I don’t remember the last time I went to a bar. I don’t remember the last time I pulled out a barstool or leaned over a counter to order a beer. That’s the nature of going to a bar, I guess — fuzzy memories and all that. But it’s also the nature of habit, of the things we get used to and that become easily forgotten.
Before the COVID-19 shutdown, we had plenty of those things, and all it took was a worldwide pandemic to turn routine into longing. Which is all to say: after more than six months of staying away, I really miss going to the bar. In particular, I miss solo sessions at a well-worn wooden bar-top, nursing a pull or two from the tap and feeling vaguely pensive while watching the bartenders work their magic. Or maybe a low-stakes sit-down with a dear friend — the kind with whom conversation can be optional, and the tab will eventually work itself out.
At the right bar, a strange kind of peace can be found in solitude among all the life happening there. Soaking in the communion of booze, the sound of strangers — not coronavirus — hanging in the air and reminding us that we’re all here, now, together, even if you are physically alone.
Earlier in the pandemic, following the death of John Prine, I was spending a lot of time with the bottle, which just so happens to be a great way to enjoy his music. In any case, during one particularly stirring playback of “Yes I Guess They Oughta Name a Drink After You” — a honky bluegrass joint that was made for a bar jukebox — I felt like texting a friend to share the song. “This makes me want to pour a drink,” I wrote. He countered, simply: “This makes me want to go to a bar.”
His reply felt like a revelation to my quarantine-addled mind. Such a simple distinction now feels more like a social rubicon that we hope to someday cross again. The distance between me and another guest situated one stool down the bar has never felt further. At this point, I wouldn’t even mind if someone took the one right next to me, if that meant social distancing was over.
Don’t get me wrong; I know some bars are open (although taverns are not, which is just another layer of this ongoing hospitality-industry tragedy). But an outdoor patio is just not the same as a perch at the bar, let alone the kind of setting we used to know on a Saturday night out. Remember enjoying an exchange with a worker without being afraid for their health? Close-talking with friends, without a mask, in the same old spot? Having somewhere else to go inside, and to escape?
The company of a good bartender is a special comfort too: how they can measure your mood by a glance and a drink order. Anyone who has ever formed a bond with the person behind their favorite bar knows this. These people, literally, take care of us when we are out having good times, the moments for which we work 40 hours — or more! — every week to enjoy. During our “time off,” they are waiting to share it again and say hello. Sometimes, it can just be reassuring to claim a seat, to occupy some space, and to have a person on the other side of the counter remind you that you still exist.
That treatment goes for anyone working in hospitality. Whatever bars and restaurants look like in a post-pandemic future, I hope the labor and love of workers come to be appropriately cherished.
Feeling at home in these places is cultural cliche, sure, but against the volatility of the last few months, the familiarity of a cliche doesn’t sound so bad right now.
Amidst the slog of our one-time commutes and workdays, I would find peace settling into a barstool alone, counting my pints, maybe sipping a shot of something stronger, depending on how long I stayed. There is something reassuring about being alone in a crowd, in finding a bit of stillness for yourself among the friendly chaos of an uninterrupted jukebox, clinking glasses, barflies meditating alone and friends talking across tall tables, laughing too hard.
To that end, it’s also the people, really. I miss being around people, which is something I’ve learned about myself during quarantine. I’m tired of being alone, but all together, in a national pandemic — I want to go back to being alone, but all together, in a bar.
However, the doors to our favorite bars and taverns and restaurants and cafes are closing, more and more: Guthrie’s Tavern, Income Tax, Jeri’s Grill, not to mention every music venue in Chicago. It just makes me sad, and I do not believe I am alone in that. Among an exhausting barrage of tragedies, the shuttering of a business can sometimes feel paltry, but a profoundly upsetting social climate shouldn’t take away from what we feel at the loss of a space that people love.
Having a safe place to go, enjoying the company of strangers, the very nature of service at bars — these things have always been a privilege, to be sure. Mourning the loss of this setting feels natural, though. Neighborhood haunts — particularly the bars — give us places of habit and humanity, of routine and respite. Those things all feel different now.
Months into a global emergency, I’ve spent a lot more time trying to remember my last specific venture to a watering hole than I really would have expected. Frankly, I probably won’t ever remember. But sitting alone in my apartment six months into a pandemic and reminiscing about the time I used to spend barside has made me grateful for all the strange ways it helped me feel connected to other people, and to feel like I existed among the world.
