The Winchester on Broadway: A Masterclass in Passive-Aggressive Eviction

 

Let me tell you a story about loyalty—about how a group of people, week after week, year after year, gathered at The Winchester on Broadway. We spent our money. We supported the staff. We treated the place like a second home. And in return, the new ownership treated us like we were a stain on the furniture they were trying to flip on Craigslist.

We weren’t kicked out of the bar entirely—oh no, that would’ve required honesty. Instead, they opted for something more insidious: excuse-based exile. Our long-standing group, which had been meeting on the same day of the week for years, was suddenly told, week after week, that the meeting room was “reserved.” Not just reserved—commandeered by the My Little Pony Club. I’m not joking. Apparently, a herd of Bronies galloped in with more clout than a group who had supported this place longer than the current staff had been alive.

It's one thing to lose your spot to another group—it happens. It’s another thing entirely to have your loyalty tossed aside like expired malt vinegar and replaced with a parade of laughable lies. Every time we asked what happened, we got a different story, like they were testing excuses the way McDonald’s tests new sauces. “Oh, it was booked already.” “Oh, it’s under maintenance.” “Oh, we have a special event.” “Oh, Equestria needs the room.” You’d get a straighter answer from a Magic 8-Ball in a blender.

And then there’s the daughter of the new owner—an Olympic-level deflector. We tried bringing concerns to her, hoping for at least a hint of professionalism. What we got instead was a performance. She doesn’t handle complaints, she rehearses for them. If gaslighting were a sport, she’d be on the cover of Wheaties. She made it sound like it was our fault for assuming we could keep showing up on the same day we’ve always met—like we were trying to game the system by expecting consistency.

Let’s not ignore the food situation either, because it’s somehow worse. Orders take so long you’d swear the chef is foraging the ingredients in real time. And when it does arrive, it’s a roulette wheel of temperature, texture, and regret. Sometimes the burger is passable. Other times, it feels like you’re chewing on a leather shoe soaked in disappointment. The fish and chips? More like mush and crumbs. It's comfort food if your comfort zone is culinary Stockholm syndrome.

And yes, it’s still technically a “pub,” in the way a taxidermied dog is technically still a pet. The soul is gone. The atmosphere used to be warm, familiar. Now it's cold and awkward, like being at a birthday party after you found out you're not actually invited. You’re welcome to be there—as long as you don’t ask for anything. Like, say, the meeting room you used for years.

Bottom Line:
The Winchester didn’t just forget what hospitality means—they buried it in the backyard and replaced it with excuses and condescension. If you're thinking about hosting a group gathering here, just know that at any moment, a unicorn-themed meetup might be deemed more valuable than your time, your money, or your loyalty.

In short: come for the beer, stay for the gaslighting. Or better yet—go somewhere that actually gives a damn you showed up.