband, Matthew Pierce, were inspired by the clubs of 1980s-era Manila, close to where Harlan was born. As in their other establishments—Clavel, W.C. Harlan, and Fadensonnen—the drinks are first-rate and the vibe is all their own.

When we walked through the alley entrance into the bar on a sunny afternoon in August, it took a few minutes for our eyes to adjust. Candles dot the few tables, but drinkers of a certain age (ours) might have to use their phones to illuminate the menu. A black walnut bar and amber stained-glass windows accentuate the aesthetic.

The name comes from a piece of music that Pierce wrote based on an experience he had snorkeling in the Caribbean with Harlan. A school of squid stopped in front of his wife, and her long hair was floating around her, almost like a coral wig.

A fascinating lineup of cocktails, highlighted by a margarita unlike any other we’ve tried, makes drinking in the dark a joy. The Banana Hammock, made with Cimarron tequila blanco, banana, lime, MSG, and lined with Himalayan salt, is a tropical delight. The Painkiller is a clever combo of rhum agricole (a style of rum made from squeezed sugarcane juice) with Sichuan peppercorn, pineapple and orange, coconut cream, and nutmeg. It’s subtle at first but be forewarned: Drink two and you’ll understand its name. The Pink Snapper is the cutest-looking drink of the bunch. Combining Rhum Barbancourt with strawberry, lime, and Sansho peppercorn, it’s one of the sweetest drinks on the menu, but it’s not overpowering or off-putting.

The Coral Wig is not a beer bar, but beer—light or dark are the two choices—is available, along with a few wines. The most interesting part of the menu might be the “suggested spirits,” which include Haitian clairin (a sugarcane spirit), Caribbean cask Scotch from the U.K., and selections from Martinique, Jamaica, Brazil, and Guyana.

Fostering a sense of adventure, in some ways the place exerts a literary vibe. Among the patrons there when we visited was a person reading from a hardcover book (must be the young eyes), and another writing in a notebook, using an actual ink pen. The primary reason for patrons to whip out their phones was the flashlight function.

As we finished our last round, a beautiful Maria Callas aria filled the room. Walking outside into the late happy-hour sunshine, we could see the light.

Jaycee Quitiquit has two passions: brewing coffee and creating art. So, when he became a barista at, it was only natural for him to take up latte art.

“When Café Fili hired me, they didn’t have a wide coffee program—they were more focusing on food,” he says. “I was like, ‘I love coffee and I love art—why not combine them?’”

From Technicolor rainbows and sunflowers to cats and pandas, the self-taught 26-year-old can craft a wide array of designs, but what really sets his work apart is his use of color. “I love the mixing of colors,” he says. “Coffee is brown and dark. Color makes it beautiful.”

As a gay man, he also sees the rainbow hues as part of his personal pride.  “I’m part of the LGBTQ community,” he says. “Putting color on my cup of coffee means I’m part of that society—I want to convey how beautiful that is.”

Quitiquit, who moved to the U.S. in 2017 from the Philippines, comes by his love of coffee by way of his hometown Baguio city, where coffee is king.

“I’m from the mountains,” he says. “In my city, people drink coffee because the climate is cooler. We do a lot of latte art because we love hospitality. We like to go above and beyond.”

Before working at the Mt. Vernon cafe, he had never made java art. “I just started looking at pictures and videos and applying what I learned,” says Quitiquit, who adds food dye to the foam, pushes and pulls it to create shapes, then outlines it with chocolate syrup, all in under a minute so the coffee doesn’t get cold.

Despite his hard work, Quitiquit is not bothered by the fact that his milk foam masterpieces are ephemeral.

“People say, ‘I don’t want to sip this coffee and ruin the art.’ I tell them it gives me a chance to make a new design when they come back.”

It was late, and the next song would have to be the last. As Farrell Maddox cued up the tech-trance “Sandstorm” by Darude, the DJ looked across a churning sea of dancers in the heart of Mt. Vernon, some rocking shirtless on top of the giant speakers, others swaying to the rhythm on the sunken dance floor.

Rainbow disco lights scanned the crowd and a big logo sign hovered behind, its bright pink hippopotamus striking a pose. It was the final night of Baltimore’s iconic Club Hippo—Sept. 26, 2015.

Charles “Chuck” Bowers, the club’s owner of 37 years, watched from the far side of the room. Just before 2 a.m., Maddox caught Bowers’ eye and spoke into the mic.  “Chuck doesn’t have a microphone, so he can’t say anything, but if you can see him, and you see the look on his face, you know where his heart is right now.”

As “Sandstorm” wound up toward its explosive climax, Maddox remembered a favorite song that just had to be played. “Can we do one more?” he asked the crowd. Bowers held up one finger. “Get ready with the strobes,” said Maddox, turning to Norm Hillenburg, who was working lights, before slipping a beloved CD into the player.

It had been a long journey to this final party at one of Baltimore’s longest-standing LGBTQ venues. From the night it opened at the corner of Eager and North Charles streets on July 7, 1972, the Hippo was more than a discotheque. It was the beating heart of the local queer community—a welcoming party with beloved drag shows and karaoke, a place to come together during the AIDS crisis, a site to celebrate the advances in gay rights that occurred over the club’s lifetime.

Most of all, it was a safe haven, where patrons could be themselves and get lost in the disco lights until last call at 1:40 a.m., Tuesday through Sunday. And even after it closed for good, that curved building on a Mt. Vernon crossroads remains an important touchstone of Baltimore history.

Long before the Hippo was a dance hub for all walks of city life, its art deco building had many lives. Starting in 1939, 1 West Eager Street had been the home of the Chanticleer Club, hailed as “America’s Finest Supper Club,” where for almost three decades the city’s well-heeled smoked and drank and danced to live acts by everyone from once-local stars like Billie Holiday and Eubie Blake to national headliners like the June Taylor Dancers and Dean Martin.

It was constructed in the late ’30s and designed by local architect John Poe Tyler, a descendant of President John Tyler and famed poet Edgar Allan Poe, whose office at 347 North Charles Street was also located in the heart of Mt. Vernon. Two homes were demolished to make room for his streamlined corner structure with its signature sensual curves.

In the early 1960s, trombonist Lynn Summerall performed with the Mello Men, a 16-piece band of teenage musicians from a variety of Baltimore high schools. “I remember how exciting it was for these high school boys to put on our electric blue tuxedos and go down to the Chanticleer to play,” says Summerall, now 77. “I was on that dance floor under that same art deco ceiling at age 15 or 16, playing big band music. Little would I have thought that 10 years later I’d be traipsing back to the Hippo in search of young men to dance with.”

The supper club closed in 1967, with societal shifts leading to the demise of café society nationwide, and the building remained vacant for the next five years. Then, in early July 1972, Kenny Elbert and Don Endbinder brought 1 West Eager Street back to life as The Hippopotamus, with the opening weekend boasting “The Biggest and Best Gay Bar in the World!”

At the time, Mt. Vernon had already begun to emerge as the city’s “gayborhood,” with Leon’s bar in operation since 1957 and The Drinkery opening the same year as the Hippo. Named for the dancing pink hippos in Disney’s Fantasia, this new gay nightclub spun mostly disco and R&B records for large crowds on its sprawling dance floor four nights a week. Eventually, mirrors were etched with charming cartoons of the namesake animal, and as drinks were ordered, patrons saw themselves reflected amongst them in a swirl of lights.

“You never entered through the front at the corner of Charles and Eager—you entered on the side [through] the Saloon,” recalls Michal Makarovich, a long-time Hippo patron, referring to the elegant back room advertised for “quiet conversation and subtle cruising.” “But if you turned left, you went down a long hallway, the restrooms were on your right, then you went through the doorway, and there was The Palace.”

He’s talking about the main discotheque, which was sunken 18 inches and flanked by two bars. On a balmy summer opening night, “People were dressed to the hilt,” says Makarovich. “They were really flashy and there were lots of women—you know, at some bars, women would get in the way if you were trying to cruise. But it was a really comfortable place for everyone. A lot of straight people went there.”

Bowers first started as a bookkeeper for Elbert in 1976. “When I entered the Hippo, it was a new world for me,” says the Federal Hill native, who grew up attending local Catholic schools before graduating from Southern High School. “I fell in love with the bar, I fell in love with the community. Disco was knocking on the door. And I walked in at the right time.”

Two years later, with Elbert looking to other ventures, Bowers bought the business, and under his lively creative direction, the Hippo—as it was quickly nicknamed by patrons—entered its heyday. Theme nights were added, including a Sunday Tea dance, beginning at three in the afternoon. Friday was Ladies’ Night in the disco, with Gay Bingo in the Saloon on Wednesday. Men’s Night was wildly popular, recalls veteran bartender Danny Noël, who was crowned as “Mr. Gay Baltimore” at the Hippo in 1988. “The line started at the Saloon door and it would go all the way down to Gampy’s,” aka the now-shuttered Great American Melting Pot, a late-night eatery that stayed open well past last call on 904 North Charles.

Noël, a U.S. Army veteran, slung drinks at the Hippo during the ’80s and ’90s. He fondly remembers when Wednesdays were Big Band Night, featuring the Ed Williams Big Band, a holdover act from the Chanticleer days. “I was a doorman, dressed up in a tuxedo with a top hat, and I would open the door for the people coming in—elderly people, [in their] 70s, 80s, and 90s that remembered the Chanticleer,” says Noël, noting that the crowd was both queer and straight, with drag queen Stacy Maxwell running the coat check. “Oh, it was beautiful, and we had all pink linen tablecloths with beautiful chairs and candles on every table. It was like you walked into the 1930s.”

Now in his 60s, he says the Hippo had outsized importance for young gay men in its early years, calling it “the central place” for not just the city of Baltimore but the entire state. “If you were a country boy from Hagerstown or southern Maryland, you knew you made it in your gay life the moment you were able to walk into the front door of the Hippo,” says Noël. “That’s when you knew you were home.”

The Hippo opened just three years after the Stonewall riots in New York City, when a police raid of a beloved LGBTQ bar led to a violent attack on patrons. It was this historic event that sparked the gay rights movement of the 1970s. Queer people were fighting for basic equality in a resistant America, as were people of color in a quest for civil rights. And in the days of lingering racism following Baltimore’s 1968 riot, the Hippo was not only an inclusive space for the white LGBTQ community, but across color lines, too.

“I didn’t know where I would be welcome, because there are divisions in the gay community, where the Black gays may not like the white gays in their clubs, or the white gays may not want the Black gays in their clubs,” says Kevin Brown, owner of Nancy by SNAC in Station North. “But I didn’t feel that going into the Hippo—I thought it was a new era, a new time. And I met my life mate there. We’ve been together for 33 years now.”

Brown reminisces about the club’s massive Halloween parties, as well as regular Saturday nights, which tended to be the busiest. “The lines would be wrapped around the block, because everybody was welcome there all the time,” he says. “And that’s because of its leadership—Chuck Bowers was a hands-on owner. You saw him in the club. You saw him interact with the patrons. He was providing a safe haven for gays in the community, where they could come and be who they are.”

 

“WALKING INTO THE FRONT DOOR OF THE HIPPO…THAT’S WHEN YOU KNEW YOU WERE HOME. ”

 

Bowers grew up with an earnest work ethic. His father worked three jobs as a trolley car driver, undertaker, and chemist, and it wouldn’t take long for his son to take on a paternal role for his employees and customers, too. “I wanted them all to realize that it was their home,” he says. “I didn’t care who you were, what you were, what color your skin was, as long as you behaved yourself and had a good time. That’s all I cared about.”

During his 37-year reign, “where everyone is welcome” became the club’s unofficial motto. And DJ Maddox can attest to this. He first went to the Hippo as a patron in 1980, and at the time, “I was kind of that terrified person—I didn’t know what to expect, and I walked in and felt like I had walked into heaven,” he says. “Everything about it—the number of people, the variety of people, the diversity within the room. I was in awe of the music. I thought, I want to be the one playing the music here someday.”

The Hippo hosted both DJs and live performers, including a variety of stars such as The Weather Girls, Wayland Flowers and Madame, Jody Watley, and the Broadway cast of Mamma Mia! And drag shows were always a big draw.

“Baltimore had seen it all and they appreciated drag,” says Jeffery Roberson, who performed at the Hippo many times in the late ’90s and 2000s as drag queen extraordinaire Varla Jean Merman. “And at the time, the biggest drag queen in the world was from Baltimore.”

Hairspray made its cinematic debut in 1988, starring Baltimore’s beloved drag matriarch, Divine, and written and directed by its transgressive filmmaker John Waters. But even amidst their acclaim, a hostile attitude still persisted toward the local LGBTQ community, only increasing as they made strides toward social acceptance. In the preceding years, the city had launched its first-ever Pride Parade and founded its inaugural LGBTQ activism and resource organization, the Baltimore Gay Alliance, both in 1975.

