Oh, Holman’s, you cheeky little neighborhood gem. You’re like the dive bar that went to finishing school but still sneaks out back for a smoke. Let’s break it down, shall we?
The liquor selection is solid—whiskey lovers will rejoice, vodka fans won’t cringe, and tequila drinkers will find just enough to justify another round. The cocktails? A mix of classic with a bougie twist. Black walnut oil in a Manhattan? Somebody’s trying to make mixology happen, and honestly, I’m here for it. But Pinnacle in the well? Girl, we deserve better.
Holman’s gives “kitsch meets moody drama,” and I’m eating it up. The dark wood, maroon leather booths, and barely-there lighting scream, we’re hiding your secrets, but also your pores. The 80s rock playlist is a bop, loud enough to drown out any awkward date silences but soft enough to let you holler over to your bestie at the next table.
From lil’ smokies to beet salad, the menu is serving “drunk cravings meet suburban mom brunch.” Nothing groundbreaking, but hey, not everything needs to be a Michelin star meal. Sometimes you just want a beet salad with your whiskey neat.
The bathrooms? Let’s just say they’re a private experience—whatever that means. TVs are small but functional, there’s no lottery to blow your paycheck on, and while the outdoor space exists, it’s nothing to write home about. But the pool table? Now that’s where the real action is.
Holman’s is too nice to be a true dive but not polished enough to be swanky, and honestly, that’s its charm. It’s the kind of place where you can pre-game before a movie at the Laurelhurst or drown your sorrows after. Worth a visit, but maybe bring your own Appletini.
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