The classic charm of Exiles

On Washington’s U Street, nestled between a dry-cleaners and the city’s most notorious gay gym, lies Exiles, a modest Irish sports bar marked by a warm blue neon sign and a Bills flag.

“It’s a Bills bar and they’ll play a Jets game for me,” boasts Carmen, a local sitting at the long wooden bar.

Red Liverpool soccer scarves drape over bottles of whiskey. A large Guinness bell hangs in the middle of the bar. “What can I get for you darling? I almost didn’t recognize you with your glasses on,” says a tender voice with an Irish accent.

It’s Donagh. Pronounced “DUN-AHH” according to a sign at the bar. He’s a bartender and one of the owners. “Donagh and Paul will make you feel right at home… Paul is the shit,” Carmen’s slightly less drunk friend, Phil, says across the bar.

Carmen and Phil tell me it’s their second night in a row at Exiles, tucking into their cocktails and explaining it wasn’t always the neighborhood gem. Back in 2016 Exiles was called Stetson’s, and could best be described as a “total shithole,” says Phil.

Though the current owners retained some of Stetson’s former glory, including the retro floor tiling and exposed brick, it’s the service that makes the place feel intimate. “The owners are bartenders here which makes all the difference,” Phil explains. He’s drunk but he’s not wrong.

On this particular night, the upstairs is crawling with nerds foaming at the mouth to prove they know the country’s largest distributor of strawberries — outsmarting your social circle in trivia is the base level of DC’s hierarchy of needs, after all.

Exiles also boasts a back patio with picnic-style tables perfect for chain-smoking cigarettes during warmer months.

Many DC restaurants and bars alike closed post-pandemic; some restaurateurs turned to seemingly gaudy measures to stay relevant: fake flowers galore, “Instagram-worthy” displays of drinks and food, outdoor canopies (looking at you, Bresca). But Exiles kept its classic charm.

Exiles feels like the product of pride and community, like you’re surrounded by that rarity in bar culture, a functional family. There’s always a friendly smile and a big hello from behind the bar, and once you been in, you’ll be recognized. Everybody may not know your name, but it’s close.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s April 2024 World edition.