“It was very dangerous for a gay man to hang out in a non-gay bar or club at the time,” says José Villarrubia, a former Hippo patron and resident of Mt. Vernon since 1984. “Gay spaces were the only space where you could act like yourself. But even so, I saw queer bashings right outside of [them]: straight guys coming out of a car and picking a random stranger to beat up.”

And on top of that, another threat was spreading across the country. In the summer of 1981, the first cases were reported of what would come to be known as the AIDS crisis, and on July 3, The New York Times published an article with the ominous headline: “Rare Cancer Seen in 41 Homosexuals.” That decade, more than 100,000 people would lose their lives.

All the while, the Hippo remained open, offering support to its patrons and hosting fundraisers while trying to maintain some semblance of optimism on the dance floor.

“Things did change with the big ‘A’,” says Bowers. “We were going to funerals quite a bit. We lost a lot of friends—a lot of friends.”

“In those days, it was like a nightmare,” says Lynda Dee, a patron of the Hippo in the 1980s, who co-founded AIDS Action Baltimore with Waters’ collaborator Pat Moran and the late Garey Lambert, projectionist at the Charles Theatre and editor at the now-defunct Baltimore Alternative. “That camaraderie and that family spirit from the clubs really held us all together.”

Over the years that followed, the Hippo continuously adapted to the changing times. At the turn of the 21st century, the club added karaoke in the Saloon’s side lounge and introduced hip-hop nights in the discotheque, providing “the kids who were gay, who really didn’t want to be out, a place they could come out unexamined,” says Brown.

As new milestones were reached—against discrimination, for civil unions, and so on—societal shifts in acceptance played a part in the demise of queer-specific venues. Many point to the internet and the growing popularity of online dating as the death knell for clubs like the Hippo, as well as increased visibility, both on television and all throughout pop culture, offering them more space to be themselves.

Eventually, by 2015, Bowers, disenchanted by the rise in technology and shifting atmosphere of nightclubs, decided to sell the neighborhood’s last true dance floor.

“One thing that older queers like myself miss the most is that secret society,” says Makarovich. “For years, Leon’s didn’t even have a sign—you just knew it was there.”

Today, no hint of the Hippo remains beyond the building itself and the section of North Charles, just south of Eager, that has been designated “Chuck Bowers Way.” When Bowers closed the doors, his iconic disco was transformed into a CVS. The original sign, with its silver hippopotamus, is now on display a few blocks away at the Maryland Center for History and Culture, which also holds a scrapbook that Bowers and Maddox assembled of autographed headshots and other ephemera from the club’s heyday.

The “gayborhood” has changed, too, though a few LGBTQ bars remain. The reimagined Central on North Howard Street. The biker bar Baltimore Eagle on North Charles. The Drinkery on West Read, opened the same year as the Hippo, and Leon’s, now in its 66th year of business.

Every March, Brown and his partner go back to that corner of Eager, to the exact spot outside of the old art deco building where they met 33 years ago. The lights are undoubtedly brighter and the music canned, but they wander the aisles of the chain pharmacy, purchase candy bars, and reminisce about the decades when this location was magic. “He likes Reese’s cups, I like Snickers,” says Brown.

At 78, Bowers still lives in Mt. Vernon and picks up his prescriptions at his former club—out of convenience, not nostalgia—though the energy of the Hippo is forever a part of him. “I used to joke, when that day comes that I’m in a box, make sure my music is with me,” he says. “Because wherever I go, I’m gonna have a party.”

On that final night at the Hippo in 2015, Darude’s “Sandstorm” slid into the last song ever. There was a cymbal crash, and then a slow rumbling: the opening thunder of “It’s Raining Men” by The Weather Girls.

Humidity’s rising
Barometer’s getting low
According to all sources
The street’s the place to go
’Cause tonight for the first time

Strobes flashed like lightning. Maddox was in Heaven—aka Bowers’ nom de plume for the DJ booth.

Just about half-past ten
For the first time in history
It’s gonna start raining men
Hallelujah, it’s raining men, amen

In that moment, Maddox thought of all of those who had danced in the club over the decades. “You couldn’t be in there that night and not feel their presence,” he says, thinking of friends lost to the AIDS crisis, too. “It was like every emotion that had ever been in that room was there at that instant.”

Hillenburg brought the disco ball down slowly from the ceiling and all the hands in the room reached up.

There’s a moment at Ash Bar—6 p.m., to be exact—when the lights are dimmed so low, it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust. And once they do, you’ll feel like you’ve fallen through the looking glass, a place where time stands still, and the outside world falls away. In reality, the setting signals the transition from aperitivo hour to dinner service in Mt. Vernon. It’s a seductive statement of sorts.

This all-day cafe, set inside the hip new hotel Ulysses, has a flair for drama, with its high-gloss burled ceiling and walls, red banquettes embroidered with birds and snakes, and purple velvet-clad rattan chairs, made by iconic French furniture artisan Maison Drucker, whose chaise lounges went down with the Titanic. In other words, this is not just any hotel restaurant—or hotel, for that matter.

From the second you step onto the lobby’s mosaic floors, equipped with old-world newspaper racks, Victorian loveseats, and moody Italian paintings, the whole establishment is suffused with personality and panache. And if you look around at Ash, everyone is in on it, from the well-heeled guests hobnobbing around the cocktail tables to the quirky staff. It’s the kind of place where you wouldn’t be surprised to see our own celebrity auteur, John Waters—a major source of inspiration for Ulysses—sipping something at a table.

The Ash NYC hoteliers who purchased the place (and have a soft spot for soulful, smaller cities like Baltimore), have a fondness for scene setting. The conceit is that you’re sitting in the dining car of a steam train or a luxury ocean liner—a place where Waldorf salads and shrimp cocktails were once ubiquitous on menus and martinis and Kir Royales flowed.

Even so, style is nothing without substance, or in this case, sustenance—and there’s plenty to pick from here. Most of the offerings on the concise menu lean toward vintage-inspired fare heavily rooted in French and Italian cooking. The menu mission, says the aptly named head of culinary arts Lauren Sandler (former preservation director for chef Spike Gjerde’s Canningshed) is “to create food that encourages languor.”

“The servers joke that time doesn’t exist at Ash Bar,” says Sandler. “It’s like this weird portal to another world.”

Another world with good food, that is.

As is the norm now, the offerings change frequently, but there are also a few signature standards, including one of the best Caesar salads in the city. This one features sweet Little Gem greens—the perfect vehicle for the classic dressing, which is brightened by the addition of orange zest. The salad is also scattered with clever croutons that get extra depth from being fried in anchovy coloratura.

In an era of trendy takes on steak tartare, Ash Bar’s presentation is classic, though it does showcase hand-chopped Wagyu beef instead of the usual sirloin. There are only a handful of ingredients—chopped shallots, capers, egg yolk, Worcestershire sauce, a final sprinkle of chives—allowing the buttery flavor of the minced meat to shine through. The delectable house-made rosemary potato chips served as an accompaniment for dipping are also available to order on their own (and every meal should include at least one round).

On one of our visits, we also enjoyed the 24-hour pressed potatoes. (Think: slightly oversized, upscale tater tots, fried to a crisp in duck fat, then topped with crème fraîche and a dollop of trout roe.) Also on the fried side, the broccolini fritti, presented on a doily, felt like a celebratory snack—six or so stalks lightly battered, then coated with high-quality Parmigiano Reggiano. We ate it with our fingers (anything goes when the lights are this low) and double-dipped each bite in a kicky Calabrian chile aioli.

In addition to the appetizers, there’s a featured soup—roasted honeynut squash on one visit, lobster bisque on another—and a variety of entrees with something for everyone, including a vegetarian offering and a rotating pasta dish that can be
ordered as a starter or main.

One of our favorite dishes in January was the vegetarian mushroom pie, packed with parsnips, carrots, and fennel, all swimming in mushroom gravy, nestled inside a crumbly quiche-like crust, and crowned with a decadent potato purée. We also enjoyed a piece of local rockfish. It was served seared and sitting on a bed of pearl couscous studded with olives, capers, artichokes, and sundried tomatoes—the tapenade mix added tons of texture and complexity.

And if it’s on the menu, even if it sounds ordinary, don’t miss the chicken and rice. There’s a reason this is one of the world’s greatest culinary combinations, especially at Ash. Here, a quarter chicken breast is pan-roasted and beautifully crisped, then drizzled with a rich chicken jus that takes three days to prepare. It’s served with sautéed spinach and a fluffy and flavorful pilaf that soaks up the sauce. It’s comfort food that still feels elegant to eat.

On each visit, there were a few missteps in service: a slow table clearing here, a late entree there. But ultimately none of that matters much once you’ve entered a suspended state inside this extravagant Xanadu.

Ash Bar’s food more than meets the mood. While the lighting might be dim, the restaurant is a bright light—and a welcome addition to Charm City’s creative culinary scene.

ASH BAR 2 E. Read St. HOURS: Sun.-Sat. 7 a.m. -10 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $7-26; entrees: $24- 38; dessert: $6-13. AMBIANCE: Whimsical.

For decades, Mead Notkin searched for the perfect cello. A Silver Spring marketing professional who once dreamt of a career in music, he had stopped playing altogether out of his frustration at not being able to find an instrument to his liking.

“l’d been all over the East Coast,” says Notkin, a hint of irritation, but mostly now relief and joy in his voice. “Then I went to Perrin and Associates looking for a bow and heard about their luthier, Ryan Fini, and basically played another cello Ryan made for two years while waiting for the completion of this cello,” he says, handing the already beloved instrument (value: $36,000) to Ryan’s brother Aaron.

Sitting in Perrin’s sun-lit second-floor showroom in Mount Vernon, Aaron begins to glide a bow that he’s made across the strings, filling the space with rich, baritone-like tones.

Just 32 and 35, respectively, Aaron and Ryan Fini, pictured left and right above, are essentially 18th-century craftsmen. Ryan, who studied music and architecture before being accepted into the prestigious violin-making program at Boston’s North Bennet Street School, is believed to be the only violin, viola, and cello maker (the three instruments share a similar structure) in Baltimore. Aaron, who earned a master’s degree in Cello Performance from the Peabody Conservatory, began working at Perrin first, rehairing bows for $12 a piece while in school up the street.

“That this small piece of wood can have such a huge effect on the sound you’re able to get out of the instrument always fascinated me,” he says. “I did some research and stole my brother’s notes on rehairing. I’d done 600 by the time I left school and decided making bows was what I wanted to do. I started studying and apprenticing with Joshua Henry, who is a bowmaker in West Virginia and one of the best.”

Soon enough, Roger Perrin, who opened the North Charles Street shop in 1994, saw the violins Aaron’s brother was making back home in New Mexico and invited him to join the team. Focusing on violins—it takes him a year to produce four or five among his other duties—Ryan only recently turned more of his attention to cello-making, which, given their size, takes much longer.

What difference does a great instrument make in the right hands?

“I heard Mstislav Rostropovich play the Dvorak, Haydn C Major, and Tchaikovsky Rococo Variations at the Casals Festival in Puerto Rico at the height of his career in the 1970s as a child, and I remember being pressed back into my seat by the wall of sound resonating from his cello,” Notkin recalls. “This cello can rise to the heroic accents and assertions of the great cello concertos, though not necessarily with the volume of, say, Rostropovich’s Stradivarius. It also speaks with utmost intelligibility at the softest of tones, which means the player can completely relax in playing the instrument. In one week, it has transformed my playing from one of struggle to one of striving for perfect relaxation.”

Obviously, it takes extraordinary skill to craft such an instrument; it also requires extraordinary wood. In fact, getting his hands on Pernambuco wood, used for centuries to make the finest bows, is an issue for Aaron. It only comes from the Atlantic rainforest of Brazil, with Pernambuco considered an endangered species—and illegal to harvest.

“The wood is so hard, it takes a decade to dry,” Aaron says. “And it’s so hard to get, I have to get most of my wood from auction after a bow maker passes away.”

The raw material for Ryan’s instruments, while not as threatened, takes a similarly long journey to his studio. Since Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri established themselves as the world’s greatest violin makers some 300 years ago, the front wood of violins and cellos has come from spruce trees in the Italian Alps. Historically, their backs have been made from prized Bosnian maple.

“I don’t have first-hand knowledge, but I’ve heard landmines left over from the Bosnian-Serbian War, and even shrapnel embedded in the trees, make gathering the wood dangerous,” Ryan says. “Sometimes, you hear wood that isn’t from Bosnia is sold as ‘Bosnian maple,’ that it’s from Montenegro. But I don’t really care as long as the quality is the same and you can see visually what you’re looking for—the silky velvety texture—and I can measure the density and other mechanical properties.”

