The Last Ashtrays of Capitol Hill: Inside D.C.’s Forgotten Restaurant Relics

There was a time—not long ago—when a Washington, D.C. power lunch wasn’t complete without three things: a martini, a cigarette, and a well-placed ashtray. Before smoking bans and the tyranny of smartphones, restaurants were more than dining rooms; they were theaters of ritual and influence. Deals were whispered over cigarettes, crises averted with a stiff drink, and, for reasons that now seem absurd, ashtrays were bolted into bathroom stalls.

Capitol Hill’s Time Capsules

While most of the city has traded smoke-filled rooms for sleek wellness menus and oat milk lattes, a few Capitol Hill institutions still carry the faint scent of another age. Step inside one such haunt and you’ll find the ghosts of mid-century politics: wood-paneled walls, a lonely telephone booth by the entrance, and yes—an ashtray screwed into the side of a bathroom stall.

These details aren’t just curiosities. They’re stage props from a time when a restroom break could mean lighting up, collecting your thoughts, or continuing a heated debate without skipping a drag.

The Rise and Fall of the Bathroom Ashtray

For decades, the stall-side ashtray was as common as a coat check or a linen napkin. By the late 1980s and ’90s, smoking bans swept across the country. The Clean Indoor Air Act and its successors banished cigarettes from the indoors and rendered restroom ashtrays not just outdated but unthinkable. By the 2000s, they had disappeared almost entirely—joining the ranks of other extinct restaurant amenities like matchbooks, maître d’ podiums stacked with bribes, and unspoken “three-martini” workdays.

The Martini Lunch and Its Forgotten Accoutrements

The martini lunch was more than an indulgence—it was a civic ritual. Politicians, ad men, and lobbyists ducked into steakhouses and hotel bars, stretching “lunch hour” into entire afternoons. Cigarettes and cigars were as much a part of the table setting as bread baskets.

And then there were the telephone booths—dim, discreet, and essential. In pre-cell-phone Washington, a well-timed call from a booth could shift a legislative vote or close a corporate merger. Swap the rotary phone for a burner, and you’ve got a set piece fit for today’s political dramas.

Relics in Plain Sight

Most restaurants have shed these ghosts, but in Washington, a handful still preserve the atmosphere. That forgotten ashtray, that lonely phone booth—they remind us that the tools of influence were once tangible. You flicked ashes between paragraphs, closed deals between drags, and dialed decisions from a booth by the bar.

If yesterday’s ashtrays could be repurposed today, they’d likely fill with discarded talking points or the ashes of campaign promises. The booths? Perfect spots to upload leaks under the glow of stained glass and brass fixtures.

The Cultural Shift—and What We’ve Lost

In 2025, the idea of smoking in a bathroom stall sounds absurd, even comic. But these relics weren’t just about nicotine—they were symbols of a slower, stranger political rhythm. Lunches stretched. Conversations lingered. The performance of power unfolded not on Slack or X (formerly Twitter), but through smoke, glass, and whispered favors.

And yet, politics hasn’t really changed—it’s just swapped props. Yesterday’s ashtrays are today’s encrypted text chains. Yesterday’s smoke-filled rooms are today’s Zoom backchannels. The theater remains; the scenery has been updated.

Why These Relics Still Matter

As D.C. restaurants embrace polished modernity, the few that cling to their ashtrays and phone booths stand as living monuments. They remind us of a different Washington—messier, smokier, and maybe more honest about the vices that powered it.

So the next time you stumble across a bathroom ashtray in a Capitol Hill restaurant, don’t dismiss it as junk. Consider it a museum piece in plain sight—a reminder that history doesn’t always sit behind glass. Sometimes it lingers on the wall of a bathroom stall, waiting for the next chapter in Washington’s long-running political satire.

Welcome to Playa del Carmen—Now Try to Park

On a recent visit to Playa del Carmen, I found myself locked in a battle not with the sun, surf, or sargassum—but with a parking meter. What should have been a simple transaction—just 10 pesos (about 60 cents) for an hour of street parking—turned into a 30-minute odyssey of glitchy tech, confusing bureaucracy, and a tourism strategy that increasingly feels less about welcoming visitors and more about squeezing them.

