Tobacco and wet dog
The Three Blackbirds Inn, Suffolk, UK, circa 1972
I walked into the bar and pulled up a stool. Well, strictly speaking, I sat on a cider crate in the tap room under the bar. It had been our family pub for nearly a hundred years, and I’d heard all the stories. All the tales, the laughter, the tears. Now I sat in the dim beer cellar watching through the cracks. And listening. Thud … Thud … Thud … The “arrers” hit the dartboard.”Then the flat caps surged to the bar for porter and mild and best bitter and cider, and Auntie went to work. She was tiny and round. Even on her tiptoes she was only halfway up the pull handle. But no one was in any doubt who was in charge. She worked the beer engine like she was playing a one-armed bandit and when she poured each pint the line under my feet twitched and wriggled as the beer surged up from the barrel.
Sunbeams stabbed into the bar and blue tobacco smoke dodged about in the rays. Billiard balls clacked out of sight. The soft comfort of muted chuckles and belly laughs. Then, at ten to three, Auntie rang the ship’s bell. “Time, gentlemen please. C’mon, let’s be ’avin yer.” A clanking of empty pints, a scraping of chairs.The door tinkled shut and all was quiet. Now at last the bar was mine. And as a reward for clearing a few glasses and emptying a few ashtrays, a bottle of pop and a bag of crisps.The pop came with a paper straw, barber-pole-red-and- white, that turned to mush if you sucked it long enough. (Lemonade still tastes “corked” to me 50 years on.) The crisps came unseasoned, but inside the packet was a little blue sachet of salt. This became a ceremony of great concentration and care. A sprinkle on the top layer of crisps, then eat; sprinkle, eat, repeat; salting the next strata and the next so that when you reached the deepest depths the last mouthful of crumbs was the saltiest.
The pub smelled of biscuits and hot bread, malt and sickly sweet apples, hops and paraffin, tobacco and wet dog. Community, conviviality, and connection. Oh, and great rabbit stew. I never wanted to do anything else. And I never have.
Gerald Diffey; Geralds Bar Carlton North and San Sebastian
Burgundy, Jeeves and Wooster
Gerald’s, Carlton North, Victoria, circa mid-aughts
The beauty of having a restaurateur for a father is that you get to grow up living and breathing food and wine, hospitality and music. I loved living above my dad’s bar.
I loved meeting new people every day.The regulars would help me with my homework. There were lawyers, writers, all kinds of artists, media and fashion… an amazingly diverse crowd of people who were happy (or at least patient enough) to share their ideas with me. I loved learning about wine. I loved the unpredictability of service.You have the same ingredients each night with
a completely different outcome. Post-service debriefs became some of my most coveted memories, and I am sure that is where my love of bars bloomed. A solid hour of polishing off the last of the wine by-the-glass to recap on that evening’s events. Following, a deep dive into solving all the world’s problems for another good hour or two. Lastly, trudging up the stairs with a block of salty chocolate and a bottle of Burgundy for dad, to watch Jeeves and Wooster on the TV. Priceless memories.
Florence Diffey, Vera Wine, Newcastle
Sally
Mighty Mighty, Wellington, NZ, circa 2008
Like most of my first loves, Mighty Mighty was 69% lust and 31% sweat. Perched in the netherrealm of Cuba Street at the top of a steep, slippery staircase, the bar was guarded by some of the kindest, most dangerous grey-bearded bouncers in all of Wellington. Mighty Mighty lurched into existence right when I needed it most. I was 19 years old, fresh into the town, too weird to haunt the main-street and too hormonally charged to drink cheap beer at the local Irish pub. I was working at everybody’s favourite pizza joint in town, which happened to be just down the road.We would finish up at midnight, stroll down, chat to Brian the doorman for a minute to catch a vibe, then ascend the stairs for hours of vigorous drinking, dancing, frotting and living.
Aesthetically, it was a bit of a technicolour duster – think Vegas on a budget with oxys, taxidermy chicken coop in the smoker’s area (which was only slightly smaller than the actual area) and a long, deep bar where tattooed resident gypsy/matriarch/bar wench/mother- to-the-wayward-hospo-orphans, Sally, would hold court. Keep on her good side and the shots would keep coming. Get anywhere south of that and she’d be serving your eviction notice and before you knew it, old friendly Brian from out front would be hauling your arse down those slippery stairs.
The crowd was the perfect mix of strange, corporate, loser, hipster… nothing was ironic and everybody was welcome. Until you were a dick. And even then Sally would always let you back in the next night. The drink of choice – Castlepoint lager – served in a longneck, or if sharing among friends, a jug of Lion Brown. Food?You betcha – a selection of fine toasties would be sizzling away right through till the end. It was a sad day when Mighty Mighty closed, and I remember going back home for one last spin around the room, with one of the last Castlepoints too. It was just like going back to an old ex: sweet and dirty.
