111 West
DRINK
Four seasons of summer suit me fine. Even so, some days our unrelenting sunshine is too cheerful for serious work. It’s tough to write anything decent in broad daylight. It’s cruel and futile. You feel adrift. Audrey called it “a case of the mean reds.” Many people just head for the nearest bar and write off the day.
Recently, I had just such an afternoon. My laptop and phone were dinging at the same pitch with every incoming email; my neighbors were back from Jersey and bickering, my mind was fried before I woke up. What thoughts I could muster wandered back to when I lived in Brooklyn. On days when I was out of cat food at 6 a.m., I ’d walk to the bodega past a dive bar called O’Connor’s, where a few hard-edgers straight off the night shift found relief. With sagging wood floors and black vinyl-topped chrome stools as hard as the people that occupied them, O’Connor’s’ bloody Mary Sundays attracted a crowd more diverse than St. Augustine’s. My recent afternoon swoon cried out for O’Connor’s, which, 3,000 miles away, wasn’t listening.
As the fall months passed, my sense of mission sharpened. I wanted to find three little bars where I could slip away from the seasonal madness for a quiet afternoon cocktail in a dark, cool womb.
You don’t realize how late our bars open until you want a lunchtime pick-me-up. Bootlegger, Bar, Tropicale, Workshop, Sidebar at The Riviera, Shanghai Red’s … all were closed for liquid sustenance until at least 4 p.m. At the time of my quest, Seymour’s Speakeasy at Mr. Lyons had yet to be unveiled.
A basement bar was out of the question, and daylight scorched every haunt I peeked into. Even Billy Reed’s and Simon’s Kitchen at the Hard Rock insist on a wall of windows.
I press on to El Jefe at The Saguaro. It opens at 7 a.m. If you pull up the breakfast menu online, page 1 begins with margaritas. Salud! Several tables of locals had finished off their Mexican street fare and were lingering over half a dozen amber beer bottles glinting in the inescapable sun. A bearded bartender looked up and nodded, and for a moment the easy roadhouse vibe and equipale chairs tempted.
But it was too bright. Another day I would return for a margarita breakfast.
Back on the motorcycle, I headed downtown. Through its shop on the plaza, Fame Lounge opens at 10 a.m. Beer on tap, wine, and port accompany cigars or a game on the comically oversized chess set. Today, a sun-withered couple puffed away in silence, as did a small group that has sunk deep as a whale into the dated couches. The hanging smoke clouded all thoughts except one: Melvyn’s.
A standby for generations, Melvyn’s Restaurant did not disappoint. Ghosts of cocktails past seemed to sit at empty tables with unlit oil lamps. Daylight barely squeaked through two windows that shone like eyes from the double-entry doors. Several British tourists sat near two regulars.
Ceiling fans spun, a familiar tune played, and a blue light glowed off the bottles behind the bar. The bartender’s platinum ponytail shimmered, making her look like an angel that served “tidbits and munchies” in plastic cups. “Where is everybody?” a regular asked. “Aren’t you everybody?”
That was the right answer.
“What will you have?” she asked.
Your order is key. Afternoon drinkers attract enough attention when they open the door, blinding everyone with that intrusive sun. You become the center of attention, and you are defined by what you drink. Vodka tonic — confident but boring. Gimlet — you can’t handle your gin without a sweet wash of Rose’s Lime Juice. Martini — you watch too many movies or you’re trying to impress someone. Mojito — are you kidding? What bartender wants to muddle mint before her first smoke break?
“What’s good?” you might ask. Let the maker call the shot. Or glance down the bar to survey what the regulars are drinking. Manhattan, old-fashioned, scotch rocks. Too strong for me. I opted for confident and boring. I named my vodka and didn’t dictate a garnish. First-timers: Do not make demands about fruit. “Ketel One and tonic.”
The glass sidled over to me like a sugar daddy. He sat atop a cocktail napkin printed with Frank Sinatra’s grinning face. A favorite drink is comfy, like worn-in boots.
At 8 p.m. that night piano music would fill this room, belted out through speakers that hang precariously from the high ceilings on nothing but a chain. Every bright hour of every weekday, a dark subculture frequents joints like this, swapping stories, dropping celebrity names, and weighing the costs of ordering just one more. I never knew they were here.
The icy air in the Ace’s Amigo Room felt mercifully impersonal, literally and figuratively. People half my age stare at their iPhones in low banquettes fronted by a table display of foreign money. Collectively, we relished the time warp of a room without windows. The bartender, a holdout of the ear plug craze, chatted with two Angelenos about cigarette brands he has known and loved.
Forgoing the frozen tiki drinks, I voted popular. The Desert Facial is like a vodka shake, with the booze, pineapple, mint, and cucumber poured into a slender glass topped with froth and a tall, black straw. I craved seconds after just the first sip. I have always kept my distance from this room’s too-cool vibe but that day I appreciated the anonymity. That day, I was comfortable. I sank into my drink.
I wanted three good, dark, day-drinking hideouts. I’d made progress. But good things come in threes. I vowed to complete my mission soon. Maybe down valley. Maybe at 4 p.m. Maybe tomorrow.