Jazz · Billiards · Mocktails · Kombucha
The brass lemon is lit.
Around the side of Ol’ Bea’s Diner, a few steps lead below the pavement. An old iron railing. A heavy door. A small brass lemon catching the light.
Downstairs, the bass finds you before the room does. Amber lamps glow against the brick. A glass settles on the polished bar. Beyond the archway, someone is lining up a shot.
Pull up a chair. Nobody needs your reason for being here.
At the bar
Proper glassware. Botanical mocktails. Good tea. Kombucha on tap. Every drink here is alcohol-free; the interesting part is what goes into the glass.
Open the drinks menu
The Brass Lemon
Lemon, rosemary, honey and sparkling water. Bright enough to find the door by.
Velvet After Midnight
Blackberry, hibiscus tea, lime and a little ginger. Served deep red in a coupe.
The Last Word Upstairs
Chilled black tea, cherry, vanilla and lemon. Bea has opinions about the name.
From the taps
House 0.0% kombucha, poured into a tall glass. Ask what’s on tonight.
A proper pot of tea
Black tea, peppermint, or lemon balm. Some evenings need nothing more complicated.
The room listens.
The stage is small enough to catch a musician’s smile. Piano, upright bass, a horn catching the lamplight. Booths along the wall leave room for quiet conversation between sets.
Poetry and author readings belong to the Dollybird Stage over at The Starling and Violet. Down here, the band is starting.
Through the archway: the billiard room
Two green-felt tables wait beneath their own hanging lamps. The jazz carries through the brick arch, with enough distance to give the bass solo some courtesy.
Come to play, watch, or lean on a cue while you finish a story. There is no hurry to be good at it.
Open the dumbwaiter hatch
Ding. A plate of pie arrives from Bea’s kitchen. The old mechanism complains, as it has every right to do.
There are stories about what travelled in this dumbwaiter during the speakeasy years. Bea declines to help with the investigation.
“It’s a dumbwaiter, honey. Not a witness.”
The room kept its secrets.
In Urban Lemonade’s story, this really was a Prohibition speakeasy. The old bar, the worn wood, the tucked-away entrance and the dumbwaiter survived the years when the room went dark.
When the lights came back on, the room kept its character and changed what it poured. A beautiful night out, with no alcohol and no explanation required.
A note from upstairs
At a respectable hour, Bea wipes the counter, turns up the stools, mops the linoleum and goes home. The inside staircase is locked. Food travels by dumbwaiter; people use the outside door.
“I know where you’ve been. There’s a perfectly good door outside.”
— Ol’ Bea
The Blind Lemon is a fictional gathering place in Urban Lemonade.
Urban Lemonade 