The Perfect Bar?

What, in your mind, constitutes the perfect bar? Is there a line? Is there a curated cocktail menu? Does the room ring with the din of a crowd, raucous and hopeful? Or is it more a sleepy mumble of disparate groups in their own corners? I bet you have an opinion. I know I do. The question I’ve been wrestling with over the last few solitary, weather-confused, LA days; does your ideal bar say something about you as a person? Could it be its own kind of Meyer’s Briggs or is it closer to a Buzzfeed Facebook test? Before you get your hopes up, I doubt I will answer this question by any satisfying standard. And I guess I don’t really intend to, that’ll be up to you. Instead, I thought I’d just tell you a bit about one of my favorite bars and what it seems to mean about me. You can project your own personality onto that, or not. Up to you.

The real reason it’s been on my mind so much lately is because I think I have finally, and I mean finally, found a bar that meets my general standards here in LA. After just about an exact year of what can only be described as a half-hearted, part-time, attempt I may have found a place I would be willing to embark on the Herculean effort of becoming a true regular at. First of all, let me get something straight. I am not an expert. I am not, by your average 25 year old’s standard, a particularly avid bar-goer. There are a number of reasons for this, which I will dive into later, but for current disclaimer’s sake, jets just say I’m too broke to drink anywhere but within my own home. Nonetheless, as with many things in life (damn near all), I have an opinion on the subject. Plus, I might not be an avid bar-goer (at least not anymore) but I still believe deeply in the enduring and vital nature of the ‘third space’.

Woof, at some point I actually have to start describing this fabled bar, don’t I? Okay here goes. A couple weeks ago, I was invited out to dinner and drinks by my best friend and their partner (if she reads this: I want you to know you are also one of my best friends). I don’t know if they did or did not know at the time that I had been having a real doozy of a day but either way the invitation was touching and a much needed opportunity out of the thought spiral which had consumed a large portion of my day. So, of course, I said I’d think about it. I still find it difficult to commit to anything before the absolute last second. Must leave the escape hatch open for my anxiety to drag me out of if need be. Not my best trait. But I digress…again. Safe to say, I said yes in the end.

The outside of this lovely little place is an inviting pastel yellow with blue trim and is largely unassuming. You almost expect a kind of bigger-on-the-outside-than-on-the-inside effect as you step through the threshold. But then your eyes adjust to the dim and you realize: nope, small on the inside too. I can’t tell you how comforting this was to me in that moment. How annoying is it to find the most adorable, cozy, character-filled little place only to exit out the back and find their brand new patio could comfortably seat an entire NFL football team, their biggest rivals, and all the wives?

But no patio at this place. Just a few two-person picnic tables, placed precariously on the edge of the sidewalk, that are very obviously only there to give the smoker-patrons a sense of belonging. Perfect. Immediately upon entering I felt at home. A soft glow of red neon seemed to permeate through the long skinny room. And not the bright eye-assaulting neon of some gaudy advertisement. This was a deep, sultry red that seemed to want to tell you a secret.

Allow me to set the stage. Directly to my right, an almost stage-lit pool table, its brilliant green felt top more inviting than ever. To the left, red leather booths. I mean, come on. Does it get much better than diner-style red leather booths? Directly ahead, the beginnings of a bar which curved down to follow the length of the long room. Above it, a simple sign with two things on it: Chicken Basket - One side - $15, Budweiser $4. Hallelujah. Simple and to the point. Now, I am neither a snob nor am I what I like to think of as an easy lay when it comes to beer. I am categorically not an IPA guy but I also don’t want something that ends in ‘Lite’. Given this, I loved the $4 price tag but I wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the prospect of a number of Budweisers. Oh, how wrong I was. What was placed before me was no mere can of pisswater (this is the name my IPA loving father terms any brew with less than 6% alcohol content). No, what sat in front of me was an ice cold frosted mug of ambrosia. Crisp, chilled, and refreshing, it went down easy and, unlike many other beers, did not stick around in your stomach for hours like a pile of leftover bricks at a job-site.