No matter where his wood originates, Ryan adds, it will spend years drying and cycling through temperature changes in his attic before it’s ready for his band saw and hand planes.

Meanwhile, one of his violins can be heard in the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, which is convenient in that it allows him to watch his handiwork at play.

“Honestly, it feels great to see that because that’s why I’m doing this,” he says. “The same violinist actually just played a concert in Carnegie Hall and he sent me some pictures. He’s like, ‘Here’s your violin at Carnegie Hall.’”

Baltimore City rowhouses are often mysteries, be they homes or museums, burnt libraries or corner shops. Open the door to Jim Dulkerian’s Calvert Street rowhouse, which doubles as Dulkerian’s Persian Rug Co. Inc., and you’ll find the 102-year-old business, in an 1868 house the size of a ship’s galley.

Inside, there are the chandeliers, tin ceilings, and marble fireplaces of old Mt. Vernon. The first floor is layered with a few hundred carpets, laid out in a variety of manners: They’re stacked like furniture or rolled; tied and tagged like presents; and hung like tapestries—both for display and because traditional carpets have always functioned like blankets, to warm a space, a wall, even a person. (Historians believe Persian rugs evolved from actual blankets, as nomadic tribes needed them for themselves, their tents, or their animals.) They’re expensive, decorative, even exquisite, but essentially pragmatic pieces.

Since 1958, this rowhouse has been the home of the Dulkerian family’s third-generation Armenian-American rug business.

“We never left the city,” says Dulkerian, 65, who now runs the shop by himself. “Everyone else did. [The other rug dealers] left in the ’60s, after the first riots, and, you know, they never came back.”

Dulkerian’s shop is as weathered as its owner’s favorite carpets and, like them, it endures. His carpets have distinct names and origins: There are Serapi, Kerman, and Sarouk rugs from various regions of Persia, present-day Iran—freighted by boat or FedExed, or, since the recent embargo on products from Iran, recirculated—and some from India, Pakistan, China, Turkey, and Morocco. Times and tastes may change, but there will always be a market for these works of art, be they modern, aged, or properly antique—100 years or more in the world of rugs. That’s because rugs have always been more than comfortable flooring—they’re investments, heritable wealth, reliable house-warming gifts, practical furniture, in some cases even elaborate table clothing. And even if they’re new, or newish, they come with established patterns of history.

Dulkerian’s grandfather Aram Gasaros arrived in the U.S. in 1917 from Yozgat, Turkey, fleeing the Turkish persecution of Armenians—gatewaying through Ellis Island, and settling first in Philadelphia, then in Baltimore, where in 1921 he started the United Oriental Rug Co. at Charles and 20th streets. In the ’50s, Aram consolidated his operation with another Persian rug company and moved the shop to its present address at 919 N. Calvert Street. Dulkerian’s father, Aram Gasaros Jr., grew up in the business. When Aram Jr. died in 2004 at the age of 78, Baltimore Sun reporter Jacques Kelly wrote of his preteen years: “His father put him in charge of a crew of Bethlehem Steel workers”—the Baltimore steel mill workers were hired for their availability, strength, and work ethic—“who made extra money by hand-washing and lifting the heavy rugs.”

Though the family was not in the rug trade in Turkey, it was part of the culture, says Jim Dulkerian, who in turn grew up in the business, too. When his father died, Jim’s mother—the late Jean Stottlemyer Dulkerian—took over the company. “And then I took over after that.”

Toward the back of the open first-floor showroom sits the work station where Dulkerian repairs rugs—it’s the same wooden desk where his mother, a Baltimore apprentice to an invisible cadre of Old World artisans, first taught herself to mend them. A row of loose wool hangs above the desk in a muted yarn rainbow. There’s another fireplace, with a gas stove nested inside. A few metal lanterns hang from the ceiling between the chandeliers: once gas, now electric.

On the opposite wall from the fireplace—Dulkerian’s own work desk sits in the middle of the rowhouse-narrow first floor—hangs a painting of his late father’s two Irish wolfhounds. Next to the dogs hangs a framed photograph of his parents at the shop’s previous location. His father, a fez on his head, sits astride a horse; his mother stands beside them both, smiling. Dulkerian makes his way through a stack of rugs, explaining what he sees.

“If I find an older rug that has holes in it and I don’t want to repair it, I’ll sell it to a guy in New York. People may think it’s junk,” he says. It is not. He scans the stacks like a librarian, looking for older rugs, some of which were owned by his father, even his grandfather. Because rugs get passed around, traded, bought and sold, rehomed like lost dogs, they can sometimes even find their way back to their original homes.

What moves the rugs? Issues of repair, value, necessity. And who moves them? These days, often just Dulkerian, a tall, stately man with a thick thatch of white hair and nimble, capable grace. He assesses all the rugs, cleaning them, either repairing them himself or sending them out for repair if more work is needed. While he sells modern, older, and genuinely antique rugs, of various provenances and histories, carpets that are either dauntingly expensive or surprisingly affordable (from tens of thousands for a mint-condition antique to $1,500 for a newer Karaja hallway runner; a vintage Sarouk the size of a shepherd-dog bed can go for as little as $75)—it’s the older rugs that make both him and his repeat customers the happiest.

“New rugs are like commodity items; you can’t make money on new rugs, your value is like a car where it goes down, till it gets to a certain age,” he says. “When I say new, they may be 10 years old but not ever used; what I would call a new rug is under 30 years—it may be used but it’s still a new rug to me. An older rug is 80 years. Semi-antique is 50; 100 years is an antique. But when I’m looking for older rugs, I’m looking for classic pieces, 80 years or older.”

Dulkerian moves among the carpets, migrating from economics to history like a museum docent. If it seems like he’s treasure hunting, he is.

“I’d like to have a hundred Serapis here and I’d be okay,” he says, referring to the Persian antiques he most loves. “This is what I call a Baltimore rug,” he says, pointing to a stunning carpet in patterns of muted crimson and cornflower blue, “because it’s geometrical, which does well in this town. As opposed to a very formal piece that you might find in Washington, like a silk rug or Nain, a very fine Tabriz.”

He rattles off the names—Senneh, Karaja, Isfahan—each as beautiful as the carpets. While the names tell region or tribe, the rugs themselves tell purpose, age, whether hand-knotted, silk, or wool.

“A Serapi is a Heriz from the 1890s; it’s geometric, it has less detail, the scale’s bigger, there’s more open field between the design. It’s in demand with the decorators,” he continues. “The public loves these kinds of rugs. They have patina from age, you can’t get from…” he pauses mid-sentence, considering how much detail to get into, the way a teacher will gauge students’ attention span. “Some of these rugs, they take a blowtorch to them to make them look old. They’ll burn a hole in it.” He moves on, listing as he goes. Some of the rugs aren’t rugs at all: some are saddle- bags, one even has a lock built into it. “This is a Chinese design; it’s actually a Nichols design. That’s a Feraghan. This was one of my father’s rugs, and I know who did this,” he says, motioning to an invisible fix in the intricate pattern, “one of the repair ladies before my mother.”

 

“THIS IS AN OLD HERIZ OR SERAPI. IT’S EVERYTHING: IT’S ART. THEY’RE WORKS OF ART THAT WE WALK ON.”

 

As he speaks, Dulkerian opens a door and goes down the narrow staircase that leads to a basement storage room like a root cellar. There’s open wooden shelving and a few rolled rugs; more twine, more tags. Then into the two big rooms that house the cleaning operation, with cement floors and drains in the corners. The high ceilings house Steampunk-style systems of rods and levers for washing and drying the carpets. In the drying room, two huge Sarouk rugs hang, still faintly damp, with deep colors and patterns like the ornate tapestries you might find in an art gallery or monastery. The rugs get washed, rolled like cigarettes, carried. The drying rooms were built in the ‘60s.

“Not many of them left,” he says. Dulkerian narrates as he goes—practiced at the pitch and sell, the history—detouring into a story about rug spies who, he says, for a time watched his operation from the alley behind the drying rooms, trying to sort out how his family ran the kind of business that had survived while so many others had shuttered.

And survived it has, thanks to generations of Dulkerians, their carpets, and those who keep buying them. Jim Dulkerian can list his favorite clients with the same detail as he keeps an inventory of his rugs. There are repeat customers from his grandfather’s and father’s time, Baltimore folks, Eastern Shore families, customers from tony D.C., and then there’s the Boone family, direct descendants of Daniel Boone.

“He had the best collection of Chinese rugs,” Dulkerian says, describing a Boone family member, a man as tall as Wes Unseld Sr., who wore a top hat and a red cape and kept peacocks.

Years ago, during his father’s time, the Dulkerians and their crew would swap out the Boone winter rugs for the family’s summer rugs, cleaning them, and rolling them up for seasonal storage. “He had dragon rugs, antique, 100 years older than this one,” Dulkerian continues, pointing to a rug of his own.

“My favorite is Heriz. I beat out my husband’s taste for florals and went straight for the geometric,” says Brande Neese, who’s been getting rugs from Dulkerian for over 30 years for houses in Bolton Hill and Cambridge. “I think about whole families sitting around for a year making these rugs,” says Neese, a retired designer, “and it’s incredible. It’s an incredible thing to be dealing in, and Jim knows everything.”

Back upstairs, Dulkerian continues his tour. “This is an old Heriz or Serapi. It’s everything: It’s art. They’re works of art that we walk on,” he says. Of another rug with a vast, intricate mosaic of deep colors: “This is a Serapi, 1890s. I put some money into it for repairs, reweaving and such.” Asked how much it’s worth now, he pauses, maybe doing some math in his head, or just cataloging cumulative family inventory. “It’s a matter of opinion. It could be $30,000 or $40,000. Prices have dropped, so this is now a $20,000 rug; I’d like to get more, but that’s what the market says it is.”

He feels the edge, then lifts a corner of a noticeably darker, denser carpet that’s heavy as metal, thick as grass. “This is a Bijar, the so-called Iron Rug. It’s so heavy that you need a couple people to lift it,” he says. “Some of the newer Bijars we’ll put in hotel lobbies, they’ll just take so much traffic.”

Dulkerian’s grandparents lived behind the previous rug store’s location and when the store relocated, so did they.

“And this is where my father would wash the rugs with the Bethlehem Steel Workers,” he says, remembering The Sun obit. “I don’t know the story of how they washed rugs down on 20th Street, but they used to wash rugs, roll them up in these poles. Dragging up them up the back steps. Putting them on the roof to dry. Imagine that.”

He considers the labor issues he and so many other small business owners face now, how difficult it is to find help, how the foot traffic that once filled Calvert Street is mostly gone.

Dulkerian recalls how his father’s wolfhounds would sit like lions inside the enormous picture window filling the front of the shop. Just behind the window, another massive rug hangs like a stage curtain—it’s both an effective advertisement and an actual curtain to keep the bright sunlight from fading the inventory. The shop is at once a stronghold, a memory palace, an artisans’ museum, a carpet- cleaning-and-rug-storage operation—and now, a business with an uncertain future, as Dulkerian’s two children have chosen other careers. But uncertainty is a part of any business.

“When the pandemic hit, the old customers came out and bought rugs,” says Dulkerian. “They get it. They know that they have a civic duty to keep things going, and they did. The families that we deal with every year are the greatest people in Baltimore.”

While Baltimore residents tend to think there’s only one Baltimore, across the Atlantic sits a village on the southwest coast of Ireland with the same name. If one of those County Cork Baltimoreans somehow wandered into Mick O’Shea’s in our fair town, we think they’d love the place for the same reasons we do.

A mainstay in Mt. Vernon for decades, O’Shea’s is a wonderful blend of traditional Irish pub and Charm City neighborhood bar. Harp is on tap along with local favorites like Peabody Heights. On a shelf on the back wall, above where the requisite Guinness advertisements hang, stands a row of Orioles bobbleheads. Fish and chips and shepherd’s pie emerge from the kitchen, but so do burritos and cheesesteaks. There are maps of Ireland on the mirrors behind the bar. A Ravens banner hangs in front of one.

“What we try to do is take the best from what we understood an Irish pub to be, which is a friendly, relaxed atmosphere,” says co-owner David Niehenke. “We’re not pretentious, we’re nuts and bolts. It’s like an old pair of blue jeans. It’s never going to be the coolest thing, but it’s always solid.”