The parking meters in downtown Playa, in theory, reflect a modern, urban upgrade. Each sleek silver machine boasts multilingual instructions and logos suggesting compatibility with credit cards and mobile apps. In practice, however, they are the bureaucratic equivalent of a mirage.

Despite the signage, none of the machines I encountered accepted credit cards. Mexican coins only. And who carries a fistful of coins in 2025, let alone in pesos? When I turned to the mobile app—standard in most global cities—I found myself locked out. The app refused to create an account, and even the “Help” section came with a catch: I’d need to sign up for a monthly subscription just to access assistance. That’s right—25 pesos a month (cancel anytime, if you remember), just for the privilege of being told how to pay for parking.

Hoping for a workaround, I ducked into Porfirio’s Restaurant, a well-known spot a few steps away from my car. The hostess, who spoke with a clear Argentinian accent, nodded knowingly when I explained my situation. “Sí, solo monedas,” she said—only coins. Then, with a sympathetic glance, she added, “Si no pagas, te ponen el candado.” If you don’t pay, they’ll clamp your tire with a metal device that immobilizes the car—similar to a Denver boot. I assumed that meant hours later, or maybe overnight. Surely there was a grace period while I tried to find change?

Apparently not.

As I returned to my rental car to continue the coin search, I saw a small team of uniformed city employees working their way down the street, locking wheels and slapping fluorescent stickers onto windshields. Tourists hovered nearby, confused and distressed. One officer kindly listened as I explained my failed attempts to pay, my screenshots, my effort. He handed me a laminated placard—the kind left on vehicles after they’ve been immobilized—and said I could “try calling the number” on the back. That’s the same number drivers must dial after paying a 580-peso fine (roughly $35 USD) at the municipal treasury or an Oxxo convenience store.

The message was clear: this isn’t about managing limited parking space. This is about trapping people—locals and tourists alike—in a system engineered for failure, then charging them for the privilege of trying.

Eventually, one of the enforcement staff took pity and pointed me to a paid lot at a nearby mall. Grateful, I parked and went about my night. But the saga wasn’t over. When it came time to leave, the payment machines inside the lot also refused credit cards and declined large bills. Dollar payments were accepted only by a human attendant—who was nowhere to be found. I wandered the lot and eventually found him chatting with security guards inside the mall. I speak Spanish. I found him by luck. But what about the average tourist?

A Parking System Designed for Confusion

The parking meter system in Playa del Carmen was introduced in December 2019 under a 15-year concession to a company called Promotora de Reordenamiento Urbano S.A. de C.V., operating under the brand name Playa Parq and using the Mueve Ciudad app. But as mentioned earlier, the app refused to create an account and even locked customer support behind a monthly 25-peso subscription—just to ask a question. Which begs the question: is this just a tourist Inconvenience, or was the system designed to fail by making it deliberately hard to pay for parking?

Since its implementation, the system has generated significant revenue. From 2021 to 2024, meters and fines have brought in more than 60 million pesos, and in 2025 alone, the projected revenue is 38 million pesos. That’s not counting what’s collected through towing and immobilization fees.

Despite this financial windfall, the user experience remains dire. The app is available only in Spanish. There’s no easy way for international visitors to understand the process, no signage explaining how long one can park before being clamped, and no personnel trained to support confused tourists. Just an assumption that you know how it all works—and consequences if you don’t.

Designing for Accessibility

Playa del Carmen is one of the jewels of the Riviera Maya—an international destination that prides itself on its hospitality. Boutique hotels, luxury condos, eco-parks, and a famously walkable downtown draw millions of visitors a year. But the city’s parking system is a Kafkaesque experience that seems intentionally opaque, with malfunctioning apps, contradictory instructions, and payment systems built for maximum inconvenience.

It doesn’t have to be this way. If Playa truly wants to welcome visitors, it must design a parking system that’s user-friendly, multilingual, and accessible. That means functional card readers, working apps, non-predatory fines, and customer service that doesn’t require a subscription. 

In the meantime if you’re planning a trip to Playa del Carmen, here’s a travel tip: pack pesos, patience, and perhaps a little luck when it comes to parking.

