Froggy Bottom Pub
2142 Pennsylvania Ave. N.W.

There are a few things you should know about Froggy Bottom Pub if you’re under 21. Don’t be alarmed if your waitress is crying – the Vietnamese lady who runs the place is known to get sassy sometimes. If you’re asked to move tables, you might get a free pitcher out of the deal. And the note at the bottom of the menu advertising that “brownies, cakes, pies and ice creams are available!” has never been true, and if I were you, I wouldn’t ask your hysterical waitress anything about it.

But if you’re like me, and you’ve finally reached that golden age after which birthdays approach with increasing dread of old age and, ultimately, death, there’s only one thing you should know about Froggy Bottom: they sell beer there. Even so, the first time I went to Froggy Bottom to get a drink – and not to wait an hour for a crowded pizza dinner – I have to admit I was under-whelmed.

The basement entrance to the bar beneath the restaurant takes you through a too-bright hallway to the cluttered bar: oak kitchen chairs crowd around narrow booths, a pool table is perched awkwardly in the center, and the walls are decorated with fluorescent frog murals and hanging Christmas lights. Together, it all adds up to look like a seventh-grade party in your mom’s basement – but this time, she has 10 beers on tap. My friends and I spent a nice – if bland – Thursday night there, sitting around, throwing back beers bought from the unenthusiastic but dry-eyed bartender, and listening to the “Bulworth” soundtrack. Other than a much-needed re-introduction to Pras, Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Mya, nothing about the place really intrigued me.

But yesterday, a friend of mine told me a story of how her Saturday night ended up at the Pennsylvania Avenue bar after an hour of hopping with friends from one lame bar to another. That night, 51st State rejected her expired ID at the door, Black Rooster Pub was filled with “weird old people” (her words, not mine) and the Science Club was crowded with six-buck-bottles of beer and an over-dressed, too-cool crowd. So after half the bars in Foggy Bottom let them down, my friends headed to Froggy Bottom Pub and had a great time with an $8 pitcher, a booth of their own and a severely drunk man who wanted someone to talk to.

I realized then that the bar’s real charm resided in its complete lack of it. Sure, the beer can run flat sometimes, and you might get struck with a pool cue while sitting on your stool, but at least you won’t get knocked over the head with any bar atmosphere that tries to be too hip, too elitist, or in my friend’s Black Rooster experience, too weird and/or old. And in case you’re tempted to venture further up Penn to that other college pub, Froggy’s Thursday special of $1.25 Icehouse bottles surely beats McFadden’s Thursday $1 TBA cans – where a few weeks ago a fiery bald bartender yelled at my friend to “stop giving him attitude” when he asked politely for a drink (a Keystone, no less).

At Froggy Bottom, your waitress may be crying, but at least she won’t be yelling (that’s the sassy owner’s job). And with the sex-ified frog murals and a mix of the 80s, 90s, and today to keep you company, the extra quarter a beer – flat or not – is well worth the investment.