Bars Poetica (Abridged)

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Anthony Velasquez

1. Think what you’re going to drink before you order. Have a plan, then execute it. Don’t be that
kid from A Christmas Story who gets the deer in the headlights stare when Santa asks what you
want. Nothing makes bartenders and mall Santas more pissed off than indecision.

2. Match your drink to the venue. This is how you fit in and make friends.
a. When in a dive bar, drink beer or drink cocktails that require no more than two
ingredients. CC and ginger, scotch and soda, vodka cran, gin and tonic will do.
b. When in a hipster joint, grab a can of PBR wrapped in a little brown paper bag or take a
shot of Fernet Branca with a ginger back. A call like that will help thaw the Seattle
Freeze you’re experiencing.
c. In a high-end “craft” bar, order a Prohibition era classic such as Ramos Fizz, Mojito, or
Corpse Reviver #2. Martinis are easy. Since they’re going to bleed you dry at these posh
bars, make the barkeep do some work.
d. Order anything you fancy in a gay bar. Your drink will be judged no matter what you
call. Just be careful; the stiffest cocktails you’ll ever get are always at gay bars. So, unless
you want to get shitfaced, engaged in a sword fight in the men’s room, or end up butt
naked in the swimming pool out back, stick to beer.
e. If you must go out on amateur night for a cultural appropriation piss up, don’t drink Irish
car bombs and green beer on St. Patty’s Day, Jose Cuervo and Coronas on Cinco de
Mayo. Don’t be a sheep.
f. And if you find yourself at a veritable hard luck dive bar on an actual holiday like
Thanksgiving or Christmas, please don’t eat the sandwiches or cold cuts. Save them for
those who will truly be thankful for the humble offering.

3. Learn wine. A degenerate drunkard can turn into a sophisticated bon vivant by waxing
poetically about wine. Yes, that will take a little while, but learn the big four: Sauvignon Blanc,
Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Sauvignon. Then add four more to your repertoire:
Riesling, Pinot Gris/Grigio, Merlot, Syrah/Shiraz. Now you’re on your way to being a real
oenophile or crafting a clever disguise for your alcoholism.

Or practice faking it. When stuck in a conversation with a real cork dork, pick an obscure wine
and say something like (for a white) “Yeah , I like this ____________ , too. But for me there’s
nothing like the green apple esters, bracing acidity, and the sea spray salinity of a Txakoli
(pronounced chalk-oh-lee).” If it’s a red counter with, “This is good but I prefer the enveloping
heady aromas of dusty farm stand blackberries, old leather, and Band-Aid found only in an aged
Bandol. To each his own.” That ought to end the conversation right there.

Or simply pop some bubbles, if you can. I concur with the writer Roman Payne, “Wine gives one
ideas, whereas Champagne gives one strategies.”
* * *
“I never wrote so much as a line worth a nickel when I was under the influence of alcohol.” –
Raymond Carver

I should’ve heeded some advice from a few long-time expats in Busan, a besotted port city
where morning comes twice a day or not at all, but I had to learn the hard way (pushed down a
flight of stairs, emergency craniectomy, couple days unconscious, six months of recovery) —
nothing good is going to happen after 1:00 a.m. So go home and get some sleep. Then wake up
and write on. At your desk. On your sofa. On the floor. In the closet. Out of the closet. Over your
toilet. Write anywhere. Just not at, on, in, or under the bar.

Salud!

Author's Note: This piece was inspired by the author Wm. Anthony Connolly, the instructor of my MFA-Lyric Essay workshop classes at Lindenwood. The content of this essay comes from my experience in Sacramento where I spent ten years working in fine dining as a server/bartender/sommelier, and even more on the other side of the bar. I moved to Korea because I needed a divorce from my drug-addled, incestuous family (otherwise known as the Midtown restaurant scene), but it was the easy living and hard-drinking in the expat bubble of Busan that almost killed me. If it wasn't for my wife, my daughter, and writing, I wouldn't be here today to offer a little advice on this subject if needed.

Anthony Huerta Velasquez hails from California's San Joaquin Valley, but spent the last decade in Busan, South Korea. His essays have appeared in Hunger Mountain, Mount Hope, Concho River Review, Sierra Nevada Review, South Dakota Review, Stone Canoe, Touchstone, Panorama, Past Ten, and The Offbeat. He now calls the Finger Lakes region of New York home.