They dream of their own place. Something small, minimalist, maybe on the corner. No investors to pay, just a small loan to start it all off. Somehow, someway, the liquor license comes easy. A turnkey establishment. A few renovations here and there, a coat of paint, clean bathrooms, a new, less sticky floor, and then of course the inventory and some decent freezers, and oh yes, a goddam pebble icer. What do we want out of this except a joint to call our own? No one gets rich owning a bar, but you won’t get rich working for others either.

A few good beers on tap, a selection of the good, cheap, American shit and a couple decent high end selections by the bottle. Cold High Life and Coors Banquet short neck bottles. Wine too, again, nothing special but no crap. We’ll go natural here. Two red, two white to start.

A quiet place for people to come in and relax. Vinyl? Maybe? The weekends? Yeah, they can be a little busier to pay the bills, but nothing crazy. Yeah, there’ll be some drunkards to deal with.

We’ll be doing the same thing here we did at Rustic. Adding alcohol to the seasons. Seeing what’s available and displaying it for all to see. A chalkboard with the daily specials. Three or four. And then people can ask for riffs, on the fly concoctions using the available ingredients. Oh, there will be lots of muddling.

Something along the line of Old Man Bar in Culver City crossed with Bar Ben Fiddich in Tokyo crossed with the former version of Hagi in New York. An easy place to take a load off. Some booths, a couple of stools here and there. Nothing crazy. Shit, a fireplace if possible. A little something for everyone but a little higher end in order to keep the twenty year olds away.

Just me and another. Someone on the floor barbacking, bussing, helping clean the glasses, and jumping in to take orders and shake up or stir a cocktail if necessary.

Further down the road when the stack of permits and headaches can be addressed, there can be smash burgers and fries, maybe a salad to wash it all down. A cool coffee shop in the morning. The roasted beans will wash away the sour beer smell.

And yeah, my book’ll be up there somewhere. The Seasonal Bar. Shit. I’ll sign a copy, maybe even inscribe it if you want.