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| - A humble palace devoid of decadence and located within stumbling distance of the famed X-mas Story house, the Rowley Inn is a neighborhood relic of the highest order. An antique bowling machine looms in one corner, rusty and wise. Craft bottles (Mad Elf, Platform Gose, et al.) are half price after 5 pm on Mondays. The onion rings are greasy as Dive tradition dictates, served hot and crispy on a white oval platter with a squeezer of old school ketchup. There's poutine too, in heavy bowls. And a slight cocktail menu. The other night, smooth jazz resounded from overhead in a baffling accompaniment to the Cavs game. The bartender, snarky but adroit, served with practiced precision. There's a ragged poetic sensibility here at RI. Gentrification has yet to invade and morph its ancient rhythms. That's real wear on the bartop, dear reader, not some clever facsimile distressing. You'll feel genuine as you get plastered slowly on a swivel-stool, transformed into a symbol of the old world yourself, a sign among those on the walls, gathering within yourself the dusty glimmer of yesteryear.
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