A bar. The senator. And three martinis. 🍸
You certainly can't stumble upon a U.S. senator on a date sitting at home.
The solo trip to the bar is not for the weak-kneed. It’s an intentional act of independence designed to observe life through an isolated filter and ruminate on a stool in silence on one’s own. In trips to the bar with friends or a significant other, you are a main character, conversing about and consumed with your thoughts, ideas, jokes, successes and laments and – (perhaps) – listening to those of your companions. In venturing to the bar alone, you’re a bystander, but a watchful one. You earn satisfaction by taking in simple acts of humankind and interplay, perhaps even drawing inspiration or enlightenment from some of them. But you are not passive. Writers Joan Didion and Charles Bukowski used solo bar stops to study people and develop characters for their work. Anthony Bourdain famously sought out bars by himself to recalibrate and make himself available to see cultural and societal nuances that would otherwise be missed while entertaining an ‘other.’ For the invulnerable soul, the solitary bar experience is never lonesome. You are choosing to absorb yourself in what’s taking place before and around you without making it about you. And every so often, you happen upon the extraordinary, perhaps even the unutterable.
A solo bar event is alluring to me after I’ve landed a story I’m proud of. After fielding streaks of calls, after sticking the writing, after an editor “thanks” me for the quality of the work I’ve served up, packaged so meticulously she could hardly do her job to improve it. For me, that’s a rarefied feeling in journalism anymore, producing the piece of content that provokes you to hop around your living room and punch through the air. Last Wednesday night, I felt it. So I bounded out through the snow to a revered neighborhood D.C. steakhouse, St. Anselm, perching myself between a seemingly newish couple and another solo player secure in her own barskin.
I first notice the pair next to me because they are hyper-engaged and handsy. Their prolonged lusty kiss before he departs to the restroom tells me they’re in the honeymoon phase, which is different for everyone, but unacceptable after, say, 13 months. It’s embarrassing to kiss your partner before a bathroom break after a certain time period together; I’ll leave it up to you to figure out that length. To my right, a thin masculine-framed woman with a short haircut in a black pantsuit is chewing on a burger and fries, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the scene that’s just coming into focus, or at least pretending to be. She looks like she’s zoning out, disinterested. I suspect she’s industry, given the way she remarks on the particulars of the drink to the barman. “I’m a Senate guy,” blabs a rotund man wearing a sweater vest and sipping on what appears to be lightly warmed Old Fashioned, one arm resting on the bar, the other airborne to conduct for his audience. He’s the alpha in a group of three situated at the bar’s arch. They are all standing, but he’s the main character, hunched and leaning in. “It’s power,” he explains to his two submissive associates, going on to name drop senators, Cory Gardner, Todd Young, and Katie Britt. “She’s gotten smarter about it. She’s learned this is how I can be effective and be taken more seriously.” He’s obviously talking about the telegenic Britt and her burgeoning social media presence and I can almost make out his entire repertoire from a full half dozen seats over. The gentleman lacks the discretion requisite for a sensitive Washington conversation, so it’s unlikely he’ll reveal anything meaningful. This is classic banal D.C. steakhouse gab at a quarter after 8 on a Wednesday. Lame, but you bet I’m listening.
It’s fascinating how quickly a bar can clear and reward those who allow for patience, a lost capacity of our jittery era. At 8:20 p.m., the U-shaped bar is packed. By 8:36, I count seven seats having opened up, nearly half its allowance. A thorough evacuation in the matter of 16 minutes. I’m in a martini mood, but choose the rather feminine Cosmo to start in order to leaven my alcohol intake with sugar and juice. Because while I instruct myself I’m only having one, I’m definitely having two and will end up with three on tonight’s final scorecard.
This bartender is good, I’ve patronized him before. He offers a quick peppy greeting without an air of artifice and a delivery of both the food and beverage menu. Water service is prompt. He tells the smooching gal half of the couple who is struggling to arrange her coat and make her way out his job is easy because it involves following just two rules: A strong pouring hand and a friendly smile. But there’s an unstated third he adheres to: He is attentive, even when the pace picks up. The storm of orders, empty glassware, new guests and requests for checks. This is where *mid* bartenders get frazzled, wide-eyed and falter. Like editors, the top shelf bartenders maintain their cool and focus during the tornado sirens. Like patience, attention is a fleeting commodity and my St. Anselm man has it.
The Cosmo is nicely balanced in its coup, the residue of the lime juice speckled on the sides of the glass. The cranberry is lighter than my personal pour at home, showcasing a light pink hue in the low lit urine-colored bar setting. Drinking the first few sips motivates me to do things I put off. Like buying a ticket to a music festival in a foreign country, searching for hotel rooms and reaching out to the core friend group in the chats I’ve neglected all day long. “There’s certain jobs you can’t learn on the job,” barks my boisterous Republican chap, still holding court, if not looking more flush in the face. He can’t contain himself. The bartender shakes a cocktail so close to me ice particles graze the top of my hands. “Almost anywhere I want to go I can get out of Reagan. I’d say 80% of the time I get upgraded,” he drones on, gravitating to travel. Which means he’s going where exactly? To Dallas and Des Moines? My god. Bored of his drivel, I’m peeking an eye at the greeter standing at the welcoming podium about 15 yards away, an attractive roguish-looking young man with well-cropped facial hair, who may be flirting with a mullet. He is not reciprocating, and immediately I wonder if I could earn a glance back if I were 10 years younger, a tad less grayer on the sides. (This is written *only* to see if my boyfriend is truly reading my Substack.) But truly, what is it about the quick subtle validation from a stranger that can assure you in a way no friend or lover can? Eyes averted, I stare back down at the bar and fiddle with my coup that is about to run dry.
And it’s then that the main event of my evening steps in. Sen. Chris Murphy (D-Conn.) snags a seat directly across from me, accompanied by a younger woman who