People call us a lot of things.
A cocktail bar.
A whiskey bar.
A speakeasy.
A specialty bar.
By no means are any of those insulting. Hell, some of them are pretty flattering.
But for almost nine years now, whenever somebody asks what Speak of the Devil is, we have given the same answer – we’re a neighborhood bar.
We’ve been thinking about that lately.
Why, after all these years, do we still insist on calling ourselves that?
Because from the outside, we certainly thoroughly understand the other labels.
We’re a dark little room. We make serious cocktails. There is an unreal amount of whiskey on the shelves. Depending on what you order, somebody behind the bar may end up explaining amaro or agricole rum or why there is fermented pineapple involved in your evening.
We’ve been lucky enough to receive some national recognition over the years. We fuss over ice. We make syrups and infusions and all sorts of weird shit in the back. We own more bitters than any reasonable person probably should.
It certainly looks like the sort of place people now call a cocktail bar.
And it is.
But “neighborhood bar” describes something those other labels don’t.
A cocktail bar tells you what we make.
A whiskey bar tells you what’s on the shelf.
A speakeasy mostly tells you the room’s vibe.
A neighborhood bar tells you what we want the place to be.
And that distinction matters.
Somewhere along the way, “neighborhood bar” became shorthand for a certain kind of place. Cheap beer. Neon signs. A pool table. Maybe a jar of pickled eggs nobody has been brave enough to investigate since 1997.
And sure.
That can absolutely be a neighborhood bar.
But none of those things make it one.
A neighborhood bar is a place you can walk into without having a reason.
That might be the simplest definition I know – you don’t need an occasion. You don’t need to know anything about cocktails. You don’t need to dress differently. You don’t need a reservation, a secret password or an encyclopedic understanding of obscure Italian liqueurs.
You can come in because it’s Tuesday.
You can come in because you had a great day.
You can come in because you had a shitty one.
You can come in because you saw somebody you know sitting through the window.
You can come in by yourself.
You can come in for one. You can stay for three.
You can order something meticulously constructed with six ingredients, a homemade syrup and a story that begins in Havana in 1932.
Or you can have a beer.
Neither person is using the bar incorrectly.
That last part has always been important to us.
We love cocktails here. Obviously.
We love the history of them. We love digging through old books and finding forgotten drinks. We love strange bottles, new ingredients, and figuring out how flavors work together. We love handing somebody something they’ve never tasted before and watching that first little moment when it registers.
But knowing about cocktails has never been the price of admission.
You don’t have to know what you like before you sit down.
That’s part of why we’re here.
And despite all the things we do around here—live music, vinyl nights, book clubs, karaoke, classes, passport adventures, hot dogs, ramen popping up outside, whatever strange idea somebody has talked us into this week—none of those things are really the point either.
They’re reasons to gather.
That’s different.
The point is the room.
The people in it.
The person who stops after work for one beer sitting next to the couple having cocktails before dinner. The regular who knows exactly what they want sitting beside somebody who has never been through the door before. Somebody reading a book at the end of the bar. Somebody telling a story you’ve already heard twice and, yet, somehow, you’re listening again.
Some nights something wonderful happens.
Some nights absolutely nothing happens.
Both can be great nights at a neighborhood bar.
Maybe that’s why we remain a little stubborn about the phrase.
Because “specialty bar” sounds like somewhere you make plans to visit.
A neighborhood bar is somewhere you end up.
And if you’re lucky, somewhere along the way it becomes one of your places.
We take the drinks seriously.
We take the room seriously.
We take being hospitable seriously.
We try very hard not to take ourselves too seriously.
So call us a cocktail bar if you want.
Call us a whiskey bar.
You can even call us a speakeasy, although we may make a face.
But if you ask us?
We’re Speak of the Devil.
Your neighborhood bar.
That’s what we’ve always wanted to be.