Drinking With Men : A Memoir (9781101603123)

RIVERHEAD BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2013 by Rosie Schaap

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Schaap, Rosie.

Drinking with men / Rosie Schaap.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-60312-3

1. Schaap, Rosie. 2. Bars (Drinking establishments). I. Title.

HV5137.S33 2013

362.292092—dc23

[B]

2012030405

Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author's alone.

For Ma, and for Frank

Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH

INTRODUCTION

1. BAR CAR PROPHECY

The Metro-North New Haven Line

2. TWENTY-ONE SHOTS

Inglewood and Santa Cruz

3. AN AMERICAN DRINKER IN DUBLIN

Grogan's Castle Lounge, Dublin

4. SHADOW SCHOOL

The Pig, North Bennington, Vermont

5. HOW TO BEHAVE IN A BAR

The Man of Kent, Hoosick Falls, New York

6. LATE TO THE PARTY

Puffy's Tavern, New York City

7. ED

Liquor Store Bar, New York City

8. BAR CHAPLAIN

The Fish Bar, New York City

9. HEY, THAT'S NO WAY TO SAY GOOD-BYE

Else's, Montreal

10. DRINKING WITH MEN

Good World Bar and Grill, New York City

EPILOGUE: THERE IS ALWAYS A STORY AT MILANO'S

New York City

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Time is never called in my recurring dream of pubs.

—CIARAN CARSON,
Last Night's Fun

 

INTRODUCTION

 

T
hirteen thousand hours.

That's a rough estimate, scratched out on the cocktail napkin in front of me, of how much time I've spent in bars. An indelible reckoning.

Many people would say that every one of those hours was wasted, but not me. I wouldn't change a moment—not even the time I nearly got clocked by a barstool turned projectile in the midst of an altercation between two grizzled old punks, nor the evening a seemingly innocuous, if inebriated, couple all but forced me to referee their debate about whether they should stay together or break up. (For the record: I thought they were a perfect match, and advised them to give it another shot.) I've come of age in bars, and they've given me as much of an education as college did, and have fostered many of my strongest friendships. That could be why a certain type of bar—small, welcoming, with a lively chorus of voices and the house lights turned down to a warm glow—will exert a gravitational pull, compelling me to return one night after the other, and often twice on Sundays.

But my attraction to bars is less governed by the laws of physics than it is by the rules of romance: I prefer one bar at a time. When it comes to where I drink, I'm a serial monogamist. Still, although loyalty is upheld as a virtue, bar regularhood—the practice of drinking in a particular establishment so often that you become known by, and bond with, both the bartenders and your fellow patrons—is often looked down upon in a culture obsessed with health and work. But despite what we are often told, being a regular isn't synonymous with being a drunk; regularhood is much more about the camaraderie than the alcohol. Sharing the joys of drink and conversation with friends old and new, in a comfortable and familiar setting, is one of life's most unheralded pleasures.

And yes, that goes for women, too. Or it should, anyway. If regularhood is considered suspect behavior, then female regularhood is doubly so. In many parts of the world, women just don't go into bars alone. Even in comparatively less patriarchal societies, such as our own, a solitary woman at a bar is a curiosity, a wonderment to be puzzled over. And even in New York, where all things seem possible, as a bar regular who happens to be female, I am something of an anomaly. Regularhood is still predominantly the province of men.

I've been going into bars since the age of fifteen. Certainly in my youth I knew that patronizing bars was unusual behavior—but I figured that was due to my age, not my gender. There was the excitement of getting one over and getting served, of trying to fit in, unquestioned, with grown-ups in their natural habitat. But as I got older and that thrill abated, what I discovered in bars was much richer. As a regular, I have found friendship, comfort, and community. Mostly, I've found that fellowship in the company of men. Relations between the sexes at bars are often perceived as predatory and dangerous. But I did not look to bars for a place to hook up; I looked to bars for a place to belong.

In 1936,
Vogue
editor Marjorie Hillis counseled readers of her single-girl guide
Live Alone and Like It
. “It is not incorrect for a woman to go alone into any bar she can get into,” she wrote, “but we don't advise it . . . if you must have your drink, you can have it in a lounge or restaurant, where you won't look forlorn or conspicuous.” I find it remarkable—and a little depressing—that nearly eighty years later, ideas identical to hers still seem deeply internalized by many women. “I just don't feel comfortable walking into a bar alone,” a friend once told me. “Like everyone's looking at me and feeling sorry for me. Like there's something wrong with girls who go drinking by themselves.”