Otherwise, Playa del Carmen risks sending tourists the message that paradise is only accessible—if you can figure out how to park.

Charleston's Culinary Evolution: The Saga Behind Sorelle’s Arrival

Charleston, with its cobblestone streets and antebellum architecture, is a city deeply protective of its past. But it is also a city evolving, where history and modernity often find themselves in a delicate dance. Nowhere is this tension more evident than in the journey to establish Sorelle, the acclaimed Italian restaurant by Michael Mina, nestled in the heart of the Holy City. The road to its opening was as complex as the flavors it now serves, requiring bold vision, strategic maneuvering, and a deep understanding of Charleston’s intricate zoning and preservation landscape.

A Vision, and a Challenge

Sorelle is the brainchild of Beemok Hospitality Collection (BHC), led by Charleston-based businessman and philanthropist Ben Navarro. Bringing a Michael Mina restaurant to Charleston was no small feat. Navarro, recognizing the city’s rising status as a culinary destination, saw an opportunity to introduce a new level of fine Italian dining to the Lowcountry. But first, he had to secure a location that could accommodate his vision—a challenge in a city where historic preservation reigns supreme and commercial expansion is scrutinized with a discerning eye.

The chosen site was not a single structure but rather a collection of three historic townhomes, originally built for John Laurens sometime between 1793 and 1804. These buildings, which had housed a variety of small businesses and residences over the decades, had to be thoughtfully integrated into one cohesive space. Taking a cue from its 1800s-era origins (the building was the site of a Hebrew school run by two sisters), the restaurant was aptly named Sorelle, meaning “sisters” in Italian. The project was brought to life by renowned design firm Meyer Davis, which meticulously transformed the historic structures into a stunning multi-concept dining experience.

Zoning Hurdles and Historic Sensitivities

Charleston’s zoning process is famously rigorous. Any alteration to the city’s historic fabric must pass through layers of review, from the Board of Architectural Review (BAR) to city planners and neighborhood councils. Converting these existing structures into a fully functional restaurant meant securing new zoning approvals that allowed for commercial food service in a space previously designated for other uses.

Neighbors and preservationists, wary of large-scale commercial developments in historic corridors, voiced concerns about potential disruptions—noise, increased traffic, and the ever-looming threat of Charleston’s rapid commercialization. The team behind Sorelle had to demonstrate that their project would enhance, rather than detract from, the city’s historic integrity. They leaned into the architectural character of the buildings, preserving facades and original details, while making the case that Sorelle would be a cultural asset rather than an intrusion.

Why Charleston?

The decision to bring a Michael Mina restaurant to Charleston was not arbitrary. Over the last decade, Charleston has emerged as a national culinary powerhouse, drawing attention from chefs and restaurateurs eager to be part of its thriving food scene. The city’s reputation for hospitality, its affluent visitor base, and its deep-rooted food culture made it a prime location for a new culinary investment.

But beyond the business case, there was also a personal element. Navarro believed that Charleston’s dining scene was ready for a restaurant that could seamlessly blend high-end Italian cuisine with the city’s warm, Southern sensibilities. By selecting a historic property and honoring its past while adapting it for the future, he aimed to create a restaurant that would not only serve exquisite food but also tell a story—a story of Charleston’s ongoing evolution.

A Testament to Charleston’s Future

Sorelle officially opened its doors on February 15, 2023, bringing six distinct dining concepts under one roof. From a lively café and wine bar to an intimate chef’s counter and upscale dining space, the restaurant offers a multifaceted experience that reflects the layered history of the building itself.

Sorelle’s journey to completion was one of patience, negotiation, and adaptation—a microcosm of Charleston itself. The city’s deep respect for history ensures that any new venture must first prove itself worthy of the space it seeks to inhabit. But when done right, the result is a blend of past and future, a reminder that progress and preservation need not be at odds.

Now, as diners enjoy house-made pastas and impeccably sourced seafood under the glow of restored historic fixtures, Sorelle stands as more than just a restaurant. It is a testament to Charleston’s ability to evolve without erasing its identity, a reflection of a city that welcomes the new while honoring the old. And in that balance lies Charleston’s enduring charm.