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“[German! German? German!! ????], thank you.” -JB ordering our beers.

It was a little obsession, call it careful preparation. We stood there watching people enter Frankford Hall. Count each like a blessing and keep them moving along; Frankford Hall you slick bastard, you’re hard to ignore. It loomed over everyone like a proud, yet fit German beer enthusiast. I knew we had to move quick, but it was already too late. Johnny Brenda was like Frankford hall’s little brother. He peaked his head out the window and spotted us. His hair was a mess; he squinted his eyes like he had been on a week long bender. I was hoping he wouldn’t take it personally as we crossed the street and made our way towards Frankford Hall. I checked over my shoulder and sighed as he gave us the finger. You fiendish brat! We enjoyed your burgers, now go back to drinking!

Frankford Hall welcomed us; one of those, trust me it’s safe type of German welcomes. Inside were variable degrees of madness. Midgets and giants roamed freely with beers larger than their heads. JB approached the bar to find out about these massive beers. “German beers, I got this,” said JB. “Hey, can I have a [German! German? German!! ????], thank you.” He ordered the brews with perfect vernacular accuracy. “Those degrees in Spanish and German are paying off,” he said with a grin.

The bar was a rectangle with three sizable garage bay doors, each wide open. This led to a stone garden equipped with picnic tables. Patrons crammed together pretending they didn’t mind an invasion of personal space; elbows gently mashed the ribs of the person next to them. “Let’s get a table in the back, more elbow room,” I said. Clutch led they way staring around uneasily. “If there was a Zombie outbreak man, this place is dangerous,” said Clutch. “I mean look up. They have flood lights and could position guards on the roof. If they pulled down the doors it could be a holding…HOLY SHIT, THEY HAVE JENGA.” he suddenly yelled. It was good to see Clutch so enthusiastic.

We sat down and enjoyed our massive beers. “Loser buys the next round,” JB said to Clutch. They stared each other down and made quick moves. “Ladies look at these nimble hands, you should see what I can do!” yelled JB as he furiously pulled a block. A few laughs and a groan rang out behind us. After a 15 minute match Clutch toppled the tower. “Son of a bitch,” he yelled as he smashed his hand on the table. “Fine, I’ll get this round,” said Clutch. We approached the bar. “You’re total will be $42 dollars”, she said smiling. “Do you take hundreds?” asked Clutch. “Of course we do!” she laughed. Clutch shook his head, “No more Jenga bets man.”

When we returned, JB had made friends with ex-military personnel that sat down at our table. “How ya’ll doin! How about a game?” asked one of them. His eyes were barely open and he had a Cheshire grin across his face. I knew this type of mischievous smile. It was obvious that he had played Jenga professionally for hookers somewhere. The question was where; location always determined skill. “Where did you last serve?” I asked hesitantly. “I just returned from Thailand, we played this shit for hookers instead of beer!” he said excitedly. This was serious! “JB you in?” I asked. JB nodded confident of his skill. The match was fast and furious, blocks were yanked and stacked. I expected nothing less from two depraved socialites. It got got heated. Cursing, shouting, each making one fiendish move after another. You fools! The game is just for a beer not a hooker! The match went on forever until JB bested him. “HELL YEAH,” JB yelled. The guy laughed, shook his hand and left to get JB a beer.

The night was young and Ruba Hall was calling our names. We prepared to head out the door when Clutch came out of the bathroom shaking his head. “What’s wrong?” JB asked. “Basically what I’m saying is, it’s pretty awkward trying to take a leak when the guy in the urinal next to you keeps rubbing elbows with yours,” said Clutch. “But that’s not the weirdest thing. There’s another guy yelling PEEKABOO jumping up and down in the bathroom stall,” added Clutch. JB and I just stared. The German beer created lunacy, also a common known side effect with drinking liters of beer. “Walk it off man, we’re off!” said JB as we walked out the door.

Added Note: We were lucky enough to come here on a separate special night to watch Double Dare (a show from the early 1990’s) hosted by the one and only Mark Summers. He even told the drunken crowd to “Shut the f*ck up”…legendary.

The bottom line:

Hours:  4 p.m. – 2 a.m.
Crowd:  Hipster | Casual | College
Music: Background
Price range:  $$
Accepts Credit Cards:  Yes
ATM: No
Dance floor:  No
Outdoor area: Yes
Coat check: No

Fantastic place. It’s in Northern Liberties/Fishtown. Usually this means lots of hipsters but this place is filled with a friendly and varied crowd. If you’re fond of massive German beers and some tasty snacks, then this place is for you. The outdoor section is perfect for summer time and the picnic tables give you a great excuse to make friends with a hot girl next to you. Oh and there’s Jenga, ping-pong, and Foosball!

Frankford Hall
(215) 634-3338
1210 Frankford Ave, Philadelphia, PA
http://frankfordhall.com/

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