Woody house

I'll give five star this time. This shop isnmore than two decades in that area. They improved a lot later these days. I love BBQ and snacks with beers there.

Expensive but nice service and place is cozy

Grilled fish is good taste.

Nice pub for beer or some drinks. Foods are OK. Place is good Service no complain To choose as a good pub in town for ordinary days

I love Woody House even though it sucks. There are no proper toilets for women, the food is worse than 1990s Taco Bell, and the teamsters drinking there will stare you down if you look soft. However, the beer is cheap and cold, and I guess it just makes me feel at home. I’m always good enough for Woody. Let me paint you a picture. One day, my lovely girlfriend and I were having a big fight. The pressures of work and the city had pushed us to the edge. Rather than make it any worse, I opted to let her cool off and to cool myself off with a few pints. I pop off down the street to Woody House with my fistful of kyats closed up in a book. The bar staff recognize me, and they immediately bring me a free plate of chips to go with my beers – 1 glass of ABC, 1 glass of Tiger. It’s raining heavily, and the power is out. The place is deserted. I begin reading and smoking Mevius when the bar cat with the busted leg, whom I affectionately call Judit, comes over to me meowing woefully. I pick her up and plop her down on the seat beside me. She is, of course, completely filthy. This is not enough for Judit, who squirms into my lap as I ash on her fur. I am reading now, petting her without paying attention. I begin to notice something warm and wet, and I realize my hand is covered in piss, I’m petting her with her piss, and she has pissed all over my jeans. Judit is entranced, and suddenly I am not. I plop her back on the ground and head to the sink to scrub up. At this point, I realize that there’s no running water. The 13-year-old boy working the kitchen looks me up and down and scurries off. He returns with a large basin of soapy water and some rags. He even attempts to help wash me, but I laugh it off. After surgeon-scrubbing up to my elbows I return to my beer and my book. Then my boy Roshan walks in, senses what has happened and begins laughing uncontrollably. He gives me a big slapping hug and shares my cigarettes. We could have gone some place a little nicer – perhaps Tiger House or Trunk on either side. But, why in the Hell would we bother? Woody is our spot. Just as it was the favorite watering hole of our mates’ fathers in years past, it has been and will continue to be our favorite place to juice up. Go to Woody House, and take a break from your life. Don’t bring a date.