Philadelphia Weekly

I was psyched to visit Makers Local, the pub that moved into the old Carriage House. Visions of a smoky taproom with local draughts and shepherds pie danced in my head. According to early buzz, Makers had all the makings of that holy grail of food journalism--an off-the-beaten-path treasure.

I first saw the bar, a gorgeous thing of cherry wood. Two peninsulas jutting from the counter double the seating, but only two dudes sat, both sporting "Reelect Rendell" sweats. Ads for Yards, Yuengling and Dogfish Head colored the walls. Framing a broken-down coffee table stacked with sudoku books, two sagging camel-colored couches were similarly empty, and the only music playing was the "Final Jeopardy" tune ticking ominously on the TV. A chalkboard menu above the bar read "Welcome to Canavan's Pub."

What? Canavan's Pub? I checked the address. The creaky old Carriage House sign still hanging outside confirmed I was in the right place.

Alas, Makers Local is no more. After losing a partner early on, owner Kelly Canavan brought his brother Joe on board and changed the name of his new saloon to something with a bit more family pride. Canavan's Pub had a rocky start. So did my first meal there.

The chef had left early for Lamaze class with his wife. An impromptu cook I later learned was Joe Canavan burned my fish and chips--twice. When I inquired about the barbecued pork sandwich I'd ordered, Canavan shook his head. The guy who took our order must've forgotten it. Not that it mattered, since they were out of pork anyway. Canavan volunteered a replacement--anything except the soup or the potato pancakes, both of which had also been 86-ed.

There are gastropubs, and then there are plain old pubs--good for carousing but not for epicurian epiphanies. Canavan's was shaping up to be more the latter than the former.

But then, a miracle. Food started coming from the kitchen--good food, prepared by an 11th-hour chef. The wings were crisp and meaty, lightly splashed in a kicky buffalo sauce. The kielbasa special brought two smoky sausages with fluffy potato pierogi and a cloud of sour cream.

There's nothing fancy about the eats here. They're simpler than what's served at N. Third or Standard Tap. The most exotic item on the menu is a tomato-and-mozzarella salad.

On a return visit, the latkes could've been crisper, and the barbecued pork would be better pulled rather than sliced thick and drenched in rust-colored sauce, but I had no qualms about the killer burger. The thick patty of juicy beef was layered with crunchy bacon and gooey cheddar, with sauteed mushrooms spilling from the pillowy bun. Haystacks of decent fries accompanied both sandwiches.

The New York strip steak was a manly slab of meat, charred on the outside and warm and red inside, served with steamed carrots and broccoli and a generous scoop of creamy, buttery mashed potatoes. American comfort on a plate for only $12--the most expensive thing on the menu. Add a pint of Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA or Victory Prima Pils ($4 each during happy hour) and you have a damn good meal for less than $20.

For the simmering chicken-and-rice soup, Canavan's uses fresh-kill chicken from a nearby Asian butcher on Spring Garden Street. The slaughter on demand produces a bird that's juicy and intensely fresh-tasting. The flavorful stock was just the thing to ward off a snowy chill, though the sociable barkeep--quick with a joke and resembling a pirate--seemed to prefer shots of Old Crow bourbon.

Canavan's staff is like that--an endearing rag-tag cast as likely to pour themselves a drink as pour you one. They're entertaining and able. Another Yards, matey!

Canavan's Pub
501 N. 13th St. 215.627.0371
Cuisine: Pub.
Hours: 11:30am-2am.
Prices: $3.50-$12.
Sound advice: Echo-friendly.
Atmosphere: Frat pat.
Service: Colorful characters.
Food: No frills, just flavor.