Goodbye Bridgewater’s Pub.

The pandemic claims a Philadelphia institution.

written in January 2021

As the Covid-19 pandemic wages its assault on the world, I find it hard to be optimistic or grateful about anything. But still, as each day passes, I try to count myself lucky that none of my beloved have been among the two million (and climbing) worldwide dead at the hands of the virus. 

A few weeks ago, scrolling through my social media feeds, it seemed that even those in my extended network — high school classmates I don’t speak to on the phone or see for virtual happy hours — were doing OK. Some had tied the knot during the pandemic and many were able to procreate — lucky them.

As I lingered on photos of past crushes now married or engaged to be so, my mind wandered to the restaurants I would frequent during the same period as my infatuations; the establishments that nourished me in my young adulthood on the East Coast, shaping my gastronomic identity as the city of Philadelphia was undergoing a great culinary growth spurt in the late 2000s. With a twinge of curiosity, I punched the names of some of my favorite places in a search engine, just like I would with my crushes.

Tria, a wine bar in Rittenhouse Square that awakened the oenophile in me, was taking reservations. On their menu, I recognized many of the same dishes I used to order at the bar, like the mushroom bruschetta with truffle and pungent fontina which I can still smell if I close my eyes. Down the street, the weathered brass fixtures of a.bar, the first craft cocktail bar I patronized, were still standing as well, nourishing the citizens of Philadelphia with libations to-go. My temple of carbohydrates, High Street on Market had rebranded as “High Steet Philadelphia,” relocating due to rising rent, but with a recognizable menu still full of pastries in the morning and pasta in the evening. 

But before I ever set foot in any of those places, I used to spend my time perched on a stool at Bridgewater’s Pub, a bar nestled just inside the entrance to 30th Street Station.


“Permanently closed.” My heart sank when I saw the red banner Google slapped above the business name, incongruous with the rest of the search results; photos of food and drink from customers, a selection of reviews, and an invitation to send the address to my phone as if I might want to navigate there to see for myself. Even Google’s business summary felt out of place with what it was telling me, written not in the past tense like an obituary, but in the present tense like an advertisement, saying, “Lively train-station saloon offering a wide range of craft beers, plus nibbles & happy-hour deals.” On the pub’s linked Facebook page, I found a post from the owner dated November 17th, announcing that it would close the following month.

Google was right to call Bridgewater’s Pub lively. As the bartenders served me German beer, the bustle of the train station provided a soundtrack that overrode the music they played inside. The bar was not enclosed, but rather merely partitioned from the train station, and the whirring sounds of roller-bag wheels on the hard floors and Amtrak announcements on loudspeakers would reverberate off the train station’s vaulted ceilings and down into the bar, imbuing a sense of movement and urgency, even if you weren’t in a rush to catch a train. On any given day, the bar would be dotted with locals and regulars who would stay put in their seats as “one and done” commuters would arrive one after the other to grab a drink before their departure. I used to think that it would be interesting to record a time lapse of the bar to see the ebb and flow of commuter train schedules reflected in swelling and receding crowds in the bar.

Bridgewater’s Pub had excellent beer on tap, but was also blessed (during the years I ate there) with an incredibly talented executive chef by the name of Frederick Price, who pushed my culinary tastes in surprisingly progressive directions for a bar in a train station. On one occasion, he prepared a burger made with kangaroo. On another, a stew with rattlesnake. The food at Bridgewater’s was unrivaled in the train station, which was home to nothing but outlets from the world’s favorite franchises: there was a Subway, a McDonald’s, an Au Bon Pain, and an Auntie Anne’s just to name a few. 

I knew nothing of cocktails at the time, and so can’t say much for that part of the pub’s menu, though I do recall once asking if I could have a mojito, only to be met by the glare of a surly bartender who let me know that was not an option. My only other interaction with the spirits list at Bridgewater’s Pub was after discovering the movie “The Big Lebowski,” when I adopted the White Russian as my drink of choice in a desperate attempt to will the effortless swagger of The Dude upon myself. My favorite bartender, Devitt, would serve them to me as doubles in 16-ounce pint glasses, often only charging me for singles.

My memories of Bridgewater’s Pub are almost universally positive, despite that time being a notably rocky period in my life, and I grew to love the pub in a way I had never loved a place before. I spent many hours sitting at the bar, having arrived feeling crippled by depression and anxiety, overwhelmed by life. As I settled in to my barstool, the noise of the world moving around me was like a salve on an open wound. I felt soothed, and viewed the pub as a welcome refuge from the theater of my own mind. There were entire months where Bridgewater’s Pub was the only place I would go except for work and my apartment, eschewing social activities with my friends just to sit by myself at the bar, trying to contemplate the enormity of my own sorrows. Though I never confided in the staff, I recall appreciating the intimate, unspoken relationship between bartender and patron. The staff there were important to me in ways that are hard to describe.

I haven’t seen the bartender Devitt in many years, but was glad to run in to another bartender, Chris, during a visit I made to Philadelphia in 2019. We had a chance to catch up as I sat for a drink, and though my schedule prevented me from staying as long as I would have liked, I assured him that we’d cross paths again soon. Foolishly, I assumed that after twenty years in operation, the pub would surely be there, waiting for me, on my next trip to Philadelphia. I have never been more upset to be wrong.


In the concourse of the 30th Street Station, a towering 28-foot bronze sculpture by the artist Walker Hancock cuts an imposing silhouette, framed by the tall Corinthian columns behind it, reaching up to the station’s ninety-five foot tall ceilings. Called Angel of the Resurrection, the piece depicts Saint Michael, the archangel, lifting a dead man to the heavens. On the eleven foot black granite plinth, the first of two inscriptions reads, “In memory of the men and women of the Pennsylvania Rairoad who laid down their lives for our country.” The next, “That all travelers here may remember those of the Pennsylvania Railroad who did not return from the Second World War.” It’s a touching tribute to the over 1,300 members of the Pennysylvania Railroad who fought and perished in World War II. 

As cities begin to think of ways to commemorate those who have died during the pandemic, so too will we all have to find ways to commemorate the restaurants we’ve lost. There will be no bronze statue for Bridgewater’s Pub, but as travelers pass through the shadow of the Angel of the Resurrection, and onward to the space where Bridgewater’s Pub used to be, perhaps those who found solace in it, just as I did, will remember it fondly, just as I will.

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