Niehenke and his sister, Stephanie Webber, bought the bar in 2002 from Mike O’Shea and a group of investors who opened it in the mid-1990s. Before that, it was called McGinn’s and was where former Mayor and Governor Martin O’Malley used to perform with his band. In all its incarnations, it’s been a favorite for a mix of downtown workers, residents, tourists, people on their lunch break from jury duty…you get the idea.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been here without doing a Bomb,” one neighbor at the bar declared on a recent Sunday afternoon, referring to the drink in which a shot of Jameson whiskey and Bailey’s Irish Cream is dropped into a glass of stout.

Another time, at lunch, two lawyerly looking men to our right discussed an ongoing court case, while a woman to our left lamented the state of her relationship.

“We have a big group of regulars, but we also get a lot of travelers and people coming into town for sporting events,” Niehenke says. “You can always find nice company here.”

And good food and drink. The menu, which has standard Irish fare along with burgers, wings, and the like, also features more adventurous entrees like jambalaya. Whiskey and beer are usually the drinks of choice here. Predictably, on St. Patrick’s Day the place is packed and the Guinness flows. The prior Sunday, when the city’s St. Patty’s Day Parade marches down Charles Street right past the front door, business is even brisker.

Those days are fun, for sure, but they can be overwhelming. We prefer to grab a stool at the bar during a slower time, when we can order a Reuben, wash it down with a Smithwick’s, and strike up conversation with a fellow patron.

That’s an experience a Baltimorean from anywhere can appreciate.

Prior to becoming a chef, Casey Jenkins was in the United States Marine Corps, cooking for the infantrymen. “I was cooking for 3,000 marines at a clip,” says Jenkins, owner of the Mt. Vernon Southern comfort food spot Darker Than Blue Grille. “Our chow halls were the size of apartment buildings.”

After his tour of duty, Jenkins was contemplating college, when his mother attended an event at the famed Culinary Institute of America in New York. “She said, ‘I just came from this fundraiser at this great cooking school,’” he recalls. “I did a little research and said, ‘Wow, this really is a good cooking school,’ but I didn’t know it was the best in the world until I got there.”

Having cooked for the troops, Jenkins figured his studies would be a snap. “I knew how to cook,” he says, “but I wasn’t making velouté and béchamel.” Once he started to master these new techniques, “I loved it,” he says. “That’s when I decided I wanted to open a restaurant.”

You closed your first Darker Than Blue Café in Waverly in 2015. Why did you decide to give it another go?
I was shopping around another concept for more of a Southern buffet to-go, when I ran into Maurice Iames of Maryland Capital Enterprises. He said, “I don’t think anyone is going to finance that other restaurant—why don’t you reopen Darker Than Blue? People still talk about it regularly and you were closed for eight years.” That’s when I got the financing for Darker Than Blue.

Tell me about the menu.
The food is straightforward, nothing chichi. After the market crashed in 2008, I learned that people need to be able to go out and feed their families. It made me go back to what my mother cooked, real Southern food. First-timers always get wowed by the Southern platter—a half fried chicken with sides like our macaroni and cheese with blue cheese and cheddar. Also, they love the blackened catfish.

How did you come up with the name for the restaurant?
In the early 2000s, my best friend Mark and I were trying to write this business plan and were coming up with names, but we put it on the back burner. It had gotten to the point where I was like, “There’s this place in New York called The Coffee Shop—and it was a coffee shop. Let’s just call it, The Restaurant!” And he was like, “We have to think of something snazzy.” Then one day, he comes in with a grin on his face saying he has a name. He puts on this CD and the song comes on, “We people who are darker than blue. . .” and I looked at him and said, “Darker Than Blue!” and it stuck. Darker Than Blue is the best thing to describe being an African American in the U.S. and putting out Low Country food of the diaspora.

What’s it been like to reopen?
At the grand opening, I expected only about 30 people there but there were easily 150 people—it made me a little emotional. I said, “I don’t have customers anymore, I have friends and family that come and dine with me.”

Greatness, it is said, often skips a generation. When The Elephant opened in 2016 in the Mount Vernon mansion that once housed the legendary Brass Elephant, we hoped it would be a worthy successor.

It was not. In her review of the restaurant, Baltimore food and dining editor Jane Marion lamented that “the food is almost secondary to the space,” and “many of the menu items we sampled needed some sort of tweaking.” The Elephant closed in 2019, leaving the future of this hallowed restaurant ground in doubt.

Into that void stepped The Manor, a restaurant and “ultra-lounge” that has brought a new personality to the location and revived the spot’s status as destination dining. Co-owners Robert Gay and Josh Persing have created a beautiful oasis that maintains the location’s elegance and character while infusing a dash of liveliness into the old building, which once housed a furniture store.

A traditional chandelier still hangs over the foyer, and purple lights illuminate the bottles behind both the small bar downstairs and a larger marble one upstairs. A rainbow of colors gracing the walls, bar stools, rugs, and artwork makes the place feel fresh and fun.

In addition to the bars and dining rooms, there are spots for lounging and listening to DJs who perform on weekend nights and watching drag shows during brunch on Saturdays and Sundays. They’re wildly popular, so if you want to go it’s best to buy tickets online ahead of time.

Despite its striking setting, at The Manor, the food is most definitely not secondary to the space. We found the menu to be inventive and well-executed during our two visits this winter.

Club music plays throughout the building, but it isn’t so loud as to preclude conversation. We started each visit with a round of cocktails that were expertly made by a friendly and talented bartender who goes simply by “J.” The cleverly named Moira’s Rose (a nod to Catherine O’Hara’s sassy character on the television show Schitt’s Creek, we assume) is made with vodka, Earl Grey tea, hibiscus syrup, and a squeeze of lemon. It was just the right level of sweetness, as was the Solstice, a solid combination of gin, prosecco, and cranberry juice garnished with rosemary. The Oaxaca Old-Fashioned is made with mezcal, rather than the traditional bourbon, and its smokiness shines through. It would make for a pleasing after-dinner drink as well.

Appetizers tend toward the heavier side, with smoked mac and cheese, wings, crab dip, and sweet potato tots leading the way. The best among them was the burrata, which was perfectly creamy on the inside and served with a marinated sun-dried tomato compote and basil pesto.

We also absolutely loved the crostini, which were salted and not over-toasted, a common problem we encounter at restaurants around town. The pear and blue cheese salad was terrific—the fruit was ripe, and the blue cheese was plentiful. Oysters on the half shell and charcuterie and cheese plates are available as well.

All the entrees we enjoyed had one thing in common: Each ingredient on the plate made its presence known. The exterior of the lemon pistachio chicken was crispy, the inside nice and juicy. It was served with butternut purée, charred Brussels sprouts, and smoked cranberry bordelaise. In a world of bland chicken dishes, this one stands out.

The togarashi-spiced seared tuna is a star. It’s tempting to eat the beautiful slices of fish on their own, but take our word for it and try a mouthful with the kimchi slaw and stir-fried mushrooms.

Everything here is great individually, but the dish works best when all the components are eaten together. The pumpkin ravioli, stuffed with mascarpone, was also excellent. There’s a nice subtlety to the brown sage butter sauce, and the pumpkin ricotta is exceptional.

We didn’t get a chance to try the burger or crab cakes, but we did sample two of the four pizzas on the menu. The wild mushroom and basil pizza featured some of the tastiest toppings we’ve had (it also comes with basil pesto ricotta, pepperoncini, arugula, and a spicy honey drizzle) and a fresh, doughy crust. The duck and fig pie, though a tad too sweet for our taste, also was nicely executed.

With excellent service, a welcoming atmosphere, and consistently stellar food, The Manor is channeling the spirit of the Brass Elephant while creating its own history. Whether it will prove to be great years from now is an open question, but it’s off to a very promising start.

The first thing you see is the paint. Splashed across canvases that hang on the walls. Slathered onto paper thumbtacked to a door. Smudged by fingerprints along cabinets and light switches. Dozens of squished silver tubes of the stuff, piled high like some modern sculpture. Its pixie-dust-like pigments waiting on a shelf to be mixed.

The colorful chaos is a contrast to Ben Middleman, who, in a crisp button-up and khakis, walks around his late father’s studio, sharing the stories behind each of its myriad artworks.

One particularly massive oil-on-linen, titled The Fishmonger, sits on an ad-hoc easel at eight feet high, featuring a bacchanalian cast of characters, some standing nude, smoking cigarettes, donning top-hats, and dancing in hot-pink capes, all against the backdrop of the very room in which we stand.

“You can see, that’s the balcony up there, the model stand—that’s me, and my older brother, I think that’s my mom,” he says. “It’s the house, the studio—and everything all kind of revolving around it.”

This house, this studio, located at 943 N. Calvert Street, on the corner of E. Eager in Mt. Vernon, with its red-painted brick, bright blue doorway, and those iconically Baltimore marble steps, was at the core of Raoul Middleman’s life.

Purchased in 1975 during the city’s dollar housing program, it was where the renowned artist and longtime Maryland Institute College of Art professor worked—and for a long time, lived, with his wife, Ruth, and their three sons—until his death at the age of 86 this past October.

Soon enough, it will also become a new art museum, with this shrine-like second-floor studio and first-floor rotating gallery created in honor of one of the city’s most preeminent artists.

“His life was so much about art,” says Ben, 46, who, with experience in galleries and art publishing, will serve as the museum’s main curator. “He never cared about commercial success, he just wanted to show people the work and get their response. This is a way of doing that.”

Born in Baltimore in 1935, Raoul Middleman was a man of many lifetimes: an Ashburton kid, a Poly grad, a Johns Hopkins philosophy major, an Army clerk, a one-time cowboy, a Kerouacian hitchhiker. In New Orleans, he tried his hand at writing a novel, but a bout of writer’s block led him to the visual arts.

He would attend prestigious institutions like the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts and Maine’s Skowhegan School of Painting & Sculpture before returning to Baltimore in 1961. Here, he found like-minded artists at the legendary Martick’s bar and landed a job at MICA, where he would work for the next six decades.

All the while, he painted, prolifically, with his oeuvre regaled for its energy, intensity, and fantastical exploration of the human condition, joining the collections of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the National Gallery of Art, and the National Academy Museum. It was sold at galleries like C. Grimaldis on Charles Street, and also stashed away by the thousands in a Belair-Edison warehouse.

Today, that larger-than-life spirit—this magazine once described Middleman as “like an erudite longshoreman, mentioning Plato and classic French poetry one minute and referring to ‘Bawlmer’ the next”—still lingers throughout The Raoul Middleman Studio Museum, where one can imagine a young Ben and his brothers running up and down the creaky staircase, pausing to stretch canvases for pocket change, or sit as models for their father.

“It’s like coming into his world,” he says. “For him, art was this real, tactile process. He lived in this space, covered in paint, exploring with it, creating these works. This wasn’t a job he clocked out of. It was so central to who he was.”

Like the other studio-museum concepts that inspired this space, such as the Frida Kahlo Museum in Mexico or the Musée Gustave Moreau in France, Middleman’s palettes are stacked largely as he left them, old mementos remain tacked around a long-stopped clock, and a wooden stool sits at the ready beside the mirror that made its way into many artworks.

Some of his favorites will be on display in the inaugural Life in the Studio exhibition, which opens on April 3—Raoul’s birthday—including several lesser-known portraits, cityscapes, and still lives.

The museum will be free to the public and open Saturdays from 1-4 p.m., as well as by appointment, with Ben and his mother, who keeps her Ink Spot Press printmaking workshop in the basement, taking turns as docents.

“I think he’d be touched,” says Ben. “He always very enthusiastic that every show was maybe the best he’d ever had. Now putting this on, it’s nice to picture him saying that.”

For six years, business and life partners Brendon Hudson, right, and David Monteagudo have owned and operated Liliahna, a catering business named after Hudson’s great-aunt, who hails from a small town (Port S. Elpidio) in Southern Italy. But last September, the duo, who met while still in culinary school, decided to branch out their business and open a bistro in Mt. Vernon with food focused on Rome. “We wanted to be more accessible,” says Hudson. “We wanted a place where anyone and everyone can come. We want people to come in and feel like they are transported.”

Why did you decide to open a Roman bistro?
David and I have spent a lot of time in Rome. We thought, there are a ton of Italian options in Baltimore, but we wanted to switch the mindset. Every time we tell someone the concept, they’re like, “I have had Italian food. How is that different from Roman food?” There are a lot of similarities between Roman food and other regions of Italy, but each region is specific in terms of what ingredients they use and how they use them. Rome is popular for braised dishes and hearty, soul-filling dishes. That really speaks to me. I want people to come and hopefully feel like they had a substantial meal.

When did you decide to go into hospitality?
My maternal great-grandfather opened Velleggia’s when he came to America. It was the first restaurant in Little Italy in Baltimore. I knew from a young age that this was what I wanted to do. I went from Gilman to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park.

