Our movie ended at about 8 p.m. and we were starving. We had a work party on our agenda, but it was a half hour away. If we drove straight, we would arrive late and hypoglycemic, then descend on the carcass of the buffet like vultures.
“Can we eat first?” I plead with my wife.
“Only if we’re quick. Let’s get something here,” she says.
Hmm. Tough. We’re at Phipps Plaza, where not one of the restaurants really appeals. We debate the options and decide on the Tavern at Phipps. It is kind of dark, and noisy, and over air conditioned, and a keeper of the fern-bar flame. But, hey, it’s here.
That’s what you want out of a mall restaurant: its mere presence.
The Tavern opened in 1992, one of a slew of new shops and restaurants that settled in after Phipps Plaza got a $140 million face lift. Locally owned at the time, it was a relative of Dunwoody’s Joey D’s Oak Room — another restaurant that uses mahogany stain, floor tiles and thick napery to create a clubby atmosphere.
Remember clubby? That was such a desirable affect back in the “Cheers!” era. That idolization of the friendly bar crowd. Nobody at the Tavern may know your name, but they’ve got your number. They serve big portions of easygoing American food and cocktails that seemingly refill themselves. The cadre of slender, young waitresses wear hilariously sexy barmaid get ups of black halter tops and miniskirts.
This isn’t exactly what we’re in the mood for but, well, it’s here. We work our way though the crowd, and the atmosphere is thick with its brassy personality — the braying laughter of diners on top of cheesy soft pop on the soundtrack, the waitresses squeezing though with cocktail trays aloft, the muddy lighting, the smell of french fries haunting the air like a ghost, the black granite floor cold against our feet, the shopping-bag-laden souls gathering two deep at the bar.
My wife hates it. Everything about it. “Can we eat on the patio?” she asks.
Yes, but: We have to wedge by musician Forrest Wolfe playing a cover of “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond on an electric organ. Wow. When was the last time I heard a cover of “Sweet Caroline?” The Reagan era?
We find a corner table with a not-so-lovely view of the parking lot. Sitting outside on a hot summer night with a view of a mall parking lot. Somehow this feels very “only in Atlanta.”
Our friendly fembot comes to the table, her blonde hair bouncing, oversized menus in thick plastic covers in her hand. Let’s see: chili-cheese nachos, wings, onion rings, four-cheese pasta — not exactly what we want but, hey, we’re here.
And then I see this: “Carnegie Deli pastrami sandwich.” Seriously? Pastrami from the Carnegie Deli in New York? It is the waitress affirms, shouting over the musical stylings of Forrest Wolfe.
Carnegie is a classic old-school New York deli located in the city’s theater district.
Well, okay, sold. We sip our drinks. I have a martini served with one pitsy little olive that offends the drink aesthete in me.
And then our sandwich comes. It is so exactly right. Piled to a nearly two-inch height, the meat is warm, very thinly sliced and still ribboned with bits of fat. It sits on rye bread, also from the Carnegie Deli, that is both tender and resilient, with a firm and shiny crust.
What came on the side? Fries? Slaw? Collard greens? No. One fat, uncut pickle. The pickle that is supposed to be there next to a pastrami sandwich.
Oh, sweet Caroline, good times never seem so good!
Afterwards I track down managing partner Alex Zengotita who tells me the sandwich is “a signature item of the Tavern.”
Who orders it, I ask. “Oh, you know. New Yorkers. People who know about pastrami,” Zengotita says.
And, like that, I feel like I’m part of the club. Cheesy music, halter-topped waitresses, great pastrami. What’s not to like?
The Tavern at Phipps: 3500 Peachtree Road, 404-814-9640.
Have you eaten at The Tavern at Phipps? Tell us your experience.
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