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My Favorite Bar

July 23, 2009 11:38 am Richard Uncategorized 3 Comments

Every drunk worth his gin blossoms has a favorite watering hole, a special spot that succeeds, for him, on all levels. It’s a home away from home, a room-sized recliner where his presence is as regular as a troubadour’s heartbeat or an atomic clock.

My favorite is the Sunrise Tavern. As to why it’s my darling among drinking dens, read on.

First off, I just like the way it looks. Walking through the front door, it takes a sec for your eyes to adjust. The lighting is simultaneously muted and illuminating—puddles, really, with delusions of grandeur—where you can see all the important stuff (stools, taps, the path to the head), while the inconsequential (notices of what might happen to anyone who walks on a tab, a white-board listing those poor souls who’ve been 86’d, that table full of corporate types, etc.) remains tastefully beshadowed.

Most of the left-hand wall is filled with bar. Vaguely “L” shaped, it is made of dark, soothing wood, and is fronted by just the right number of stools; by which I mean they aren’t packed so tightly together you are forced into a degree of friendliness with your neighbor that all but necessitates a DNA swap. And the stools themselves are triple-threats: they swivel, they have backs and they have arm rests. Might not sound like such a big whoop, but here’s the thing: backless stools encourage forward leaning—hunkering, to be perfectly blunt—while stools with backs allow for a fuller, more complex, and altogether freer range of motion; important factors if you regularly spend 10 or 12 hours atop one of the things.

As for the rest of the décor, it’s a mixed bag, with red brick behind the bar and painted sheet-rock everyplace else. The walls are dolled up with the usual in-bar advertising, tacked-up where tacking is possible—booze ads, neon, homemade posters pimping local bands, flyers calling your attention to all sorts of goods and services. There are also pieces of, well, let’s call it “real” art—paintings, collages and whatnot—that bear the tell-tale signs of having been created by someone with a learned sense of craft, and who has managed to overcome that sort of I-am-an-ARTIST! angst that seems to infect the minds of too many artists like so many synaptic STDs. In short, the art is sometimes pretty interesting. Even better after you’ve tipped a few. All in all, I would describe the atmosphere at the Sunrise as welcoming.

But, hell, you can say that about a department store. So, onto the serious stuff, the sets-it-apart stuff, the chassis, the mortar, the charred-oak cask, of any bar with designs beyond the ordinary and the mediocre. I’m talking about three things: the booze, the staff, and the crowd.

The sauce selection at the Sunrise has clearly been arrived at with an eye toward giving experienced drinkers a big fat happy. Sure, some of the mid-shelf space is tainted with those asinine flavored tipples that are so much the rage today (they even stock that rancid black-cherry swill Jim Beam has so recently inflicted upon the drinking public), but there is also a perfect storm of real adult liquors, old-school booze that is infused with nothing more or less than the deep affection of a professional distiller.

Now, it’s true that many bars offer a fine array of hooch, but too many of those have bartenders whose mixological skills peak at vodka-tonics and draft pints of PBR. There is a place for such “simple” drinks, of course (I have consumed thousands myself) but seasoned drinkers, we ne plus ultra non-temperates, more often than not pepper our tabs with honest-to-Bacchus cocktails, some of which call for 2, 3, or even—say it ain’t so, Joe!—5 different parts, the assembly of which, in their correct proportions, requires (unless one succumbs to the lamentable recourse of consulting a drinks guide) a pro, an alcohol architect, who possesses surpassing knowledge, mammoth self-confidence, and even a splash of improvisational chutzpa.

The shaker-savants at the Sunrise are uniformly of the upper echelon; every martini a Matisse; every ricky a Raphael; every collins a Cassatt. I’ve tried to stump ‘em a time or two and…yeah. Let’s put it this way: They’d take all of Ben Stein’s money, then, just for a giggle, go upside his head with a half-liter of Pernod.

But anyway… Moving on.

What do you value in a bar crowd? That’s an easy enough matter to tackle, yes? I mean, most of us appreciate the same general shit; general, I should clarify, within the parameters of our individual tribal affiliations. In other words, we tend to like our fellow regulars to share more of our interests than they reject. The folks who frequent the Sunrise are, in the main, clever, well-read, curious and easy going. They know stuff and enjoy learning new stuff, and are usually up for a free-wheeling conversation. Not every single one of them, of course. Like any public gathering place, the Sunrise has its share of troglodytes and fluffy-heads, but they are the exceptions. It’s like this: I look forward to seeing the Sunrise regulars. A few have become close friends.

One of the best things about the Sunrise is that the owners have an absolute grasp of the role entertainment plays in the health and harmony of a superior gin-mill. And not just live entertainment—which, as we’ll see shortly, they provide in spades—but in the full range of socializing diversions important to those patrons who need more than a comfy seat and a cool glass to round out the bar experience. The Sunrise sports 2 dart boards (of the classic cork variety), a pinball machine, a coin-op pool table, a clutch of TVs for football season, and, top of the list, a serious goddamn jukebox. Not one of those internet server jobbies where you can satisfy your every musical whim at the press of a button, but a proper juke, man, filled with music that a human being considered prior to its inclusion. The owners conferred with the staff, as well as a few chosen regulars, and kludged-up a machine that is eclectic, fun and right fucking excellent. You got the Ramones, Coltrane, Devo, Cash, Monk, Pink Floyd, TMBG, Forth Yeer, Stachmo, Lady Day, Social D., Mojo, etc., etc., etc.—a custom-designed musical menu, created by the bar, for the bar. Ever worn a tailored suit? Or tucked into a porterhouse steak that came off the fire tasting exactly like you’d imagined? Or stayed up all night reading a book cuz you can’t wait to find out what happens next? These are the feelings engendered by the Sunrise’s singular jukebox. And, at 4 plays for a buck, it’s a wallet-friendly deal to boot.

On the live side of the amusement coin, the Sunrise regularly presents top-shelf bands and is one of the better live venues in my town. They feature bands most Friday and Saturday nights, and on other random evenings depending on the vagaries of touring schedules and all that. Cooler yet, they are committed to supporting local musicians, providing a place where they can hone their performance skills. The Sunrise favors straight-up rock, gut-bucket electric blues, and punk bands with traditional ‘70s chops. Every so often they’ll bring in a rhythm-and-blues or funky jazz ensemble—skilled players who can cook up a wicked groove and get those toes a-tappin’. Bands always sound good at the Sunrise, too, since the owners dropped the oh-so-necessary dime on a high-end PA, and use sound techs who know their way around a mixing consol. I’m not kidding when I say that some of the best shows I’ve seen happened right there on the Sunrise’s little stage.

And that’s about it, really. My little ode to the Sunrise Tavern—a bar among bars. Sound like a good place to drink a few? I think so.

Which is why I must confess that the Sunrise Tavern is a figment of my imagination. There is no such place. I made it up. I stitched it together like some Dr. Drunkenstein, from the disparate parts of other bars.

I owe a thousand thank-yous to George Orwell for his classic essay “The Moon Under Water,” which appeared in the Evening Standard, February 9th, 1946, and was the inspiration for this little missive. If all you know of Mr. Orwell is 1984 and Animal Farm, do yourself a solid and check out his essays on British pub life. They kick ass.

In conclusion, I do wish there was a Sunrise Tavern in my neighborhood. My kind of place. I’d be a fixture there, like the damn bathroom faucets.

Cheers.