Eli Eats Harrie’s Jailhouse, A Gezellig Time

I spent an inordinate amount of time of my gap year hanging out with guys from the Netherlands, which was strange since I was in South America. I was lucky enough to find out that the Dutch are a great time, and one of their best traits (besides the wooden clogs) is the use of the word, “gezellig.” The term is untranslatable, but finds rough English analogues in cozy, relaxing, and congenial. Gezellig can also be used to describe people, places, and things. A lot of good experiences are gezellig, yet not everything good is gezellig. It’s a difficult word to place. It’s also the best way to describe Harrie’s Jailhouse.

A former 1850s jail (as the name implies), Harrie’s is a brick house on Warwick Street, a slight jog from campus. There’s an upstairs restaurant and a downstairs bar, which I am a huge supporter of. All week the plan was to go to the basement, but the raining cats, dogs, and ostriches put that plan in peril. However, when a friend who was uninterested in drinking suggested he could drive, we were back on. 

The parking lot smelled of bell peppers. Entering the bar, we were greeted by a stained glass lamp straight out of a Boca Raton grandmother’s living room. We ducked under string lights (the lack of overhead lighting was certainly gezellig), and sat down at a wooden booth adorned with stickers. Like any restaurant, the menus and water came out first. I bring up the opening ritual solely because I want to mention that this water was particularly good. Slight hint of minerals, heavy enough to be taken seriously—this was a great glass, an auspicious harbinger of the meal to come. 

I (being 21) and a friend (also of legal age) ordered a cider margarita and an espresso martini. The cider margarita was what it sounded like, tequila paired with an apple cider reduction and orange liqueur. The glass came dusted with cinnamon, which evoked the dregs in a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The drink had a kick from the tequila, but the notes of orange made the marg a bit too sweet. I, being uncomfortable in my masculinity, prefer my alcohol to taste like hydraulic acid, so this was maybe poor ordering on my part.

On the other hand, the espresso martini was sublime. Advertised as “Harrie’s secret recipe,” the espresso was delightfully bitter, no coffee milkshake here. The vodka was evidently present, but not overpowering, and only bits of sweetness unveiled themselves in every sip. In a strange way, I’ve never fully understood espresso martinis. I’m a big proponent of martinis (love olives), and have had some scintillating shots of espresso. However, past espresso martinis have just struck me as fancy versions of a vodka Red Bull. But this martini flipped a switch. The drink was so intentional, so smart I wanted to shake the bartender’s hand. I get it now. 

Because we’re serious adults, we did also order food. For starters, we shared the Southern Dippers, fried pickles and green tomatoes with a smattering of side sauces. The pickles were pickles, but the fried green tomatoes were, in the words of continental philosopher Martin Heidegger, “phenomenal.” Texturally perfect (fried on the outside, joyfully mushy on the inside), the flavor was difficult to pin down, which is a compliment. After one bite, the tomato would fall apart, forcing the diner to eat the now-disintegrating battered fruit rather precariously. But I was down for the tomato-splosion. Bizarrely, the dish evoked a really good elote tamale. Maybe it was the green and the beige. Or the fact that both dishes are unquestionably gezellig. 

For dinner, I ordered the Huntsman Sandwich, a behemoth of roast beef, onions, mushrooms, white cheddar, herb cream, and arugula on a brioche bun. In the past, I’ve ordered and loved the Fig and Pig Sandwich, which features pulled pork and fig jam on Texas toast. But I’m beyond glad I branched out. The sandwich got more and more interesting with every bite. The star of the show: the melted, creamy white cheddar. Coming straight from Vermont (shoutout Bernie), the cheese was eye-openingly sharp. Great gobbles of goodness permeated every bite, as the cheese paired perfectly with the rare roast beef. Moving onto the supporting cast, the onions and mushrooms created an enjoyable umami experience. The herb cream was very solid, and the brioche had a delightful resistance to it. The arugula did get a bit lost in the sauce, but provided for good color. Smooth but not unctuous, filling but not overwhelming, this was a splendid sandwich. 

There were admittedly some problems with the rest of the meal. My friend ordered the Fig and Pig, but was brought a sandwich that he remarked, “tastes a lot like a Philly Cheesesteak,” because it was a Philly Cheesesteak. However, the sandwich was still fantastic, with the peppers packing a punch. And, the same friend who didn’t want to drink also seemed to not want to eat, just ordering a milquetoast mac and cheese. 

These mis-steps didn’t detract from the most important part of Harrie’s: the vibe. Conversation flowed as men in overalls walked by. College football games nobody really cared about played on the TV. The bathroom had potted plants. As the meal winded down, the espresso martini set in, and things became warm and fuzzy. There’s a great Dutch word to describe it all. 

Eli Pearl is a member of the class of 2028 and can be reached at epearl@wesleyan.edu.