From 495, take the 50 West exit and veer right so you're out on Gallows Road. Grevey's is in the leading corner in a shopping center perched betwixt the two.

A proud member of the National Trivia Network.

Walk into this place and you pass a nice little patio; more on that later, but I'm writing this on the first week in February, and the inside is the only side for half the year. Things are dark now, the kitchen is a half hour from closing and everything is oak and pine green and posh. Grevey's is under the ownership of Kevin Grevey, Bullets player during the 70s. Its a big exercise in Local Boy Makes Good, full of semi-posh restaurant items in the "Just Above T.G.I. McScratchies" category. And things will be priced accordingly, you'll be paying suburb prices for beer, but one can definitely find a cheaper pitcher around. The staff isn't going out of their way to distinguish themselves, not as friendlies, not as hostiles.

We got a guest review from Ben, who is the furthest thing from a jock but still the closest you'll find on this site to the "Gentleman Sportsman"... when Matt and I watch football at other people's houses, my job is to stop him from going on about how the players should be replaced by robots, and his job is to stop me from throwing beer cans at our hosts TV when the cheerleaders do something demeaning (or "whore-like", that's what I usually end up saying). But despite a disconnection to popular athleticism, we end up at a lot of sports bars, it's our lot in life. Grevey's plays the Sports Bar archetype to the hilt; lots of local memorabilia, a TV setup borrowing from Wall Street. I believe one would find it impossible to sit in a position without at least three sets in your field of vision. But for those of us distressed to find we actually know the Infield Fly rule (Ben was telling me the other night that it's impossible to drink in New York without picking up some baseball knowledge, it's viral in those bars), there's NTN trivia. Trivia was the driving force in our February Grevey's visit, and the bar can usually muster a half-assed NTN showing by the end of the night. And, since the game isn't as popular as in a "God, they must have something to do here that will take our mind of that goddamn alligator wearing sunglasses" T.G.I. McScratchies, the consoles are nearly all in working order.

Food... I couldn't afford to eat here when I had a job, now the option isn't open for discussion. I remember some good catfish something something when we used to finagle recruiters to take us out to lunch on the company dime, but we were always pissed that we weren't at Sweetwater Tavern across the street. But it's worth noting that Grevey's is a full functioning restaurant, not a kitchen providing legal support to the bar... you have the option of real food instead of anything they could fry in the chicken wing equipment.

Okay, the above applies to the winter months. But once we're out of this cold snap and things get temperate, Grevey's has a whole new reason for living. They've got this beautiful little patio, unfortunately with a view of the Gallows Road onramp, but catching those cool evening breezes you've spent all that June day waiting for... A fenced in area outside the Grevey's doors contains a little outdoor bar, about a dozen tables, lucky prospective weekenders start piling in at 3:00 and as the sun creeps under the Willow Oaks officescape we're all bunched in, a hundred patio chairs crammed foot to foot, people leaning against ironworks and brick columns, teeming bottles and plastic cups and there's not a TV in sight everyone is average and beautiful in the Fairfax suburbs and you weave home and wonder why you smell like lemons and not like cigarettes for once.

So maybe I'll be back once I work free of these periodic snow-signs we're getting. But for now, Greveys, you can sit and let that cathode ray/testosterone cocktail eat at you; I've got other places to drink.

Now, the trivia situation is pretty good, because any TV can be set for the Great Game (yes, trivia I mean). Still, in the middle of our group celebrating (champagne all around), Brian tells me some classic baseball cap dipshit (the sort, no doubt, who wears oversized white pants, slouches, has wide, flaring nostrils, keeps his thumb on his belt buckle, and carries pictures in his wallet of skinned, bloody rabbits) went on a tirade (or in dipspeak, a hootin’ an’ a hollerin’ yim yam jamberoonie) in the bar zone about the fact that I was wearing a scarf. Well, I like classic baseball cap dipshits, I think they’re great, so I guess I’ll have to go back and apologize. You know the sort I mean (the sort, no doubt, who molests postal employees, pastes decals on their Dodge Ram of Dale Earnhardt pissing on Burt Reynolds, and immerses himself in giant pools of human feces, flinging it through the air in perfectly juggled arcs, concluding with the famed maneuver in which he leans back, stretches his mouth wide, and lets each pile land in the back of the throat). Anyway, I love those guys, but it should be noted in my defense that my neck was cold, which is my point: Grevey’s wasn’t the warmest establishment on the face of the earth. Not exactly frigid, but, you know.

Now, what’s the deal with Sports Bars? When did this become a concept? Why not, like, Car Bars? Or Home and Garden TV bars? You may call that idea the gayest thing you ever heard in your life, but the Sports Bar is a place full of sweaty swearing fat men staring at sweaty athletic fat men knocking balls around and slapping each other on the ass, which if you haven’t noticed, usually jiggles. This, by comparison, makes the Home and Garden TV bar sound like a walk through a nice sleazy strip joint with Burt Reynolds. Even a Hello Kitty Bar would be more masculine than a Sports Bar, but I suppose it’s an accepted system, the worship of one’s idols, the vicarious living and drooling over each touchdown, the hagiography, etc. etc.

Anyway, after enough people remarked on my awesome stature (I’m 6'8") I figured I’d seen enough home runs; ergo it was time to run home. Overall, I’d say Grevey’s deserves a thumbs down; not for lack of trying, but for basic lack of appeal. Aside from the trivia–and the purported outdoor option in the summertime–there just isn’t anything about Grevey’s, in particular, to like. Not when Brian and Matt and their diligent hunting have made the panoply of better options so very, very apparent.