George Washington’s TripAdvisor ratings
President’s Day is always a special holiday.
It’s the only post-Hanukkah, Christmas, Boxing Day, Kwanzaa, Festivus and New Year’s holiday break we can anticipate beyond MLK Day — the day when Christmas tree hangers-on like me finally and literally kick the desiccated fire hazard to the curb.
In celebration of George Washington’s birthday, and how he led our intrepid patriots to fight and die to liberate us from Britain’s monarchy and give us much-needed February Mondays off work, here are some unearthed GW posts from his travels:
Gadsby’s Tavern, Alexandria, Virginia
Ale foaming and hearty. Mutton toothsome albeit stringy. Surprised to find “scotched collops” were not sea scallops poached in scotch but a farm dish featuring fatty meats that alternative medical practitioners say may cause “reduced passage of the blood within the coronary arteries leading to sudden death.” Literally to die for.
The recommended partridge tasted like pigeon. Wife Martha noticed pigeons appeared nowhere in the vicinity and my statues were oddly unsullied.
However, the gooseberry pie was even more literally to die for than battling the Redcoats. LOL!
Great conviviality except for drunken patrons who kept asking well after the joke was deader than a Redcoat whether I was named after nearby Washington, DC, or was Washington named after me.
And was it just a coincidence that the George Washington Parkway went right up to my house at Mount Vernon? That joke is soooo played.
Perkins Tavern, Ashford, Connecticut
Visited on tour in Connecticut after becoming first president of the United States of America and stopped in Ashford on a Satnite to avoid traveling on the Sabbath, which is a big no-no.
Been to many taverns in Connecticut; this is not a good one. Bad food, hard flea-infested bed, threadbare blankets, inadequate heat with zero logs in fireplace, warming pan cold, insulting service, chamber pot flecked from previous users. Ew.
Fellow patrons uniquely rude. I thought Connecticut rhymed with etiquette!
Fraunces Tavern, New York City, New York
Had memorable event there, tho deets sketchy.
Booked the Long Room after the war while on tour before heading home. Wanted to celebrate Evacuation Day when Brits left the last American city they occupied. Invited Continental Army officers to say thanks and wish them farewell. (Don’t know the modern lingo, but props to my peeps!)
We drank a lot of wine and toasted the defeated Redcoats in all jocularity. Tried to one-up each other calling the Redcoats ribald names such as rufflers, fraters, jarkmen, whip jackets and priggers.
We got teary and said prigger stuff like “I cannot come to each of you but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.” (Ok, that was me.)
Even though we all slept in our own rooms that night, anyone who made it to brunch before it closed at 1:30 p.m. felt awkward and sheepish. But the Béarnaise on poached eggs went far beyond life-changing. To die thrice for!
Don’t remember much else, but the Tavern put up with a lot from our party, so highest rating.
John Rutledge House, Charleston, South Carolina
Affable landlord, good cooking, soft, roomy beds, fires in all rooms in cold weather and warming pans that were actually nice and toasty.
But it appeared that some of the women there were not prostitutes or angry wives dragging their husbands home, but actual female patrons traveling on business in sensible suits and talking about leaning in.
What, may I ask in all gentility, is a woman who is not a welcome and delightful prostitute doing in an 18th century tavern and inn? Do these women think they’re French and have the same rights as men? Didn’t they read Jefferson’s “Declaration of Independence,” especially the line he tweeted that all men are created equal?
Smithfield Bed & Breakfast, Smithfield, Virginia
Perfect in almost every way. Except for one thing.
You know how it’s annoying when inn proprietors get in your face and try to chat you up at breakfast before you’re fully awake and want to be left alone? How they think it’s part of the awesome fun deal? (It’s not.)
God bless their hearts, the proprietors saw through the pseudonym I use to book lodging since I’m famous (“Weorge Gashington”) and kept asking, “Have you seen Hamilton? You did? You did?! Don’t you love Hamilton? We’ve seen Hamilton twice. Isn’t Hamilton awesome?”
My brain voice responded, Yes of course I know Hamilton, he’s my freaking protégé, you pudding-headed nimgimmer!
Instead, to change the direction of our discussion, I threw off my powdered wig, pulled out my wooden teeth and said, “How oo wike me mow?”
Trump Tavern and Inn, Charlottesville, Virginia
Don’t get me wrong: I love the French. We all know they pulled my toast from the hearth, so to speak, so I could win the Revolution and eventually become The Father of Our Country, get my portrait on the dollar bill, name high schools, and give the American people a holiday in February when they need it most.
Major props to the Frogs! But that doesn’t mean, after my long journeys looking for a simple place for a fresh foaming tankard and restful bed, I want to walk into a gilded, fever-dream version of Versailles that’s faux-er than Franklin’s “wisdom.”
I thought we threw off the monarchy with its garish display of riches gained from controlling commerce and subjugating the common working people, and fought for a government and society where common folk would rule the country even if a lot of them are too stupid to get out of bed.
What do I know? I’m only the freaking Father of Our Country, the greatest democracy in history. But I’m still just a lonely surveyor of our lands who loves a place that I can call home. At home and away from home. A place to die for. A place where everyone knows your name.
Jeffrey Denny is a Washington writer