Frankie’s
Frankie’s is the first bar I have been to as an adult where you can smoke inside. I grew up in Vegas casinos and remember smoking sections in restaurants, so it’s not a completely foreign concept, but the pile of butts in the ashtray is an unfamiliar sight.
Tuesday is all-night happy hour but the bar is pretty empty for the size of the space. It is mostly cis men playing an impromptu dart tournament. The patrons definitely skew older, mostly 30s and 40s. Like Alibis and Herz, the dress code is casual tees, jeans, and athletic shots. Much of the bar faces the dart boards, sharing two long tables. Apparently, darts is so serious that people bring in their own darts in special cases.
There are ashtrays on every table and seating is abundant, simple black leather stools and chairs surrounding small round tables. Draft beer is served in honest-to-god red solo cups, and I feel a little bit like I’ve time traveled to the 90s.
The bartender is pretty but distant with a long black ponytail, hoops, and winged eyeliner. They check their phone behind the register and even lights up a cigarette behind the bar. I shouldn’t be shocked by that, I really shouldn’t, but this all feels a little illicit, a little secret between us.
Frankie is apparently a cartoon cat in a suit and fedora, whose image graces every wall of the bar. For the most part, the gray and black walls are bare but for alcohol paraphernalia featuring subtle rainbows and a few photos of drag queens. There are four TVs, each playing something different, from procedurals to sports games. Like Herz, Frankie’s also has men’s and women’s bathrooms. The indoor space is nearly double that of Alibis, and the unused outdoor patio is about the same square footage as the inside.
I think I’m the youngest person in the bar, a feeling I haven’t had in ages. I can’t tell how many people here tonight are even queer, let alone Dykes.
Regulars cycle between seats at the communal tables in between rounds of darts, shifting between groups with ease. Everyone seems to know everyone else, but in the way that I know everyone at my favorite dive bar in Vermont. We smile and might strike up a conversation at the bar, but mostly keep to whomever we came with.
A quiet queer sits at a high top by themselves but easily falls into conversation with friends across the room as they walk past. Two darts players trash talk from across the room, drawing laughs and jeers from the crowd.
I heard from Lex that Frankie’s is apparently best on Saturdays, so maybe this Tuesday crowd isn’t indicative of what the space usually feels like. Ultimately though, this bar feels queer as an afterthought, inclusive sure, but my main takeaway from tonight is that it’s still legal to smoke inside in Oklahoma.
Inside Smokers: 10
Oklahoma City, OK