What’s the significance of the restaurant’s name?
Allora is a common word in Italy. People use it as a filler word, like we use “um.” They use it as a conversation starter or to transition between topics. We want the restaurant to feel cozy and like you can relax here. At the same time, you are going to get a high-end experience with food and drink. We want to be that in-between space where you can get the best of both worlds.

What dish should a first-timer order?
The pasta Amatriciana is my favorite dish. It’s one of Rome’s classic pasta dishes. It has a simple sauce with tomatoes, pork fat, and guanciale, which is pork cheeks rendered down. We cook the pork fat, onions, and garlic and let that braise and simmer. It takes on this beautiful fatty, citrusy, tomatoey flavor. The porchetta Romana is another classic staple. The Italians don’t believe in loading up their sandwiches. It’s like, just let’s focus on the one ingredient and have great bread. For the porchetta Romana, we take a pork shoulder and roast it with a lot of fennel, cumin, and anise, let it braise for a few hours, and layer it on this freshly baked rosemary focaccia bread with basil olive oil—it’s just delicious.

The day that actress Jenna Rose Stein landed the role of Susan B. Anthony in the race-and labor-themed musical The Moment Was Now, her daughter, Annabel, was watching a historical TV show called The Who Was? Show. That episode’s biography? Susan B. Anthony.

That was back in June, when the play was casting for its September premiere at the Emmanuel Episcopal Church in Mount Vernon. Back by popular demand, the musical will be reprised this month—Women’s History Month—with seven performances between February 28 and March 8. The show is set in post-Civil War Baltimore in 1869; a year before African-American males were given the right to vote.

Playwright and retired labor organizer Gene Bruskin says, “The play reveals the impassioned search for unity” by now-legendary Americans committed to equality, including Anthony, the black feminist Frances Harper, the immortal Frederick Douglass, and his partner in the black labor movement, Isaac Meyers. The question of who should receive equality under the law—and more vexingly, when—creates the conflict (argued in full-throated song) at a meeting convened by Douglass.

This year marks the 150th anniversary of the 15th Amendment to the Constitution, which gave African-American males the right to vote, and the 100th anniversary of the 19th Amendment, providing the same rights to women. The long gap between the granting of those rights ate away at Anthony, prompting deep resentment.

“Most people only know the work [Anthony] did as an old woman,” said Stein, who portrays Anthony in her mid-40s. “Early on she fought for abolition, women’s labor rights, the right for women to own property, and the right to divorce.”

As a Quaker teenager in New York, Anthony collected anti-slavery petitions. Later, she helped to create an all-female temperance movement. Once men were allowed to join, says Stein, the women were silenced. Her political break with Douglass (which their friendship survived) was the result of black male suffrage, which excluded women of all colors.

In perhaps her most powerful line in the play, Anthony tells Frances Harper: “I will cut my right arm off to stop the Negro male from getting the ballot” before women. They did and she did not, and the struggle continued until women got the vote in 1920, roughly a decade- and-a-half after Anthony’s death.

“Only by knowing the truth about our great leaders and the conflicts that they struggled with, can we learn from the past,” Bruskin says. Which is Stein’s hope for Annabel, who will watch her mother portray the suffragette again on the Emmanuel Episcopal Church stage.

It all began with a love story in Washington D.C. in 1970, when 22-year-old Qayum Karzai was living in a building near DuPont Circle. He befriended his landlord’s daughter, Patricia Morgan, who helped him learn English. Qayum was so smitten with 19-year-old Pat, he paid his rent—all $81 of it—in ones, just to extend the time he spent in her presence.

Seemingly, they were from different worlds. She hailed from Pittsburgh, and he was from Afghanistan, where his father held a powerful position in parliament. On their first date, he took her to a Lebanese restaurant, where she ordered the fried chicken. “I mention it whenever I can,” says Qayum with a loving laugh. “He never let me forget it,” she says. “I didn’t even know it was a date.”

Though she’d grown up eating kielbasa, pierogies, and other Polish specialties, she hadn’t been exposed to the foods of the Middle East. “I never liked okra or eggplant or lamb,” she recalls, “but after tasting the way he prepared it, it changed my mind and opened me up to trying other foods.”

He also opened her up to the idea that he was interested in continuing to date her. By 1973, they were married. (Son Helmand joined the family in 1979, followed by daughter Ariana in 1986.)

On an early September night, against the backdrop of Afghani artifacts (a kulchi traditional Afghani dress hung on the wall, a collection of teapots, a family heirloom rug) and candlelit tables dressed with white linens, the Karzais reminisce about their 30 years at The Helmand in Mount Vernon.

Their first Helmand, named for the longest river in Afghanistan where Qayum and his siblings were born and raised, was actually in Chicago.

Qayum came to America to Lakeland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas in late 1968, then transferred to Vance Air Force Base in southern Oklahoma in 1970, while working for the Afghani Air Force. He had hoped to pursue a career in medicine, but his dreams were dashed after being diagnosed with vertigo.

In the years that followed, he drove to D.C., where he eventually enrolled at American University to study political science and economics, while also working as a busboy and server on the side. Qayum worked for several high-end spots, including D.C.’s Devil’s Fork, where he met power players and politicians. Eventually, he and some of his siblings made their way to Chicago and opened their first Helmand in 1984. His sister, Fouzia Royan, and her husband were the managers until the business closed in 1995.

“On our first night in Chicago, we opened at five, and by seven o’clock we had run out of food,” recalls Qayum.

By 1989, Qayum was back in the Mid-Atlantic, where he decided to bring Afghani food to Baltimore. He first considered a space in Fells Point across from the Broadway Market and also a spot in the Inner Harbor near what’s now Port Discovery, but ultimately settled on a 100-year-old former carriage house at 806 N. Charles Street. On October 23, on a rainy and cold Monday—with Tio Pepe, Donna’s, and The Prime Rib as neighbors—The Helmand first opened for dinner service.

“I sat outside looking at the street,” says Qayum. “I sat facing the window and no one was out there, no one was walking on the sidewalk.” But Chicago, with it’s many Michelin-starred and James Beard Award-winning spots is a real restaurant town, and Qayum was convinced that if The Helmand could make it there, it could make it anywhere.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that they had a connections. Thanks to their landlord’s mother, a well-connected socialite, the place was packed by the weekend. “She said, ‘I will give you a Who’s Who of Baltimore list, and you invite them,” says Qayum, “and that’s what we did.”

Prior to working for the restaurant—as well as their other properties including Tapas Teatro, Pen & Quill, Helmand Kabobi, and the now-defunct B, a Bolton Hill Bistro—Pat worked in the insurance industry. When Qayum left in December 2001 to work for his brother, Hamid, then the interim leader of Afghanistan who later became president for nearly a decade, Pat went to work in restaurants full-time.

“Coming from an insurance background, no one is going to tell you what you should do about insurance,” says Pat. “The first thing I noticed in the restaurant business is that everyone wants to tell you what to do and how to do it—the public has so much input.”

On this night, that’s a good thing.

At a nearby table, Qayum looks over at an older couple and remarks that he recognizes them. “They’ve been customers here for a long time,” he says, and later goes over to greet them. On their way out, the couple stops back to say good-bye. “‘We can’t believe you recognized us,” says the woman. “We haven’t been here in 15 years. Our hair wasn’t even gray back then.’”

That’s how it goes at The Helmand, it’s a warm and inviting place that beckons back.

Now, over a feast of aromatic dishes—many of which have been on the menu since day one—including aushak (ravioli with leeks), banjan borani (pan-fried eggplant), seekh kabob (charbroiled lamb), kaddo borwani (baby pumpkin pan fried and baked in garlic and yogurt), mantwo (pastry filled with onions and beef), koufta challow (lamb and beef meatballs), Pat and Qayum break naan together and take a moment to reflect on the traditions and most memorable moments from the past 30 years.

None of the recipes are written down.

“In Chicago, my sister in law’s sister was an extraordinary cook, so they developed these ethnically perfect recipes—but they didn’t write things down,” says Pat. “That was the hardest thing trying to replicate the food he cooked or my mother in law cooked. It was a handful of this and a handful of that all done by feel.”

Shareable meals are key.

“Share everything,” advises Qayum. “For your first visit, I’d tell you to order a pumpkin and a banjan eggplant and a small basket of bread. Don’t ask for the bread first, you need to dip it in the appetizers. For entrees, order the Kabuli challow and Kofta Pallow and a side of sabzy [spinach]. Save room for the cardamom ice cream.”

The famous pumpkin appetizer.

“We’ve gotten our pumpkins from the same farm, Sharp’s at Waterford Farms, in Howard County since we opened,” says Pat.

All dishes are authentic Afghani—except for one.

“We don’t have a dish that you wouldn’t find in Afghanistan, says Qayum.” Except for one, says Pat. “After 2001, we decided to go ahead and have chocolate cake for dessert. I said, ‘If America can be in Afghanistan, we can have chocolate cake in this restaurant. Everyone was asking for chocolate cake after dinner.”

Three of the servers, including Qayum’s cousin and manager, Assad, have worked at The Helmand since the day it opened.

David, Assad, and Sadiq have been here from the very beginning,” says Pat. “David is from El Salvador and when he first got here, he barely spoke any English.” Says David, “I love it here. Why would I go anywhere else?”

Hospitality is a code of honor.

“Hospitality is so important in Afghanistan that when you have a guest, whether it’s someone that you know or don’t know, and they come into the space, everyone is there to accommodate them to give them beverages and lots of food,” says Pat. “It’s very dishonorable if you don’t overwhelm them with food and service. For Qayum and Assad and the other servers, it’s just part of who they are.”

Sometimes that custom can go a little far.

Qayum laughs when he recalls a day when the urinal backed up at his Chicago location. He told his sister, who worked at the restaurant, to expect a plumber. “When I got there I said, ‘Is the plumber here? She said, ‘yes,’ he’s already seated—and there he was seated at a table with the plunger next to him on the floor.”

The 60-second rule.

“Acknowledge that someone has come into the space,” says Qayum. “That’s the key. It doesn’t matter who it is. It can be the busboy. When you go to the table there’s a 60-second rule for someone to come over and acknowledge you, even if it’s not the waiter.”

Forget about the food.

“Don’t assume that you have the best food,” says Qayum. “People are not coming for the food. People are coming in to leave the day behind.”

Memories of 9/11.

“After 9/11, we decided to open the same day,” says Pat. “And he wasn’t in the country, he was in Rome at the time, he was there to persuade the previous king to return to Afghanistan. He said, ‘We should open,’ and people came in. People came in and said, ‘We’re so surprised, you’re open but we’re so happy you’re open and we’re coming to show our support.’”

10-year-streak.

“We had one customer, Mr. Witherspoon who came every day—he never missed a meal. He always sat at the same table—B-5, bar five. The days that he would not come either I or Assad would call him and say, ‘Where are you?’ We’d say, ‘Can we bring you the food?’ And we did.”

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…

“We’ve never closed for business,” says Qayum. “Not even in a blizzard.”

Watering can in hand, Henry Wong casually mentions that he hopes to soon bring iconic composer Carla Bley to An die Musik Live!, the small, idiosyncratic concert hall he operates in Mount Vernon. He’s in the process of tending to the array of plants arranged inside the front window, where flyers for upcoming shows face out onto Charles Street. Dressed in a blue Polo shirt and khakis, the 61-year-old owner circulates among the pots, tilting the can at regular intervals. “She would be a great fit for us,” he says.

Such a prestigious booking may seem far-fetched for a small venue like this, considering Bley is a National Endowment for the Arts jazz master accustomed to fancier digs like the Kennedy Center or Lincoln Center. Yet Wong could make it happen. He has, over the past 15 years, attracted an unlikely, but impressive, array of musicians to an unadorned and unpretentious former townhome that holds about 75 people.

The list includes guitarist Bill Frisell, pianist Simone Dinnerstein, percussionist Kahil El’Zabar, saxophonists Gary Bartz and David Murray, and many artists associated with ECM, a record label revered for its genre-blurring releases. The likes of Pulitzer-winning composer Julia Wolfe, New Yorker critic Alex Ross, and BSO maestra Marin Alsop have also appeared at An die Musik to discuss their work.

An die Musik has, since 2004, hosted a staggering 4,000-plus events, many of them jazz and contemporary classical concerts. It won Best Jazz Venue in this year’s All About Jazz reader’s poll and was cited as a “Great Jazz Venue” by Downbeat magazine from 2016-2018.

At first glance, it wouldn’t appear to be an exceptional spot for music. It’s up a steep flight of steps, making the load-in of instruments and equipment a challenge. The no-frills performance space, painted crab fat yellow, measures 25 by 42 feet, and the stage occupies a third of the space and sits just a foot off the floor; performers walk from the green room through an audience seated in tattered old armchairs to get to it. For world-class musicians, it’s hardly ideal.