For better or worse, I've seldom worried about who's looking at me or not looking at me, or about what they might or might not be thinking. But I have noticed a pattern: Every time I've fallen hard for a bar, I've invited my best girlfriends to join me there for a drink, meet my fellow regulars, soak up the ambience that I found so appealing. Invariably, they like it. They have a good time. But, unlike me, they have no particular interest in returning the next night, or the next, or the ones that follow. Not only does the idea of becoming a regular at a bar hold no allure for them, they are also often puzzled by my enduring bar-love. But they have come to admire my ability to integrate, to talk to anyone, to be one of the guys.

In his very funny 1935 tract
Her Foot Is on the Brass Rail
, the humorist and newspaperman Don Marquis laments the post-Prohibition presence of women in bars. For men, there was “no longer any escape, no harbor or refuge . . . where the hounded male may seek his fellow and strut his stuff, safe from the atmosphere and presence of femininity.” In my experience these concerns have been beside the point; if anything, my chronic regularhood has made me assimilate into a largely male culture, not change it—except by the fact that I am part of it.

Regardless of my gender, a bar is my safe haven, my breathing space. Knowing how to read a bar helps. My favorites have never been big, rowdy sports bars teeming with testosterone or trendy spots featuring cutting-edge cocktails, but intimate, friendly neighborhood places where relationships with other regulars—and bartenders—have the right conditions to take hold, and where my instincts tell me it's a safe space to be a woman in a bar. At its best, bar culture is both civilized and civilizing, and at the end of a long, stressful day, I know I can head to my local and the bartender will know exactly what I want—often whiskey, occasionally a mixed drink, but usually these days red wine in a tumbler, as a stem is too much bother—and will set it down before me, ask me about my day, listen to me vent. And instantly, I relax. I remember to exhale.

And it's not just the whiskey or the wine or the martini, though of course they're part of it. It's the atmosphere, the familiarity, the ritual, the community. At the bar, my friends and I greet one another with hugs and pats on the back, catch up on one another's lives (How's the new job? Did your brother move out of your apartment yet? How was your trip back home? Is your mother out of the hospital?), discuss Premier League transfer rumors (Will Tottenham ever get a world-class forward?) and other news of the day, and we all start to feel so much better, so quickly, even if we hadn't really been feeling so bad to begin with.

It seems to me that someone ought to defend the great tradition of regularhood, of passing hours and days and years drinking and talking and laughing in bars. And it's time someone advocated for equal regularhood rights for women everywhere. It might as well be me, a woman with a quarter of a century of devoted bar-going under her belt. Along the way, I'll chronicle my quest for the perfect local haunt, a journey that's taken me from the bar car on the Metro-North railroad to a beloved Dublin pub, and from an expats' haven in New York City to a neighborhood institution in Montreal. From one bar to the next, I've had the good fortune to drink with painters, cabdrivers, lawyers, ironworkers, professors, musicians, craftsmen, chefs, electricians, poets, and even a tugboat captain. And lately my regular status has led me back to the other side of the bar, serving friends and neighbors at the cozy local pub right around the corner.

More than anywhere else—home, school, or work—bars are where I've figured out how to relate to others and how to be myself. They've not only shaped my identity, they've shaped my point of view—one that is profoundly optimistic about human kindness despite a healthy dose of skepticism. And I challenge anyone who becomes a regular at their neighborhood bar not to feel the same way.

Not long ago, I was talking with a young woman who has lived just a few doors away from one of my favorite bars for more than a year. Like many of her peers in their early twenties, she'd rather go to clubs than bars—especially not neighborhood bars with no complicated cocktails, no hipster cachet, no cute boys anywhere near her age. But she's stopped in a couple times and acknowledged its earthy charm. I asked her if she knew a particular bartender. Mmm, he sounded familiar, but she never got his name. “Go in and introduce yourself,” I advised her. “Get to know him. And get to know everyone else who works there, too. And the regulars.”

Even if she'd never become a regular there herself, I explained, this was still her corner bar. Being neighborly is a good thing in itself; it also comes in handy. If some night someone was walking down the street a little too close behind her, this is where she'd duck in and be looked after until any danger, real or imagined, had passed. This is where they'd sign for her FedEx package when she wasn't home. This is where she could leave that extra set of keys in case she ever locked herself out of her apartment. And this is where, if she ever happened to be really sad and really broke and really in need of a drink, they'd give her one—and people to talk to, too—and they'd know she'd be good for it, someday.

You can drink anywhere, I told her. You can drink at home. But a good bar? It's more than a place to have a few pints or shots or cocktails. It is much more than the sum of its bottles and bar stools, its glassware and taps and neon beer signs. It's more like a community center, for people—men and women—who happen to drink.