Sandy W.
Yelp
Morbid curiosity drove us here one night. What we saw transpire inside drove us back out.
Crusty dive bars definitely have a place in my heart. And usually a strong presence in my lungs, too. I expected smokiness, but Fran's must have a Marlboro Red brand fog machine. HACK! Through the mist, we could see a bad karaoke set up, a battered pool table, and about seven seats- which were all taken. A short bartender with a cigarette dangling from her mouth poured a bag of freshly microwaved popcorn into a repurposed ice cream container and served it to a patron. The crooked-toothed feller at the bar next to me asked, "Y'all ain't from round here, are ya?" And I told him yes actually, born and raised. When we got our turn to order, our PBR can or PBR draft selection process was abruptly halted when we spotted the neon green posterboard sign declaring Cash Only. I'd be lying if I said we weren't relieved to have an excuse to leave without ordering.
So no, I didn't actually get the experience of having a drink here. Nor did I get a chance to look over a menu of their other microwave masterpieces. But I did smell profusely of cigarettes, just from standing in line at the kitchenette/bar for five minutes. I could only see myself returning here if I was already sufficiently boozy from three to four other bars first. Then, maybe.