“A Bar Is a Bar, but a Tavern, That's History”—New York Times

Turning the cold metal door knob into the bar, you enter into a vaporous, shady tavern. The sounds of frosted beer mugs clanging together and the clacking of the billiard balls could be heard resonating throughout. The quiet conversing among the players and the bar sitters created a dull hum. Men laughed while holding their cigars with index fingers hooked over the top as the smoke lingered around their faces. Various forms of cackling laughs could be heard from distant, but loyal men, who were sometimes called ‘devil dogs’ or ‘freedom fighters.’ The soft swooning recorded voice of Sinatra could be heard drifting around the room. The light is dimmed to a low orange; a soft yellow glow from the jukebox casts an ominous shadow across the floor. An old Budweiser stained glass fixture which hung by two chains above the pool table provided a form of lighting reminiscent of a 1930’s boxing arena. Elsewhere around the room, to the left of the pool table, was the bar. The slick polished oak wood, crafted to perfection was used for sliding beer refills down the line to the veteran regulars who came to the bar on a daily basis. Those veteran faces were sometimes hard to see since they always seemed to be sulked over the bar, slowly nursing their medium sized whisky glasses, while conversing with the bartender about the simple life.

© Garrett L. Knott, 2008