At 3 p.m. on a Saturday, the bar at Marsha’s is completely full. Killing Eve plays on one screen, Auburn University football on another, and the rest of the TVs broadcast the Philadelphia Flyers beating the New York Islanders 4–3. At the center of all the screaming and chatter is a portrait of Marsha P. Johnson beneath a gay American flag, watching over Philly’s newest sports bar like a patron saint.
Marsha’s markets itself as both a women’s sports bar and a queer safe space. Having recently opened on Sept. 19, the bar replaced the classic Philly sports bar The Wooly Mammoth. Marsha’s reimagines the essence of the testosterone–filled sports bar, taking women and queer folks off the sidelines and creating a space of comfort and inclusion. Last week, it hosted a lesbian bingo night, which is simply “normal bingo but for us,” according to general manager Rylann Murphy. This afternoon, a middle–aged man and a lesbian couple discuss the weaknesses of Auburn’s current roster; meanwhile, a straight couple watches the Flyers next to two gay men presumably on a first date.
“It’s like a little bit of everything for everybody,” founder Chivonn Anderson says. “It’s more of a safe space for people to go and just feel comfortable being their authentic selves.”
Murphy says that they’re willing to hand people the remote and put on whatever people might be interested in watching—one time, someone came in looking to watch women’s pickleball. But because women’s sports have historically received less attention from mainstream sports networks, Marsha’s is still in the process of collecting various obscure channels and streaming subscriptions, guaranteeing that it can stream any game at any time.
“We welcome anyone as long as they’re nice,” Murphy says. There’s a certain political message in using classically American aesthetics for a bar catering specifically to women and queer folks. At its core, Marsha’s, as the name signals, creates a space that draws from the United States’ history of queer resistance. Not long after Marsha’s opened, Jay Toole, a Stonewall survivor and an old friend of Johnson, flew up from Florida to visit the bar. “You have to pay respect to your elders,” Murphy says, who went upstairs to cry after meeting Toole.
Right above where we sit is a poster from the recent No Kings protests. Murphy doesn’t know where it came from—it just kind of showed up. They decided to integrate it into the decor, directly in the sightline of Johnson’s central portrait.
“Being able to open this space was very important because of the climate that we’re in,” Anderson says. Women’s sports, long a touchstone of the right’s new culture war, have been placed under heavy scrutiny by the Trump administration. “Trans women are women. Trans women deserve to participate in sports just like any other athletes—same thing with trans men,” Anderson adds.
Anderson came out when she was 15 years old in the mid ’90s. She and her friends would frequent the Tower Records and Blockbuster on South Street. “I can see my 17–year–old self wandering down South Street going into a store to buy my prom outfit, and then almost 30 years later to be someone who owns a building on that street, and for it to be kind of like a historic space for the city, is just kind of unreal and overwhelming,” Anderson says. “Like a dream come true that I didn’t know was actually possible.”
Owning the building and a liquor license is a special point of pride for Anderson, especially at a time when many lesbian and queer bars are disappearing across the country. “Usually, the reason why these bars close is because they can’t afford to pay their bills, and that’s not necessarily because they don’t have the customers coming. There’s just things that are happening on the back end that you don’t have control over,” Anderson says. “And for us, owning the building, owning the liquor license and everything, means we have more control over our building.”
Marsha’s sets itself apart in the Philly bar scene through the community it creates. Its menu only extends its central goal of queering Americana. The bulk of the menu consists of elevated stadium classics, prepared by head chef Veronica Badillo. Almost everything Marsha’s serves can be eaten with your hands and ordered for the table. Messy sports food is a tried and true staple (and my favorite part of the Super Bowl), so Marsha’s adopts the classic menu items you might expect at any sports gathering.
We share a plate of “Touchdown Totchos,” a surprisingly spicy upgrade from your classic loaded taters. Already topped with spring onions, tomatoes, and sour cream, Badillo also decided to add an addictive jalapeño nacho cheese to the tots. The cauliflower bites are another great order for the table. Crispy on the outside and soft inside, the bites themselves are flavored with ranch seasoning—and while I’m personally a buffalo sauce addict, they’re flavorful enough in their own right. We also tried out Marsha’s house–made potato chips with french onion dip, as well as its Pickle Dog topped with house–made pickled onions. Unlike at your classic stadium, however, print managing editor Jules Lingenfelter would have a chance to eat plenty at Marsha’s—that’s another way of saying most dishes can be made vegan.
The cocktails on bar are the brainchildren of head barista Whitney Zimmerman. I am handed the Toxic Femme martini, consisting of tequila, lemon, melon liquor, and fresh mint. Neon green and sporting a fun name, the drink has a sour–sweet taste, just like that femme who broke your heart. Alongside Bloodpact, a gin–based cocktail, the Toxic Femme Martini is part of the bar’s current Halloween–themed offerings. It plans to rotate the cocktails and beers on offer throughout the year, though the Toxic Femme might stay around if enough people like her (doesn’t she always).
The process of running a restaurant is a lot like being part of a sports team, Anderson says as a veteran of the restaurant industry. Anderson met her business partner, Trish Eichelberger, 20 years ago while working at Alamo Drafthouse. In the past, however, Anderson notes that all the restaurants she’s been part of have been owned and operated by white, cisgender, straight men.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. But I was like, we need to kind of start our own kind of queer restaurant group,” Anderson, who imagines Marsha’s expanding and potentially becoming a franchise, says.
“I love my job. I’ve been in hospitality since I was 14,” Murphy, who studied journalism in school, says. “We love what we do and we love making people happy—and I’m not just saying that for a good sweet quote.”
