What I Miss About Bars

Photo by M. Cooper Creative

Hey. How’re you holding up? It’s been a while, I know. This reminds me of the time back in 2016 (!) when I took a break from running A Girl’s Guide to Drinking Alone. But instead of an asshole at a bar coupled with the worst election in modern history, now it’s a global pandemic coupled with the shutdown of life as we knew it.

I tried to adapt, as everyone did with their jobs or hobbies in the early stages. I tried calling the site “A Girl’s Guide to Drinking At Home,” which was cute because it rhymed but also because we could only drink at home. I tried to highlight bars with great to-go options, but things changed too quickly for me to adequately keep up. Soon I realized that the essence of this site, reviewing bars for the whole experience, couldn’t be replicated at home.

This might sound obvious but I miss bars. A lot.

I have a good deal of experience with bars. Cocktail bars, dive bars, beer bars, wine bars, empty bars, packed bars. I’ve been the first person at opening, the last person at closing. In addition to writing reviews for this site, I also work at a bar. We obviously had to close at the start of the shutdown and subsequently I lost my job. When we reopened, I chose to not return for my health and the health of my loved ones. I am incredibly fortunate to have had this choice, and I am incredibly grateful that I wasn’t fired for this choice. (Shout out to the bar team at Sweet Polly for being thoughtful and compassionate throughout everything.) When all bars closed nationwide, it became clear I wasn’t going to review one anytime soon. Places have since reopened, outdoor dining has existed for a while now (which is awesome) and we’ll soon see how indoor dining goes in NYC. But sitting at a bar and enjoying a cocktail? Still off-limits, everywhere, indefinitely.

I love going to bars, I love working in bars. I’m not lying when I say I love my job. But now. Now? What even is a bar? Yeah, it’s still a place to have a good time with friends, drink delicious cocktails, go on a date (I guess???). But now you MUST sit at a table, your server is wearing a mask, the staff has to sanitize everything every 30 minutes, you’re worried that the person next to you who hasn’t put on their mask since they got here might infect you, and they keep scooching their chair closer, even if the tables were initially six feet apart. There’s no bar stool to snag. You can’t watch the bartender make drinks except on your brisk walk to the bathroom. There’s no one sitting beside you to strike up a conversation with if you want: to ask what their drink is, to say that you love their outfit, to tell them you’re just reading your book, thanks. The experience of going to a bar has fundamentally changed.

I haven’t met a new person since March 13, my last day of work before the shutdown. Sure, a new neighbor in the elevator, the brave CVS employee who opened the deodorant case for me, a fellow dog parent on the street, all masked up. But no one has asked for my name, or wanted to know what days I work. No one has asked me to explain the difference between rye and bourbon, or tequila and mezcal. No one has asked me what aquavit is. No one has given me a couple of adjectives and the chance to create a new drink on the spot, just for them. No one’s eyes have lit up after I put a beautiful cocktail in front of them, and I haven’t watched their face as they take the first sip. No one has spontaneously danced in their seat when I put on a fun song. No coworker has handed me a shot mid-shift to take with my team, just to congratulate ourselves for making it halfway through the night, and we haven’t clinked glasses then tapped them on the bar before knocking them back, as is the custom.

I haven’t written a review since February 26, the last time I sat at a bar by myself. I haven’t wandered into a place I’d never noticed before, I haven’t looked for a bar stool, or asked anyone “is this seat taken?” I haven’t been handed a menu by a bartender with a cute smile, I haven’t asked for a recommendation, I haven’t overheard what drinks other people ordered. I haven’t seen that awkward first date hug between two people who met on an app. I haven’t watched with dread as a bartender suddenly gets in the weeds, and I haven’t exhaled a sigh of relief when they climbed their way out. I haven’t been handed a parting shot of amaro by that same bartender after the dust has settled, and we haven’t clinked glasses then tapped them on the bar before knocking them back, as is the custom.

There has been so much loss over these last seven months, that often I think mourning these little, seemingly insignificant things is trivial and vain. But it’s not just that I miss the dim lighting or the gold-rimmed coupe glasses. Bars are about more than drinks and atmosphere. They’re about people; the people you get close to over time who become good friends, the people you meet once and never see again. The people who provide you a little entertainment to brighten your night and the people who show you some kindness when you need it the most. Don’t get me wrong, the drinks can be really delicious and certainly play a starring role. But a martini you made in your one clean coffee mug with some vermouth that’s gone bad just doesn’t taste the same as the martini you watch be made expertly in front of you, with a gin the bartender selected because you said you like citrusy ones. 

So maybe all of this is why A Girl’s Guide to Drinking At Home didn’t feel right. I think we’re all longing for some sense of community to help us get through this extraordinarily trying time, when both our people and democracy are struggling for air. Humans have a need to come together and experience stuff in the same place with other humans. Theaters, protests, sports games, rallies, museums, houses of worship, yoga studios, bars. They’re all pockets of community; some are constant, some transient. Like the regulars I made drinks for, or the strangers I sat next to. And maybe it feels like we’ve been told “last call” for bars. But “last call” isn’t forever. It’s just for right now. I hope to see you again soon.