Tai Tate, Sydney
Eaten alive
The Rainbow Bar and Grill, West Hollywood, USA, circa 2008
As a serial barfly, I hate the ‘name your favourite bar’ question. It’s too hard. The facts, figures and feelings I’d need to navigate to crack that equation I have no interest in fucking around with. ‘First bar I fell in love with’, though? That’s easy! The Rainbow Bar and Grill, majestically and historically sat at the crest of West Hollywood’s Sunset Strip.The ultimate perch of privilege, with eyes on it all. Accomplice to everything, guilty of nothing. I love this place. Its reputation had long preceded my first visit, obviously, but I must have imagined myself in there a million times before ever visiting.That’s how entwined in rock’n’roll folklore this joint had become. It wasn’t until 2008 that I first stepped in. In a kind of pre-coital, self- affirming psych-up, I hammered a few tall cans of Four Loko (a 12% energy drink best known for killing kids and defying the known laws of physics with irrepressible effervescence) on the walk up the hill. Metal Skool* played every Monday night at the Key Club next door. An X-rated, hair metal comedy show where the biggest rock stars in the world would join the band onstage before spilling into the Rainbow afterward.
I actually got caught in some ‘only in LA’ drama at the Key Club that night. Someone in the mezzanine dropped a Red Bull on my head. Pro-wrestler, Chyna (RIP), came to my rescue and ate the dude alive. She tried to have me for dessert. Fearing my acorn- fed upbringing hadn’t equipped me for the task, I fled to the Rainbow, rattled and ready. The ’bow! The best place in the world. By far the most inspiring moment in my career, and still somewhat of an anchor point for me, creatively. It was all true: the pornstars, the pizzas, the jukebox, the sprawling bistro, the bamboozling good cop/ bad cop service, and the invite-only bathroom in the busy kitchen. The air of sex, drugs and rock’n’roll lore is thicker nowhere else on Planet Earth. I breathed deep, and allowed it to inform the next chapter of my life.
Jordan McDonald, Swillhouse, Sydney
Knuckle-raps and buy-backs
Siggy’s, Fort Lee New Jersey, USA, mid-90s
I lived in NewYork in the mid to late 90s and worked in Fort Lee, New Jersey, just across the George Washington Bridge. On a good run, it was a 20-minute drive from where I lived in Manhattan. I hated my job but I drew great solace from going to the local bar after work. It was called Siggy’s.
I didn’t know what a dive bar was back then but you could now very safely say that Siggy’s was one. I’d visit after work with my girlfriend and rip into the scotch and sodas. No fancy highball stuff – just two ounces of J&B whiskey in a rocks glass topped with soda from a gun. Every few drinks, Siggy would put an upside-down shot glass in front of each of us and rap his knuckles on the bar top. At first I had no idea what this meant, but it was Siggy buying us the next round. He even let my band, the Dirty Water Dogs, play there one night. For me, Siggy’s was the best bar in the world.
James France, freewheeling raconteur, Sydney
A plate of cherries
Employees Only, New York, USA, circa 2016
Employees Only is the place that brought me back to hospitality when I was drifting away to an engineering degree.Their whisky sour is the best I have ever had, with egg whites so stiff and creamy you’d think it was an ice-cream sundae.When I asked for an extra maraschino cherry, they gave me a plate’s worth! This place is true hospitality. Where you feel you’ll be properly taken care of, and you leave all of your problems at the door.
Isobel Little, Swillhouse, Sydney
One song and an OK drink
Grandfather’s, Shibuya, Tokyo, the past, present and future
Every trip I do to Tokyo, I make a point of having a drink here. Grandfather’s has been around for about 40 years. One of the many vinyl bars in Tokyo, it’s like so many venues – on the basement floor of a nondescript building. The drinks are just OK, the place is full of cigarette smoke, service can sometimes be perfunctory, but I love it. Last time I was there I had the good fortune to be seated at the bar, right in front of the turntables and next the wonderfully deep and powerful speakers, watching the owner select each new album (only one track is played from each album at a time) from a wall of thousands, confidently knowing the location of all his collection. I usually drink too much here because I never want to leave. If you ever have the good fortune of visiting this gem, please note that, as with so many other places in Japan, they run it on their own terms – don’t ask for substitutions, don’t complain about the smoke, just enjoy yourself.
Michael Ryan, The Provenance, Beechworth
This is an excerpt from issue 3 of Swill magazine. Grab your copy today to read the whole thing.