“You don’t expect anything but music—good music presented with the respect it deserves.”

When asked what makes An die Musik such a celebrated venue, Wong sets aside the watering can and ticks off a list of things it doesn’t offer: no food, no signature drink, no TV, no trendy theme nights, and no DJ or pre-recorded music playing between sets. It isn’t alluring, or sexy. “We are a wholesome place,” says Wong, using a term usually reserved for children’s programming and church picnics. “Here, you don’t expect anything but music—good music presented with the respect it deserves.”

It’s why it appeals to ECM artists, who, according to Pitchfork, have produced “some of the deepest, most transporting music” of the past half-century. “An die Musik is unique in its intimate feel, warm acoustics, and serious listening atmosphere,” says ECM representative Tina Pelikan, “which makes it perfect for much of the music released by ECM.”

The name, according to Wong, says it all: An die Musik translates from the German as “to the music.” It’s the title of a favorite Schubert composition, a piece the BBC once described as “a prayer of thanksgiving to the divine art of music.”

“That’s what we offer,” says Wong, “a total commitment to music and its performance. It’s more about education than entertainment.”

That sort of mission might come across as single-minded, especially at a time when concert venues face increasingly fierce competition for people’s leisure time, but Wong weds it to a desire to nurture culture and build community. Though his unflagging adherence to that mission can make him come across as stubborn or insular, he’s actually quite personable and social. He’d just as soon share a delicious meal with you as a string quartet.

In fact, it’s time for lunch.

At Brown Rice inside the nearby Mt. Vernon Marketplace, Wong orders the bibimbap with multigrain rice (“it’s healthier”), an egg (“for protein”), and kimchi (“it tastes good”). Though Wong might espouse the nutritional benefits of Korean rice bowls, he’s actually more interested in the social aspects of sharing a meal, the bonding experience it can facilitate.

Wong shares food, like music, with the people in his orbit. He has been known to pass out packages of homemade biscotti to friends at Christmastime, or gift salmon filets after returning from trips to the Pacific Northwest. He organizes an annual banquet dinner at Ellicott City’s Asian Court for Chinese New Year. He invites friends and An die Musik staff and selects the 10-course menu himself. Baltimore staffers have occasionally attended the annual event, which Wong views as more than a New Year’s celebration—it’s also a celebration of friendship. “Food, a glass of wine, and music tap into our shared humanity,” he says, “so it’s really about sharing and doing for others. That sort of thing comes from my upbringing.”

Wong was born and raised in Hong Kong, where his father ran a shipping company and his mother, who enjoyed opera, worked as an accountant. An only child, he devoted himself to schoolwork, playing tennis, and rooting for Liverpool’s soccer team. He’s been a fan for nearly 50 years, and An die Musik patrons will occasionally spot him in a bright red Liverpool Football Club jersey with “young warriors” stitched over the right breast.

Wong recalls seamen friends dropping in to see his dad, who’d open beers and trade stories with them for hours. At mealtime, a dinner invitation was inevitably extended, and the visit might stretch into the evening. Although Wong usually remained in his room doing homework, he heard the laughter and animated conversation and registered how his parents’ hospitality generated warmth and goodwill.

“Henry has never been about just making a buck . . . It’s about sharing art.”

At 16 years old, he came to the United States to attend a boarding school at St. John’s Abbey—“famous for its bread,” notes Wong—in Collegeville, Minnesota. “When I [arrived in] America, I was by myself and was the only Chinese student at my school. The way I learned to survive was by sharing everything. When you share, people like you. People open up to you.”

After graduating, he embarked on a science track: studying biology and chemistry at Penn State and Towson University, interning at Shock Trauma’s ICU, and eventually doing medical research at Johns Hopkins. Classical music offered something of a respite, as well as a connection to his mother back in Hong Kong, and Wong became increasingly fond of listening to opera and Bach while compiling data and writing reports. In his scant free time, he pored over issues of Gramophone magazine and music encyclopedias to determine what were the best recordings, which he sought out on record-buying jaunts to shops like Tower Records in D.C.

After one such trip, Wong was having a drink with a friend who floated the idea of them opening a place of their own. And in 1990, they did exactly that, with a sprawling 8,000-square-foot store specializing in classical and jazz in Towson’s Investment Building. The shop was called An die Musik. “It turned out that my gravitation towards music was stronger than the pull of medical research,” says Wong.

As a result, Hopkins lost a researcher, and Baltimore gained a cultural caretaker.

An die Musik, the music store, was innovative. It specialized in hard-to-find titles, pioneered the use of listening stations and eco-friendly CD packaging, and brought in luminaries like Yo-Yo Ma and the BSO’s David Zinman for in-store appearances.

But as CD sales declined, the store downsized and relocated to Mt. Vernon, and Wong shifted his focus to live music in the early 2000s.

George “Doc” Manning has known Wong for nearly three decades and worked at both the record store and the concert hall. “Henry has never been about just making a buck,” says Manning. “He has a higher purpose that isn’t about being commercial; it’s about sharing art.”

Manning—who also hosts Morgan State radio’s long-running jazz show, In the Tradition—lauds his friend’s goal of “reaching everybody by realizing the music is about all of us, all communities,” he says. “Henry pushes the idea that you can’t leave anyone out, because everyone benefits from experiencing these different types of music. It raises the level of consciousness.”

A glance at the concert schedule illustrates just how expansive, and inclusive, An die Musik can be. September’s shows include Croatian guitarist Ana Vidovic, Cuban pianist Cèsar Orozco, and blues/soul singer Billy Price. The schedule also features students and local performers—Peabody pupils host jazz jams, and Dunbar Jazz Band alumni have a regular gig—because, “local people should see local faces onstage,” says Wong, “and the more you engage young musicians, the more the music is alive; young people contribute something you haven’t heard before.”

Wong doesn’t see the music stopping any time soon. He and his wife, Lora, don’t have children or any pressing family commitments and live modestly in Parkville. As a result, Wong says, “I am able to pursue my personal dream, though I don’t actually consider myself successful. I consider myself a survivor, and a caretaker of music that is historically important. Do I insist it is the right formula? No, but it is my vision. I’m always looking for people who share this dream, and I hope to one day pass the torch to someone else. If that happens, the legacy will be all about An die Musik, not about Henry Wong.”

“I’m always looking for people who share this dream. I hope to one day pass the torch.”

Wong, between bites from his rice bowl, spots vocalist Billy Price in the Mt. Vernon Marketplace crowd and calls to him. Price, a recent Pittsburgh-to-Baltimore transplant, played An die Musik for the first time in June and tells Wong he’s excited to return this month. “Your place reminds me of playing in France,” he says. “The French listen to the music intently, and they treat it as a serious art form. Your place brings that same vibe to Baltimore.”

Wong thanks Price and quickly deflects the praise, saying, “It is an honor for us to present a true legend; you’re an amazing performer.”

And before the singer departs, Wong invites Price to join him sometime for dim sum.

By projecting movies on buildings or piers, Baltimore has developed a summer tradition of hosting movies in the fresh air. While the city continues to add to the history of free summer movies, there is a new celebration going on this season.

Eddie’s of Roland Park will show Wallace and Gromit and Jaws outside of its Charles Street and Roland Ave. locations to celebrate the store’s 75th anniversary. Founded in 1944 by the late Victor Cohen, the store has become beloved for its specialty food and locally inspired sandwiches. Still family owned, it is now led by second- and third-generation family members.

“Chances are, if you’re a fan of Eddie’s of Roland Park, you’re also a fan of food,” says marketing director Jared Earley. “So it’s not a far leap to assume we can all identify with the cheese-obsessed Wallace and Gromit, or the insatiable appetite of a monstrously ‘hangry’ fish.”

But that’s just one of many movie series gracing the walls and screens of Baltimore institutions this summer. Mark your calendar for these film fanatic events.

Eddie’s of Roland Park Celebrates 75 Years: Bring a chair or blanket and head to Eddie’s of Roland Park for a free neighborhood screening of films. At dusk, the independent grocer will encourage the community to join them in celebration of its 75th anniversary. Store hours will be extended and refreshments will be available for purchase inside. Free. July 17-18, July 24-25.

Mt. Vernon Movies: The picturesque Mount Vernon Place is the ideal backdrop to escape into cinema. First up is the wildly popular Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, followed next month by the Hitchcock classic Rear Window, and concluding with favorite fantasy film Labyrinth. As an added bonus, MVP will offer free popcorn. Free. June 27, July 26, August 22, 7:30-11 p.m.

Federal Hill Flicks: Visit The American Visionary Art Museum for Flicks from the Hill, which projects outdoor movies every Thursday night during July and August. The Hughes Family Outdoor Theater puts on a show with a 30-foot screen that you have to see from the massive hill to believe. Come early for free admission to the museum before the main feature at 9 p.m., which this year includes family favorites Coraline and Mrs. Doubtfire. Free. July-August, 9 p.m.

The Wine Bin Screenings: Wine Wednesdays have been moved to Saturdays. Join the Wine Bin for a sip and a flick June through September. Every Saturday, the outdoor movie series opens up parking 90 minutes before the show for drive-in style viewing. After that fills up, there is still plenty of room for to set up camping chairs and blankets. This summer is filled with a wide range of films including A Star Is Born and Beauty And The Beast. Free. June-September, 9 p.m.

Fells Point Films: Another year of films on the pier starts up on July 10 with a showing of a childhood classic—The Princess Bride. Bring your own chairs, wine, and food to turn this event into a romantic date or a night out with friends. Take part in this weekly, Wednesday event through August and enjoy other movies like Oceans 8 or Captain Marvel. Free. July 10-August 28, 8:30 p.m.

Lakefront Summer Shows: What better setting for an outdoor event than Columbia’s idyllic Lake Kittamaqundi. Check out a different movie every Monday and Friday this summer, including Disney’s Tangled and the Avengers blockbusters. Free. Through September 7, 8:30 p.m.

Bel Air Airings: Join The Bel Air Downtown Alliance for fun, film, and—now—food. For the first time, summer movie nights include Bel Air’s only food truck rally. Try some local fare from the trucks parked along Lee Street from 5-8 p.m. Six times a year, the community comes together to watch family-friendly movies like Incredibles 2 and Trolls under the stars. These movies are not only free, but also come with popcorn and face painting. Free. June-August, Sunset.

Moonlight Movie Series: Spend time with the whole family this summer in the parking lot of the Shops at Kenilworth. Every other Monday from June 24-August 19, enjoy a movie playing at sunset in the open air, including animated features like Minions, Zootopia, and Inside Out. Free. Sunset.

Merriweather Movie Nights: Normally, you would catch your favorite band at Merriweather Post Pavilion, but now you can enjoy the lawn throughout the summer with its movie nights in Columbia. After kicking off the series in May with a Sound of Music sing-a-long, the next showing is Smallfoot on July 7. The film will be screened on the lawn, so grab a blanket and friends to join the fun. In the event of rain, the movie will be screened inside the pavilion. $10. May 25, July 7, August 16, 5:30-8 p.m.

Pics in the Park: Join the Downtown Partnership of Baltimore for feature film night, on select Saturdays in June through August on the lawn in downtown’s Center Plaza. Movies begin at sunset, but exact start times will be posted on the event’s Facebook page on movie nights. The plaza is bike-, stroller-, and pet-friendly and movie-goers are encouraged to bring a picnic, lawn chairs, and blankets. Free. Times vary.

The corner of North Charles and Eager streets just ain’t what it used to be. Sure, rainbow flags still fly outside of Grand Central Club, but it’s on borrowed time. Across the street, where Club Hippo once hosted epic bingo nights, show tunes karaoke, and hip-hop parties, is now the standard bat signal of gentrification—a CVS.

With gay bars closing in Baltimore, it brings up the inevitable questions: Can we explain this? Are these spaces still necessary? And what comes next?

“Years ago, gay bars were safe zones when gays were in fear of being beat up,” says Don Davis, who owned Grand Central for nearly 30 years until new owners took over earlier this year. “Once people started meeting online, we lost a lot of business.”

Beyond matchmaking websites and LGBTQ-friendly dating apps, the movement to legalize same-sex marriage in 2015 also played a part in curtailing gay-bar business. “Our community was able to get married and start a family, and the necessity to go out and meet people just wasn’t there,” says Chris Jennings, who runs events and marketing for the newly reopened Baltimore Eagle. “Plus, you need to move with trends. The way a space feels safe for us now is different from when I was in my 20s.”

Making sure there is a seat for everyone at the table—whether that’s the clientele or the business owners themselves—is an important part of keeping the inclusive scene alive here in Baltimore. “Most of the owners of these businesses were older, white gay men that entered into their golden years,” says Shelese Greene of the Pride Center of Maryland. “We now need investors who are also interested in supporting the black and brown LGBTQ community.”