The beer was perfect, the chicken doubly so. Crispy, spicy, juicy, perfect. But the ambience was the real star of the show. Everywhere you turned, warmth and comfort seemed to emanate from the floor to the low ceilings. And it began with the barman. He seemed to be in at least his mid-forties and greeted all who came in, including us, with a welcoming smile. His tattoos, simple black t-shirt and jeans, and the effortless manner with which he swung around the bar and addressed his patrons made you instantly want him to like you. And he obliged, offering a “brother” or “bossman” at the end of his remarks. This, I have found in life, is an exceptionally effective tactic to convey friendliness (it works best on straight men like myself). Just steer clear of bud, buddy, and pal and it does wonders. The barman seemed to move about the place with a kind of quiet reverence, like he really loved it there. Like maybe he was offered some other ‘better’ job long ago but stayed and never regretted it. This is probably a gross romanticization of a real persons life, which I know nothing about. But, unless I learn differently about him, that is what I will believe to be the case.

Of course, there is the barman, and then there’s the patrons. A touchy subject for me, this can often make or break a bar for me. As someone with a pretty hefty dose of social anxiety I often feel the need to be seen and admired by total strangers butting up against a pretty crippling fear of actually being known by anyone at all. I love crowds and hate being a part of them. I strive to be the center of attention and then buck it off the moment it is directed at me. Anonymity is both a comfortable perch and a lonely island. Okay, getting a little melodramatic for my tastes. Back to the bar.

In one corner, a group of middle-aged women took up a number of booths, their laughter and comfortability filled the place with some much needed levity. At the bar, a motley combination of couples and regulars sat quietly drinking and chatting. But the real stage, as it often is: the pool table. Already part way through their act when we arrived, a pair tall and sporty and a little boring looking guys competed and laughed comfortably with each other. Next on the program, a little later, a couple. A young man and woman whom - if I were to guess - were on their second, maybe third, date. They obviously had not just met and yet their interaction felt to have a note of uncertainty. She wasn’t watching him play pool but how he played pool. He stood close to her but not too close. Dates are the best people watching.

And finally, the climax of the show; a big group of dudes. Emphasis on the ‘dude’ aspect. Maybe six or seven handsome, well dressed, twenty-something guys seemed to magically appear in the bar. My back to the door, I didn’t really notice them until they had already seeped into what felt like every corner. Normally, this would have been a bummer to me. A stain on what had been a near perfect record for the bar. But I found myself feeling differently about it. While, yes, if it were up to me I probably would’ve chosen a group of pretty, well dressed, twenty something women instead, I found the dudes’ presence oddly comforting. They were not particularly loud or obnoxious, they seemed to be close with each other, regulars here. While yes I would prefer a calm bar with few people over the crowded college sweat-house with few redeeming qualities outside of its potential to give you a few good memories, I also don’t like feeling as though I’m in the middle of nowhere. It’s nice to feel in the middle of things. That there is community. That people want to be here, together.

Which brings me to my last point. And it’s tacky. It’s not really about the bar but the people you’re with. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s cliché but it’s true. Sure, this bar ticked all the boxes and I will most certainly be back soon. But really, what I remember is sitting in the red booth under that red glow and trying to make myself breathe again because I was laughing too hard. We sat there and made orgasmic noises over the delicious chicken, spent a long time pointing out the myriad old beer adverts which covered the wall, began multiple games of cards which were all promptly abandoned for good conversation, their remnants splayed out on the table. So yeah, I buried the lead and it’s not really about the bar.

It does feel important, what kind of bar you are drawn to, and there are lots of fun little intricacies to get into that I find fascinating. But I’ve had good times in bad bars and bad times in good ones. Maybe I’ll get into some of those in another post. But really, with my people, I could have a good time anywhere. Sappy as it is.

Anyways, that’s my first post on here. Might do more, might not. Hope you enjoyed.