Bloody good: Crimson walls, beetles under glass and Italian greyhounds add to an Addams Family ambience.

Goths to a Flame

National Mechanics mixes an eerie ambience with blue-collar cuisine.

by Brian McManus

Like an oasis of punk-rockish unpretentiousness in a sea of ninnyish affectation, National Mechanics survives in the heart of Fickle 500 country. And just who are the Fickle 500?

They’re a swinish tribe of trend-worshipping, spray-tanned philistines who don’t mind dropping 10 bones or more each time they order a cocktail, and they have the credit card debt to prove it.

The men of the tribe often wear pink shirts and spike their hair with gel. The women dress like they’re trying out for president of the Carrie Bradshaw Admiration Society. And both genders are forever in search of new and more disgusting ways to mix Red Bull with alcohol.

These men and women feast on the fatted carcass of a new venture for three months or so until the next happening establishment lumbers into their Bull ’n’ booze-addled gaze. Instinctively they pounce, leaving once white-hot spot A for newly groovy spot B. Spot A dies a slow, humiliating death. Repeat through spot Z.

Old City is the 500’s playground. The number of OC establishments that’ve been eaten and excreted by these gastroswine is too numerous to list, and yet there’s no shortage of places lining up to milk (however briefly) these disloyal douchebags.

But National Mechanics has Fickle 500-proofed the joint. How? By succeeding magnificently at being what the website describes as: “A place designed with real folks in mind and molded by time, our hands and the hands of many before us.”

The hands that came before them are impressive. Built in 1837 by famed architect William Strickland, the building housed the Mechanics National Bank (which inspired the current tenant’s name), a few thousand bars and a couple hundred clubs. It’s survived a fire and—even more impressively—an incarnation as that high church of Fickle 500-dom, Coyote Ugly.

Speaking of churches, it’s been one of those too.

The interior retains the sacred vibe, albeit warped through blood-tinted goth specs. Cross-etched leaded glass church windows overlook cross-carved dark wood church pews that act as benches for the dinner tables they cozy up to. A few odd wood-carved Italian greyhounds hang from the walls, and the homemade bottle lighting fixtures are an inspired touch. Preserved beetles encased in glass hang by the unisex restrooms like a high school science project someone just can’t let go of. The walls are the color of dried blood.

The food is straightforward. None of it surprises, but most of it delivers. Calamari is crispy and served, yep, with marinara. The fish and chips are divine (have you any idea how rare great fish and chips are in this city?), and at $7 a virtual steal. The crab cakes are tasty too, and don’t fall victim to the ubiquitous curse of over-breading.

The corn dogs are corn dogs. The Caesar salad is Caesar salad. And the chocolate cake is a piquant and heady rush of sublime, seductive and satanic taste-rage concocted by beautiful, naked fallen angels. Actually it’s just chocolate cake.

Frito pie makes its way onto the menu (called “Frito taco extravaganza”), where it’s described thusly: “a bag of Fritos bursts into life, erupting and spilling a heavenly medley of hot and spicy chili and cheddar deep into the corn chip cavern.” Don’t know about that, but it does taste just as good as you remember.

Better when you wash it down with a cold can of Pabst or a frothy pint of Yuengling draft. Both are $2, and the draft is served in glasses that are well worth stealing. (Please don’t; it’s become a problem.) On them you’ll find illustrations of Philadelphians past and present, real and fictional. Bill Cosby, Frank Rizzo and Rocky all make appearances. So does John Street.

Missteps include an avocado salad with mango. Its lemon vinaigrette comes dangerously close to having the viscosity of custard, and the tart notes it strikes are overpowering. The tomato soup (served with grilled cheese) is from a can. They’ll overcook your pub steak, but you shouldn’t be ordering a $10 cut of meat medium-rare anyway. So perhaps they’re simply looking out for you.

Only time will tell if the brains behind National Mechanics are geniuses or fools. Opening the kind of place they have—laid-back, friendly, affordable, free of pretense—in the spot they have is certainly a bold move. Stop by and raise a John Street glass in toast of their effort.