Another theory for the closings is that bars in general have arguably become more accepting. “It’s taken a lot of years to feel more comfortable,” Davis says. “I’m not saying there’s no more gay-bashing, but certainly people are more decent now than they were.”

Even so, having a place that is 100-percent accepting is a priority for the community. “It’s a different kind of feeling when you go into a space and can vogue down the hallway and not be looked at like you’re crazy,” Greene explains. “It’s about tolerance and safety.”

“We need to make sure our spaces are not only safe, but also progressive,” adds Jennings. “When there are preconceived notions, certain segments don’t feel welcome.”

Long known to many as a strictly leather bar, the Eagle is aiming for more inclusivity in its newest iteration, with a more diverse staff and event offerings. And, for their part, the new owners of Grand Central are taking feedback from the Mt. Vernon neighborhood for what exactly could populate the renovated, mixed-use building.

Plus, throughout the city, places like Points South Latin Kitchen, El Bufalo, and Minnow are providing consistent venues for drag performers. “We are an LGBTQ safe space, and we’re heavily involved in the scene,” says Points South owner Bryson Keens. “Everything seems to be disappearing, and we want to do our part to support it.” Along with drag queen Brooklyn Heights and city council members, Keens is in the very early stages of discussing a new space in Baltimore City that could host drag performances six days a week.

“Whether it was Grindr or gentrification that killed gay bars, it’s our job to explore new options,” Keens says. “And now we have politicians coming to us trying to attract these spaces to their district. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.”

When Linda Brown Rivelis and Steve Rivelis got married at the Brass Elephant in 1986, Steve recalls, “We spent 30 minutes in the second-floor lounge over mimosas, took 15 minutes to say our vows and exchange rings that were engraved with, ‘It’s a deal,’ then we danced our heads off downstairs.” Thirty years later, the entrepreneurs have made a new deal as the proprietors of The Elephant. And three decades after tying the knot here, they’re still glowing.

While the Brass Elephant (which closed in 2009) held a special place in their hearts, it was also important to the duo to bring the old-world charm of the past into the present and create a place that would welcome a new generation of dedicated diners. With that goal in mind, over the course of a year-and-half-long renovation, the original 32-foot marble bar was restored, the upstairs lounge was updated with contemporary pieces like white leather sofas and ottomans, and the first-floor dining rooms were painted a pale, seashell pink, inspired by a set of vintage dessert plates purchased on a sojourn to Savannah, Georgia.

The shiny surfaces are mostly gone, with the exception of some elephant-head sconces and “wallpaper” nameplates—installed in the second-floor bathroom and hallway—that were found in the building, dating from when the Potthast Brothers Furniture Company was housed there. For all the renovations, it’s clear that the past has not been completely forgotten—historic gems abound, including stained glass by famed artist Louis Comfort Tiffany and intricate woodwork by Lockwood de Forest, a leader in the aesthetic movement.

Against the backdrop of this enveloping oasis, the food is almost secondary to the space. With its United Nations approach, the menu was inspired by the Rivelises’ 60-day trip around the world (Hanoi, Tokyo, Bora Bora, Morocco). It features items such as lasagna, chicken with chili sauce, and St. Louis-style ribs, as well as seasonal specialties, a raw bar, and a dedicated lounge menu with small plates and flatbreads.

While the fare is tasty enough and executive chef Andy Thomas (formerly of Citronelle and Gertrude’s) has the proper pedigree, the menu is literally all over the map and might be better served by consolidating countries, especially since many of the nations featured are known for their bold cuisine and exotic, palate-pleasing profiles. On our visits, most of the dishes were spice- and salt-shy and needed more oomph, including a cedar plank sockeye salmon served on a bed of fennel and onions (the pile of mashed potatoes was the star of the otherwise disappointing dish), a pad thai-inspired rice noodle dish with shrimp, and a brothy but flavorless fisherman’s stew rife with scallops, shrimp, salmon, crab, clams, and mussels.

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Pimlico Hotel Egg Roll
Cut in four sections and served on top of a swish of plum and duck sauce, this festive appetizer—a nostalgic nod to the original recipe at the Pimlico Hotel—is a must-have prelude to your meal.

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While many of the menu items we sampled needed some sort of tweaking, there were a few dishes that were just right. Our favorites included a plate of zucchini fritters—three compact cakes mixed with onion, fennel, and flash fried, and served with a cooling dill yogurt sauce—and tandoori-style chicken kabobs, threaded with peppers, onions, and zucchini, and served with a tangy yogurt sauce. Another winner was the so-called lobster roll, a riff on Vietnamese-style summer rolls, rolled in rice paper and packed with carrots, cucumber, and basil and served with a thin drizzle of mango sauce.

As for entrees, though pricey at $42, the one to order is the lamb tagine for two. The rich stew featured succulent chunks of lamb, chickpeas, and onions, floating in a thick, aromatic beef-tomato, gravy-like broth. Fat pearls of Israeli couscous were served on the side, along with house-made pita bread and a plate of simple vegetables.

In the service department, hospitality was high, from Linda’s warm smile as she visited every table to a gracious and skilled wait staff that enhanced the experience with constant care and concern. Also of note, bar manager Matt Murphy is about as congenial as they come and makes a mean Arabber’s Delight comprised of bourbon, banana liqueur, bitters, honey, lemon, and ginger.

Despite some kinks, The Elephant is very much worth a visit. And given some time to tweak, diners, like the Rivelises, should soon be swooning.

If it’s simplicity, authenticity, and, especially, staying power you crave in your Indian neighborhood restaurant, head to Indigma Modern Indian Bistro in Mt. Vernon. Husband-and-wife owners Tony and Ann Chemmanoor have been feeding Mt. Vernonites for more than three decades now, despite having to relocate twice after two devastating fires. After an electrical fire damaged their North Charles Street property in 2017, it was unclear if they’d ever reopen.

But while Indigma was gone for nearly two years, it was far from forgotten, thanks, in part, to its curry-committed customers. At the suggestion of some neighbors, the owners reopened around the corner a few months ago on Cathedral Street when the space became available after Tavern on the Hill closed. With its jewel-toned dining room, eager-to-please staff, red roses that grace every table, and a menu of familiar favorites alongside reimagined takes on a centuries-old cuisine, Indigma is back—and as good as ever. The menu is divided into small plates, dishes from the clay oven, land, sea, garden, and chef’s creations—more fanciful interpretations such as lamb with winter melon and lentils. There’s also a wonderful selection of breads featuring several types of naan, including one stuffed with paneer that’s slightly tangy and tofu-like in texture, and a complimentary trio of chutneys.

After our first two small plates—refreshing lettuce wraps with minced cauliflower, green tomato, and coriander leaves, as well as fried cauliflower with roasted cashews—my husband and I were seated at a standard two-top but ordered too many dishes to fit comfortably at the table. As the dishes arrived in succession, we were asked if we’d like to relocate to a more spacious table. We deferred to our smiling server and made the move. “Enjoy your moment,” he said to us after artfully arranging them at the new table.

As we dug into a parade of mouthwatering dishes, the hits kept coming. We especially loved the fragrant and flavorful clay-oven chicken with eggplant, mustard seed, and makhani butter and cream sauce. We also adored the vegetable coconut korma, a colorful confetti of string beans, cauliflower, and peas afloat in a mildly spiced but richly flavorful sauce, which benefits from the addition of coconut milk and yogurt. During the course of the meal, there were so many niceties that occurred, from the unprompted free refills on the rice to fresh tableware that was replaced almost at the same time a knife was hitting the floor.

Midway through our meal, Chemmanoor visited our table to ask, “Is there anything we can improve?” (We couldn’t think of a thing.) While the location might be new, Chemmanoor has clearly honed his dishes over decades. On our way out, we overheard another patron say, “I’m so happy they’re back.”

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INDIGMA BISTRO 900 Cathedral St., 443-449-6483. HOURS: Sun. noon-3 p.m., 5-10 p.m.; Tues.-Thurs. 11:30-2:30 p.m., 5-10 p.m.; Fri. 11:30-2:30 p.m., 5-11 p.m.; Sat. noon-3 p.m., 5-11 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $4-8; entrees: $16-26, desserts: $7-8. AMBIANCE: Casual.

Back in 2015, Steven Rivelis and Linda Brown Rivelis began their journey to restore the famed Brass Elephant, the elegant Mt. Vernon social spot where the two were married in 1986. A 22-month renovation maintained the 19th-century mansion’s history—with Tiffany stained glass, intricate teak woodwork, dangling Waterford crystal, and golden chandeliers—while also updating the interior with a new marble bar and contemporary furniture.

The owners, along with co-owner Mallory Staley, have been candid with customers about their struggle to secure a bank loan to pay back investors who helped fund the multi-million dollar renovation.

“Without even looking at our financials, nine banks told us that they will not make a loan for a restaurant, especially in Baltimore City,” The Elephant team wrote in an open letter two months ago. “Unfortunately, we have run out of time. After two years, our friends and family who loaned us the gap funds deserve to be paid back.”

To remedy the matter, the partners put the building on the market for $2.9 million in January. Although the property would have new landlord, they assured the community that the restaurant was in it for the long haul. Sadly, those plans changed recently when one of the investors took legal action to seize the building.

“This individual’s legal action against us disqualified us from being eligible for a loan from the SBA,” Steven Rivelis said in a statement announcing the restaurant’s final night of service on Saturday, March 23. “In response, we will have to leverage all of our available resources to defend ourselves from this hostile takeover of our treasured property.”

Though this weekend will be the last to feast on The Elephant’s global cuisine (think everything from Moroccan meatballs to Shanghai noodles) inside its posh dining spaces, it will remain open as a private events venue. The owners will also continue to operate Sascha’s—the boutique catering company which they inherited from former owner Sascha Wolhandler in 2017—as well as their pre-show cafe at Center Stage.

“While these developments and actions are extremely painful, we feel so very blessed to have had this dream opportunity to open and operate The Elephant for almost three years,” Staley said. “We remain profoundly thankful to all of our guests for your ongoing support and contribution to this amazing journey.”

On the heels of an unfortunate year for Charm City restaurant closures, the news of The Elephant’s final night is yet another blow to the local dining scene. The historic and elegant Mt. Vernon space—adorned with pale pink walls, pops of gold, and vintage sconces around every corner—was one that locals flocked to for special occasions, as well as weekly happy hours and live jazz nights.

In a recent interview, Steven pointed out the importance of supporting local restaurants—especially those right in your own backyard.

“Businesses need our neighbors,” he said. “And neighbors need the businesses, or else you don’t have a thriving community. It’s a reciprocal responsibility.”

There’s a change in the wind and it’s blown over Baltimore. Men’s fashion is on the rise and our local favorites aren’t holding back. Whether you’re looking to refresh you spring wardrobe, searching for a classic leather jacket, or just need to get your hands on the latest sneaker release – we’ve got you covered with Baltimore’s fashion hot spots for men.

VINTAGE: Hunting Ground

Searching high and low for the perfect pair of vintage Levi’s 501 jeans? In the old church on Falls Road is where you may strike luck. Hunting Ground’s racks are filled with an ever-rotating selection of both affordable vintage finds and pieces from local brands. 3649 Falls Rd., 410-243-0789

SPORTS FANATIC: This Sporting Life

A curation of embroidered patches, snapback caps, and (never) forgotten jerseys are what This Sporting Life is all about. History-inspired and all things sports, this online store features vintage and handmade items in by the store’s own Arvay Adams.You can also find This Sporting Life also stocked at For Rent Shoes, Sewlab Factory Store, and Sixteen Tons.

TIMELESS STYLE: Sixteen Tons
Don’t miss Sixteen Tons located in the same space as sister store Doubledutch on Hampden’s avenue. Stocked with vintage and new apparel that stand the test of time, the store also hosts a great selection of local duds from brands like Creative King and This Sporting Life (as mentioned above). We also love their wide assortment of accessories and grooming products, ensuring you will be stylish from head to toe.

