The Whole Point
My friend Fred and I have started a podcast called Deported to Sweden. https://deportedtosweden.buzzsprout.com/2513002 . It’s likely that if your reading this, you already know that. You probably also know that it’s basically Fred and I sitting around, drinking Bourbon and talking. We talk about writing, movies, art and other related things. We also wax nostalgic for the brief period of time in the mid to late 1990’s when we were living and partying in Providence. It’s a chance for us to revisit a time and place when in middle aged retrospection we might have actually been cool.
We worked jobs that didn’t pay a lot. In Fred’s case a series retail gigs and as a cook at Tommy’s Pizza. In my case I worked a boring job in a cubicle farm where I met my future Long Suffering Wife. It didn’t pay a lot but it was a job. I was lucky enough to be in the Army Reserve and that “one weekend a month, two weeks a year” provided a decent supplemental income. The problem was that given the choice between being a responsible adult, paying bills or going out to bars, drinking, trying to meet women the choice was easy. I was more interested in going out to bars five or six nights a week. It wasn’t the most responsible lifestyle choice but it was a hell of a lot of fun.
We were regulars at a few different spots. Snookers back when it was in the Jewelry district, Tortilla Flats, The GCB (the Brown University, Graduate Center Bar) of which we had no standing but knew the bartenders. Snookers was a pool hall and bar, with a killer live music venue within, Tortilla Flats was a restaurant with an awesome bar and great crowd, the GCB was exactly what you’d expect from an Ivy League Grad school drinking establishment. Shortly after my first deployment to Kosovo, Fred and I were at the GCB when one of the two intense kids next to us were deep in conversation. The more animated of the two said passionately to his compatriot; “I’m talking about Kosovo Man…Kosovo.” Fred and I still laugh about the absurdity of that moment twenty-five years later.
There was also a place called the Customs House Tavern, sadly long gone. The Customs House was everything the others weren’t. It was on Weybosset Street, across from the Arcade, the oldest indoor shopping mall in America. The Customs House had been just that and more. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Customshouse_(Providence,_Rhode_Island) The bar, was in the ground floor corner of the building, three steps down from street level. There were a few booths and half a dozen tables. One bathroom and a bar that ran along the wall and seated maybe twelve people. The ceiling was tin embossed with a cool pattern. On Saturday nights one of the bar tenders, Buzz, played saxophone in a Jazz trio called Jazzbeau, that was surprisingly good.
The vibe of the play was different from the other bars we went to. It was more mature. It was the type of place we’d take dates in vain hope of convincing them we were sophisticated and had mature tastes. I don’t think it ever worked but it was better than taking a date someplace that had shots of colored liquid in plastic test tubes.
One night Fred and I were at the bar. It was a slow night, probably a weekday and a few frat boy types accidently wandered it. I say accidently because it was so obviously not their scene. They were mildly taken aback by a list of beers that lacked Strohs or Natty light. The trio of them looked at the options and ordered what sounded safe. Two picked safely and the third ordered a pint of Guinness. The bartender started to pour the Guinness and let it sit so the head could settle. He then poured the other two unfortunates their beers and rang up their bill. The kid who ordered the Guinness, for reasons I will never fathom reached across the bar to take his 2/3 of a pint.
The bartend looked at him and said; “I’m not done pouring it.”
“That’s okay.” The kid said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“No, it’s not.” The bartender said flatly. The kid pulled his hand back as if scalded.
The bartender could have given him his 2/3 of a pint. He could have fallen back on the mantra that, “the Customer is always right.” Which isn’t actually true. But it was point of pride. It was his bar that night, if things were worth doing they were worth doing right. The kid got his pint when it was ready. If memory serves he and his friends stayed for just one more round to show they weren’t intimidated by the place, then headed off some place more their speed. There’s a lot to be said for picking the right bar.