Last night, I went to a 'speakeasy'-type establishment in the City with some Rapid Transit folks. The nondescript bar sat on a corner a few blocks up from the 'loiniest' corners of the Tenderloin. From the outside, one would never know a posh bar existed inside--windowless gray walls, an ambiguous sign, and homeless milling about in the vicinity. Sherrie rang the doorbell several times before the hostess, a small woman who spared no detail in looking the part of a 1920s flapper girl, answered, opening the heavy wooden door just a crack. She asked for a password, still shielding the world inside from our gaze. Sherrie said, "books" to signify a certain section of the bar, but apparently, it was closed for the day. The hostess told us to wait one minute while she worked something out for us.
Already, I thought that this place took itself way too seriously. I've been to pretentious bars before, but this one took it to new levels.
The hostess returned less than a minute later and ushered us in. Walking through the doorway, I may as well have stepped into a wormhole and been transported back to the Prohibition--the darkness, the period decor with the toile wallpaper and tin ceiling tiles, the soft way the hostess did everything, from speaking to handing us the 40-page menus. I felt like I should be secretive about this place, walk softly and, well, speak easy, as if police officers were patrolling the streets outside.
After we were seated, I looked around at the other patrons and felt a weird sense of camaraderie with them, as if we shared a common reason for coming, a common knowledge of the passwords needed to get in. Of course, I probably shared very little with them as I had no prior idea that this bar even existed, much less the passwords, and I ordered a non-alcoholic, citrusy concoction that deserved an umbrella and a wedge of fruit on its rim (luckily, I was spared the indignity) while others probably partook in the vast selection of bourbons and whiskeys available.
See, I don't drink. I used to, but sparingly and only to fit in and seem less like the stick-in-the-mud I actually was (probably still am to some degree). The first real drink I ever had was a Midoro Sour (which obviously set a precedent for these frou-frou drink orders). My friend Lee mixed it for me in his dorm room, and the two of us drank it like rock stars, held our styrofoam cups filled with green fluorescence like a badge. And right under the R.A.'s nose, no less; what rebels we were.
About 15 minutes later, my face started radiating heat, and I found that inhaling required much more effort than it did 15 minutes ago. Though I was happy, even with the subtle wheeze to my breath, to be drinking this illicit substance with a boy (we were still boys at 18, right?) I simultaneously wanted to impress and run away from, I neither enjoyed the taste nor the feeling of it.
So when I turned 21, I only went to bars if a piano would be there with me, only drank on special occasions, and never felt like I missed out on anything. Slowly, I stopped drinking altogether. If I really think about it and concentrated really hard, I'm fairly certain that the last time a spirited beverage (a new term I learned last night) touched my lips was back in 2007. And where I once might have been embarrassed to admit that, I am no longer; I have become an out and proud teetotaler.
But last night, sitting in the tight little booth with newfound friends in an anachronistic bar that also felt totally fitting and familiar, I actually wished I wasn't and had more of a reason to come back besides the truly tasty, but ever-so-emasculating, non-spirited drink I was given.
No comments:
Post a Comment