Mindful bar talk
What are the essential Ingredients that make a great bar? Here’s what we’ve learned, the tough way.
Wabi-sabi is a Japanese word which encapsulates the transient beauty to be found in imperfection, or — to put it like a yoga instructor — to describe that which is perfect not in spite of its imperfections, but because of them: like a teacup whose cracks enhance its beauty, or fading autumn leaves falling from a tree. Consequently, one could apply it to the most wonderful bars in which to hide, even though at first glance they look like the universe’s armpit, and probably smell like one too. Things that are wabi-sabi are not perfect, but nonetheless feel perfect, if only at the time. Only a shadowy line separates tattered and shabby, dusty and dirty, from something worthy of veneration.
The bar — or pub, if you prefer — is the cradle of modern civilisation, the foundation of culture, and one of the four pillars of democracy (the one with a wobbly leg, like a beloved bar stool). Without decent bars, the fabric of society would unravel. But they’re also the reason for numerous mental health issues, domestic violence, STDs, nausea, rectal prolapses, hepatitis, fatty livers and Shane MacGowan’s teeth. In true wabi-sabi fashion, the definition of a great bar is when everything is right yet it’s not, because it’s exactly this which is essential to the whole. Such a bar makes one forget one’s sorrows, and all that is sad, filling one, a single sip at a time, with serenity, a promise of a better day, a new dawn, a new tomorrow, a greater hope — of new teeth, too, and a relief from constipation — as well as the belief that every rotten little thing in life is going to be okay.
At the same time, a great bar makes one accept the natural cycle of growth, decay, and death, just as wabi-sabi recognises that life as a whole is in a constant state of flux, and that decay is as much part of life as growth. Thanks to wabi-sabi, we learn to embrace shabby chic (thanks a lot for that); liver spots, rust, frayed edges, wobbly bar seats, dried up vomit in the corner, cracked tiles or toilet seats with caked traces of amphetamine, and the march of time they all represent. It’s simple, slow, and uncluttered, and it reveres authenticity above all, reminding us that we are but ephemeral beings on this planet, that our bodies, as well as the material world around us, are in the process of returning to the dust from which we came. A great bar is all about mindfulness.
A proverb was once found at the bottom of an empty glass of Fernet: “Time is kind to things, but unkind to man.” A bar carries the burden of its years with more dignity and grace than the drunkards in it. At the same time, since you’re probably still sitting in a bar, it’s a display of reverence for everyday life as the real path to enlightenment. Or — to adopt a sober tone — these days, with a world going mad, we could all use something that says it’s OK — even good — to be where you are. In a bar.
Where is all this inspirational talk going, you may wonder? Well, towards an argument that the quality of a bar relies as much on its askew atmosphere as on the bartender’s professional friendliness and the infusion in the drinks. These latter factors are important, and yes, as with parents and teens, respect must travel in both directions and all that. But such considerations are not decisive.
It may sound terribly old-fashioned to millennials, but either you’re fighting for the attention of the bar staff who’ll throw cheap speak-easy drinks at you, or your full attention is directed towards the creation of an artisan cocktail and its creator’s Victorian moustache. Listen — nine out of ten drinks taste the same: it’s too sweet, or too sour, or simultaneously too sweet and too sour. A great bar means finding the perfectly imperfect, recognising the wildly lopsided and yet, somehow, balanced. Or at least balanced enough to stand for a while, anyway.
In all honesty, this take on wabi-sabi is possibly off-base. A true understanding of its multiple layers of meaning hasn’t reached your correspondent yet, and maybe it never will, since our bar talk is pure gibberish. What did you think this was, after all? We’re most likely maligning every single Japanese person, their king, and probably his holiness Siddhārtha Gautama himself with this bullshit — and for that we’re sorry. But with this take on wabi-sabi, we at least get fooled for a while into thinking that we’ll wake up with less than a Dean Martin hangover. And we need that.
The problem with wabi-sabi is that, whereas symmetry can be measured, and facts can be verified (or at least they could pre-Trump), wabi-sabi is in the eye of the beholder. In a bar that becomes blurry quickly. Facts become as difficult to check as punching letters into Google search with fat fingers, and symmetry becomes impossible to measure. After all, anything can look perfect — or balanced, or true — if one wants it to.
Now we’re done with the inspirational talk, step into something more comfortable… like a great bar. There’s no need to sober up. Not yet, anyway. Welcome to the human race. Salute