TRENDY: Brightside Boutique

One of Baltimore’s favorite shops, Brightside is no longer just for women. Head down to the avenue in Hampden to find what’s hot and trending this season. From vinyl bomber jackets and woven knit button-ups to beard maintenance kits, you’ll slowly but surely find yourself a Brightside regular. 915 W 36th St., 410-814-0595

SNEAKER-HEAD: For Rent Shoes Baltimore

If you’ve noticed the uptick in the Baltimore sneaker game, you may just have to thank FRS. Owner Harrison Davis noticed a lack in decent sneaker shops back in 2013 and ever since has been keeping Baltimore’s sneaker lifestyle thriving from his Federal Hill store. Major brands, local designers, and up-and-coming labels all have a home here so stop by and you may just find an exclusive release. 515 Cathedral St., 443-873-9928

A MODERN TAKE: Six2Six Society

Streetwear fashion isn’t just for New York City. Fed Hill’s Six2Six Society brings together contemporary trends and vintage steals. Make a statement in a color block Tommy Hilfiger windbreaker or throw on a brightly colored Coogi sweater. Hanging from the ceiling and covering the racks are one of a kind pieces that will take your style up a notch. 912 S. Charles St., 443-717-1210

PERFECTLY TAILORED: Different Regard

Nothing says class like a well-tailored outfit. Different Regard brings together modern style and luxury quality with polished clothing. Upgrade your style with a fine-knit sweater, precisely cut slacks, or even a custom suit at this Mount Vernon shop. 825 N. Charles St., 410-225-3777

ON TREND: Angel Park

For the guy who keeps track of the latest trends, Angel Park is the place to go. Owner Justin James has curated the perfect selection of men’s clothing and accessories with just the right amount of edge. Inspired by West Coast fashion, one trip into this Fell Point shop will have you feeling like an off-duty celeb. 1707 Aliceanna St., 410-669-0600

THE PROFESSIONAL: J. S. Edwards

Looking to spruce up your work wear? Head to J.S. Edwards in Pikesville for their upscale selection of classic and dependable suits, sportswear, shoes, and accessories. The super helpful staff will have you looking your best in no time with styles from Canali, Jack Victor, and Hugo Boss. 1809 Reisterstown Road, 410-653-2266

STREETWEAR: The Lor Store

This local streetwear-focused shop in Mt. Vernon definitely brings Baltimore’s cool level up a notch. With unique artwork, lego-inspired tables, and clothing from brands like Bape and Stussy, Lor Store offers a unique and innovative shopping experience. Through collaborations with local rappers and artists, founder Malik Smith hopes to connect the community and offer a home to local designers and makers. 1110 Cathedral St., 443-683-5296

For more than 20 years, city dwellers have gotten to know the The Brewer’s Art as a dimly lit, dichotomous destination for pairing house-brewed drafts of Resurrection and Beazly in both its posh upstairs setting and its cavernous basement below.

Come spring, a second location in Howard County will offer a middle ground between the two in the form of a rustic tavern in Highland.

“It isn’t super modern out here in Western Howard County,” says Ryan Roth, a Highland resident who owns The Brewer’s Art building in Mt. Vernon. “It’s a little more traditional, so we’re definitely going to keep it casual.”

Aptly named The Brewer’s Art Tavern, the 85-seat sister spot will add some casual charm to the former home of the Twist and Turn Tavern, then Highland Tavern, off of Clarksville Pike. Roth—who estimates that he lives about 200 feet from the new restaurant—took over the lease last fall, and approached his Brewer’s Art tenants about teaming up to open a second location in the space soon after.

“I was always a big fan of theirs,” he says. “And I figured, ‘Hey, these guys probably know a lot about running a restaurant.’ They’re a cautious group. They’ve been doing the same thing for a long time, and it’s worked for them, but I think they saw the advantages and were excited about it pretty quickly.”

Brewer’s Art co-owner Volker Stewart explains that the team was uncertain of the Mt. Vernon restaurant’s fate when the building was up for sale a few years back. But after Roth became the new landlord in 2017 and later presented his expansion plans, it seemed like the right time to widen the footprint.

“It was kind of a serendipitous thing,” Stewart says. “Ryan was a fan of The Brewer’s Art, which all of the partners thought was pretty great. He reached out to us about reopening his local bar with a new concept, and after a number of conversations, we thought it would be a great fit.”

Roth expects that 50 percent of the menu in Mt. Vernon will carry over to the new tavern, which will dedicate six of its 14 taps to Brewer’s Art beers. Executive chef Andrew Weinzirl will oversee both kitchens, bringing approachable staples like the rosemary-garlic fries, poutine with pickled chilis, and soft pretzels with Resurrection mustard to the new space.

Aside from the local craft beer and cider, the beverage offerings will include a selection of house cocktails and a 180-bottle wine list that Roth is curating with the help of the staff at Highland Wine & Spirits next door. “We want to offer some nice bottles that people can just walk over and buy for themselves after dinner if they’re so inclined,” he says.

Though most of the building was equipped with proper plumbing and electrical systems, construction crews have been hard at work restaining woods, bringing in new furniture, and adding fresh coats of paint in advance of the early-April opening. The goal is to tone down the horse country feel of the previous inhabitant to make way for a more inviting, warm interior. The spot also features a 20-seat outdoor patio that Roth plans to convert into a beer garden.

As the Howard County dining scene continues to grow with new concepts like The Turn House, Manor Hill Tavern, and Cured 18th & 21st, Roth is looking forward to adding yet another dining destination to the area. For his part, after two decades, Stewart feels the timing is finally right for the expansion of Brewer’s Art.

“Ryan is committed to creating a space that offers the same high-quality product and experience that we offer here,” Stewart says. “We are excited to have a sister restaurant.”

We’ve always loved the idea of descending stairs to enter bars—especially in the winter. There’s something cozy and, yes, a little bit clandestine about these buried treasures.

And once you enter the doors of Sugarvale (4 W. Madison St., 410-609-3162), the city’s grit and grime become a distant memory. The truly beautiful candlelit space with polygon-patterned tile floors features a pleasant post-punk soundtrack and rotating ceiling décor that will keep you staring skyward at flowers in the springtime and snowflakes in the colder months.

But look down and you’ll notice that the creativity carries over to the menu, as well. This comes as no surprise once you discover renaissance man Phil Han—of Dooby’s, Sundays, and Noona’s fame—owns this bar, too. (In fact, he named it after the street he grew up on.) Back when it opened in 2015, cocktail bars like this, featuring local spirits and craft beers as much as possible, still felt like pioneers in the city.

The cocktail menu changes often, and we love the way in which it’s always cleverly divided into “shaken” and “stirred” options. On our visit, this was especially apropos, since the bar was playing a Goldfinger VHS on a tiny TV in the corner. We decided on the Beauvoir, a well-balanced and hearty mix of bourbon, madeira, amaro, and pineapple-cinnamon cane syrup. Most of the dozen or so drinks on the menu contain house-made tinctures and syrups, which lend a culinary feel to the menu.

If it’s real food you’re after, there’s a menu of small bites that includes many varieties of Dooby’s-style signature buns, such as the popular Korean fried chicken (KFC for short) with daikon, purple cabbage, and sweet pickles.

And while Sugarvale is a fun place to experiment and try new things, we also appreciate the old standbys such as the simple negroni, gimlet, or Manhattan—which are all on special during the bar’s generous happy hour (Monday-Saturday, 5-7 p.m. and a dangerous Sunday 3 p.m.-close).

Whatever drink you order, whichever VHS tape is playing that night, or however the ceiling is decorated that season, it’s hard to have a bad night at the bottom of the Sugarvale stairs.

After a flurry of publicity upon opening, in particular for offering a $21 version of the Baltimore lunch mainstay “chicken box,” Square Meal, the ground-level casual eatery in the recently opened Revival hotel, appears to have tightly pulled back the reins. The menu has been condensed to a short list of fairly straightforward breakfast offerings and salads and sandwiches for lunch, and guests now order at the counter before taking a seat. What hasn’t changed is the fact that the food, although seemingly mundane, is coming from a legit, chef-driven kitchen.

A few clues can be found on the breakfast menu. Take, for instance, the biscuits and gravy—the biscuits are freshly made, tender, and fluffy, while the gravy has a beautiful rusty hue and surprising complexity, thanks to the addition of Merguez sausage and goat cheese. A seasonal frittata is loaded with roasted vegetables and dressed in creamy Chihuahua cheese, a bright tomatillo salsa, and cooling lime-scented crema. Even the trusty breakfast sandwich gets treated to house-made sausage, making its $6 price tag a decent deal. (This is a hotel, after all).

The lunch menu is about as terse as it gets, with several salads and a few matter-of-factly named sandwiches (“Ham and Swiss,” for example) all served on ciabatta, along with some sides such as chips and potato salad. The kale salad has anchovies and Parmesan listed in the description, which is the only indicator that it’s a Caesar. But then it arrives, and the kale is carefully cut with nary a stem in the pile, the high-quality anchovies are of the tart, marinated white variety, the croutons are at once crunchy and chewy, and the dressing is perfectly balanced.

The cryptic “Spicy Chicken” is actually a deep-fried breast served on that aforementioned ciabatta, complete with dill pickles. Despite its heft, the sandwich remains juicy while staying crisp and flavorful all the way through—no doubt owing to a thorough brining. The veggie burger here is also something special, as it is eggplant-based with peppers, carrots, onions, and oats added in. This makes for a nicely browned surface encasing a soft, moist interior with sweetness and smoke from the eggplant and satisfying textural variation and background savory notes from the other ingredients.

To complete the cafe experience, Square Meal delivers excellent coffee drinks, although, to be fair, using beans from local roaster Ceremony Coffee makes the job that much easier. Along with espresso, lattes, and permutations like the flat white and long black, nitro cold brew is on the menu, as is a small selection of seasonal drink specials with ingredients such as red wine or coconut simple syrup and toasted pumpkin seeds. Even the coffee has a chef’s touch. With its new pricing structure that’s easier on the wallet, Square Meal proves that you don’t have to pay a lot for good food—the infamous chicken box was a mere bump in the road.

Square Meal 612 Cathedral St., 410-727-7101. HOURS Daily: Breakfast 7-10:30 a.m.; lunch 11:30 a.m.-2 p.m. PRICES $4-14. AMBIANCE Clubby.

For husband-and-wife restaurateurs Tony and Ann Chemmanoor, Mt. Vernon has always felt like home. The duo opened their first Indian restaurant, Bombay Grill, in the neighborhood in 1988, and debuted one of their many spin-offs, Indigma, on North Charles Street nearly 20 years later.

“We had restaurants all over Maryland at one point, but we always came back to Mt. Vernon because that’s where we started,” Tony says. “Our hearts have always been there.”

They say that the historical nature of the community, mixed with its diverse arts and culture attractions, have made it a great place to operate throughout the years. But, above all, the supportive neighbors are what they value most. As Ann puts it: “Mt. Vernon has such a good feeling of togetherness.”

Over the years, the community has helped Indigma through tough times. First, in 2010, when the space suffered a fire and had to relocate across the street. Last year, Tony and Ann decided to close Indigma due to ongoing repairs after another fire, and it was their Mt. Vernon neighbors who suggested that they take over the old Tavern on the Hill space around the corner.

“We kept running into some of our customers who were saying, ‘Oh my goodness, we’re having this withdrawal from Indigma,’” Ann says, with a laugh. “We’re really thankful for those people who have always been cheering us on.”

The couple liked that the Cathedral Street building wasn’t far from Indigma’s former home, and were enthusiastic about the large windows, outdoor patio, sidewalk seating, adjacent herb garden, and public parking lot across the street. Now, they are putting the finishing touches on the renovated space—where Indigma is expected to reopen within the next two weeks.

In its new chapter, the restaurant will have more of a bistro feel. A slightly smaller menu will list some of the old favorites, including lamb shank masala and acorn squash curry, alongside modernized dishes like grilled bison and naan breadsticks stuffed with crab.

“We’ve taken a little turn toward a bistro with a really casual, friendly atmosphere,” Tony explains. “The menu will reflect that. It will be all of the same flavors you get in authentic Indian food, but in more innovative dishes.”

Though the food will be familiar to Mt. Vernon diners, there’s a chance that old Tavern on the Hill regulars might not recognize the former breakfast-all-day spot when they first walk in. The partially open kitchen is now closed off, and the owners have built a new bar area—which will offer Indian beer, wine, and exotic martinis—near the main entrance.

When revamping the interior, Tony and Ann made it a priority to pay homage to the late Ted Pearson of Rita St. Clair Associates, who designed the former Indigma space but, sadly, passed away last spring. In keeping with Pearson’s vision, the 85-seat restaurant will feature vibrant saffron and curry colors, as well as repurposed wood carvings and cultural artifacts from the old Indigma space.

“He had this wonderful, artistic mind,” Ann says of Pearson “We wanted to keep the same colors as a way to pay tribute to his eye.”

During the first few weeks, the restaurant will only offer dinner service. But the owners are open to reintroducing Indigma’s popular lunch buffet once the spot gets up and running in its new home. They say it all depends on what their customers want.

“To me, it feels like a homecoming,” Tony says. “It’s all of our old friends coming back to see us again. The whole dining room sitting, laughing, drinking, and having a good time—you can’t replace that feeling with anything else.”