At ‘the Punxsutawney in Philadelphia,’ Groundhog Day starts with beer for breakfast

Mike “Scoats” Scotese opened his bar, the Grey Lodge, at 7 a.m. because it’s the earliest he could do so by law, and because it is Groundhog Day, which he’s turned into a yearly fete since 2002. The themes are “Hawaiian shirts” and “beer breakfast." The activities include contests for hula hooping and rock-paper-scissors.

Out front, there’s snow and rock salt on the sidewalk, and inside the Northeast Philly pub, the devoted have grabbed seats at the bar and tables by the window, and the question that’s brought everyone here at this hour looms over the din of music and folks having a good time: What will the groundhog see?

On the TV behind the bar, men in top hats and tuxedos dance on a stage in Punxsutawney, a Pennsylvania town some 270 miles away that has made an industry out of a day devoted to a woodchuck. A countdown clock on-screen says 15 minutes until the prognostication by Punxsutawney Phil just before 7:30 a.m. Sarah Wakelee, 34, stood at the bar, wearing a shirt adorned in a print of cats and tacos, hoping to avenge a prior loss in the Hawaiian shirt competition. “I came in second place last year, so I wanted to up my game,” she said. (Alas, victory again was not hers.)

Her crew this morning: her boyfriend, Pat Kelly; brother Andrew; sister Emily; and friend Jordan Agzigian. They got a table in the corner of the wood-ceiling establishment, snowflake cutouts were stuck to the window as if to underscore just what hinged on whether or not Phil saw his shadow. More of the same biting cold, or an early spring? Only the groundhog knows, and of this group, only Kelly had journeyed to see the real groundhog -- one time, 14 years ago.

He recalled a big party, lots of people having imbibed lots of alcohol. There was a McDonald’s. He tried to conjure more details, and lowered his head a moment, chin on hand. “I’m trying to remember more of that day." It proved elusive.

“We’re just moments away,” Scotese intoned over the speakers. Soon enough, two men in their finest, backs to the television camera, knelt and coaxed Punxsutawney Phil out from a tree stump.

People around the bar called aloud their observations about Phil: that he seems scared, could use a Valium or a Prozac, and perhaps would like to retreat inside the tree stump. Wakelee thought he looked skinnier than he did last year.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” said a man on the TV. A hush came over the Grey Lodge, as the man read from a scroll. “There is no shadow of me.”

Groundhog translation: Spring is on the way!

“And that is it,” Wakelee said.

But not entirely, of course, because in Scotese’s universe, the party doesn’t stop there. As a kid in the ’70s, he remembers getting a card from his grandfather on Groundhog Day, and switching between TV channels to try to catch a live shot of Phil. “Back then, it was a real challenge to actually see it,” he said.

Now, he had 13 Hawaiian shirts with him for a series of outfit changes throughout the day, an homage to “thoughts of warmth and beaches.” See that mosaic-tiled groundhog on the wall, underneath a chalkboard showing beer and wine specials? Scotese made it.

Scotese’s wife, Maureen Heisinger, 48, isn’t a morning person, but she appreciates the “whimsical” nature of the festivities.

“I really did set the alarm for 5:45 to get here, God help me,” said beer and whiskey writer Lew Bryson, 59, a blue-flowered lei draped over his sweatshirt, and a glass of amber by Full Pint Brewing Co. in front of him. Bryson spent 11 hours on Friday finishing writing assignments so he could come see Scoats.

Bryson loves the holiday, and loves Pennsylvania for it. His uncle belonged to a groundhog club in Lancaster when he was a kid. On the appointed day, “they actually held a groundhog up on the back of a manure spreader.” Fast-forward to the Grey Lodge era: Groundhog Day falls near the feast day of St. Blaise, and one February night Bryson brought his parish priest to the bar.

“We were upstairs, and there were people lined up to get their throats blessed," he said. “Meanwhile, the guy’s got three IPAs and a cheeseburger in him.” The “guy,” meaning the priest. The Grey Lodge is that kind of place.

Michael Bomze arrived just before 9 a.m., in Mardi Gras beads and a Hawaiian lei of brown beads and shells. He believes fully in the power of Groundhog Day. If it falls on a school day, the 35-year-old high school teacher makes a sort-of trail mix from fig newtons, pretzels, peanut butter chips, and cereal, and dishes it out to his students.

“I say it’s groundhog food,” he said. “I don’t elaborate. It’s part of the mystery of the whole situation, I guess.”

Ben Cliver, 39, has known Scotese for two decades.

“Scoats is a star-shaped hole in a world full of round pegs," he said.

One Groundhog Day, about 15 years ago, Cliver and his wife went to Punxsutawney with the aim of phoning in a live report back to the bar. “We were trying to be, like, the on-scene reporters.” But the cell reception was terrible, and the plan went bust -- a “spectacular” failure, he said.

He sees no need to make the trip -- ever again. Scoats is one of the kindest people he’s ever met, and “the Grey Lodge is Punxsutawney in Philadelphia,” Cliver said. Then the next contest beckoned. “Apparently, I signed up for rock-paper-scissors.”