…The perfect bar, in my opinion. No, not the one I work in, although it’s close…But a bar where I would want to go. Dark. A shelf full of old dusty books. Lots of plants and jars full of infusions. Maybe a little record player in the corner? It would probably look like Old Man Bar in Culver City crossed with Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory with a seasonal menu. Of course there would have to be cheap American beers…An assortment of my favorites…Miller High Life in a bottle, Narragansett and Hamm’s in a can, Coors Banquet short neck bottles…Then a few choice fancier ales, Long Trail tall boys, Magic Hat #9…A few others…

Lot’s of dark, polished wood and no pop music. A young barback I feed with shots of Cynar, an occasional slap upside the head, and harsh words. He knows just what I want to do before I do it and he plans to kill me and take over, but not before he learns all my recipes and secrets (the secret is there is no secret).

The book is there. A little pile in the corner collecting dust. My other tomes of course…Sci-Fi novels that I received massive advances for that never sold to fruition. On occasion someone comes in, a budding bartender with a penchant for the archaic, and buys a copy…Asks me to sign it. He’s confused because the picture is from two decades previous…I look totally different…The years have not been kind…He doesn’t believe it’s me…But prove myself because I can still bartend…Even though I limp around the joint with a walker. However, I can still do the job…I can still stand in one place for eight hours at a time if I need to…It’s the locomotion which is difficult…Stairs are no longer an option…An automated chair is all I have to take me down to the booze cellar…

Behind the bar I have the old worn slapstick in case anyone gets out of line. It’s burnished from the years of wringing in the palm sweat. The handle is old masking tape smelling of onion and lime.

When you sit down the first thing you receive is a nice bowl of beer nuts. There’s no other food. A couple of good, natural wines on a chalkboard that switcharoo after every case.

The music is very important. Most places and people have no taste. What people don’t understand is the tunes must match the vibe. Depressing slow shit for the rainy days, jazz for the slow ones, party times for the busy nights. Nothing cheesy, nothing recorded in the last two decades…

My own farm where I grow my ingredients. A small amount of seats. A feeling of warmth upon entering, a bit like a hobbit hole. A fireplace if all goes well. The type of place you think about when you’re not there because it’s better than anywhere else.

And hopefully there’s a good Mexican joint next door.