Views

agreeable to the touch, dark wood and, above all, the right lighting. It
doesn’t have to be as gloomy as those American bars where you need a
guide-dog to find your seat. But on no account must it be too brightly
lit. Even daylight can be a distraction, because, in a bar, time stands
still. Here, there is neither day nor night.
Warm lighting is of the essence, a welcome antidote to the merciless
glare of office lighting; unobtrusive light sources whose reflections
dance and glow in mirrors, polished brass and filled glasses. Like the
alcohol, the lighting too should create a kind of soft focus, taking the
cold, hard edge off real life. The noise of the street must also be kept out
so as not to interfere with the bar’s own acoustic microcosm: the random
percussion of ice-cubes in shakers and glasses; the low murmur
of cosmopolitan voices; the «soft music of whiskey being poured into
glasses», to quote James Joyce in «Dubliners»; a muted piano in the
background… Scarcely anything, indeed, has a greater influence on the
atmosphere of a bar than the music. Music can create moods, amplify
or becalm them. Any bar pianist worthy of the name knows full well
that he is paid less for his solo virtuosity than for his ability to pick up
the guests’ «vibes». (That, incidentally, is also the reason why a capable
barkeeper resists the urge only to play his favorite songs on the iPod.)
Out-and-out purists such as the great Spanish filmmaker Luis Buñuel
would never allow any music in the bar, however, as that would disturb
the contemplation to which they devote themselves while drinking.
On the same grounds, Buñuel held that women too should not be admitted
to bars – an antiquated gentlemen’s club attitude by today’s
standards, yet one that was still upheld as late as the 1960s in such
renowned bars as New York’s Oak Room. At the latter up-market watering
hole, however, the kind of almost monastic seclusion that Buñuel
hoped would breed enlightenment during the solemn consumption of
Martini cocktails was less the issue. On a more down-to-earth level, the
idea was to leave room for a drink in peace and quiet between office
closing time and marital routine.
«The first quiet drink of the evening in a quiet bar – that is something
wonderful.» The blue hour glorified by Raymond Chandler and
many, many others still ranks as the bar’s finest hour. It is a melancholy
hour, a time of more or less witty conversation. Most of all, it is the hour
of the regulars. Some come every day, always sitting in the same place
and always ordering the same drink. Changes of staff unsettle them.
They elevate habit to a form of ritual – even if it only involves reading
the paper or watching live broadcasts on the sports channel. (Only the
most staunchly conservative bars can get by without a TV these days;
or at least they turn the sound down, unlike in «ordinary» sports bars.)
Regulars form a delicately balanced community in which friendships
and enmities are nurtured assiduously. The serried ranks unite in
their mockery of occasional customers, keep each other in check and
watch jealously over the privileges granted by landlord and waiters.
The latter know each regular’s tastes («a vodka without ice for Max and
a Martini with two olives for the Prof»), are fully genned up on family
and financial problems, and tolerate moods and idiosyncrasies of every
kind. They must be good listeners and sworn to confidentiality; yet they
should also hold their counsel (and not, contrary to the popular myth,
serve as makeshift therapists). The personnel keep their courteous but
professional distance. The merest hint of chumminess would, after all,
downgrade the bar to the ranks of a common pub. On occasion, the
staff must even take disciplinary action. Even in the USA, where service
is broadly synonymous with a fawning, artificial friendliness that
verges on subservience, certain barkeepers have lately emerged as figures
of authority in their own right. Topping the list is Sasha Petraske,