Don't You Tease Me Bars, Don't You Dare!!!!

I'm officially jealous of the bars I see on tv. At the Lobo Lounge (Rosanne) and of course Cheers, people can sit and have a beer in a QUIET bar and chat with their friends. Me? Every fucking bar I go to, I have to scream in my companion's ear and then strain to hear their response. Every fucking bar, no matter what night or time or even IF THERE'S ANYONE ELSE IN THERE!!!!! I may be getting old and cranky, has it always been this bad? Seems to be getting worse. Fucking hell. - XMASTIME 2007

Over the last two decades a lot of bars - or at least the ones I like to go to - have become fucking insufferable to go to for a variety of reasons; the loud-ass music shaking the walls that nobody else seems to be bothered by but myself, and an overall vibe of trying to break the record for eccentric ways to not make someone feel at home. But....is there a trend coming along I may like???!?!?!!?!

While most of the cocktail world has its sights set on the future, creating, for instance, bars that double as laboratories, there’s a segment of modern nightlife that is looking backward instead of forward for inspiration. Maybe you’ve noticed an uptick in checkered floors underfoot, or spied patterned wallpaper in shades of brown, burnt orange and harvest gold? Perhaps you’ve felt the bouncy creak of a rattan chair or basked in the warm glow of a biomorphic lamp. Wood veneer paneling? A statement, for sure, but not necessarily limited to the malaise era. No, a ’70s-style bar is one part décor, one part vibe. And it’s the second part of that equation that explains the popularity of places like these at a moment like this. The experience economy is booming, and the inviting, unpretentious vibe of ’70s bars offers a widely accessible, low-stakes slice of that pie. They invite you to come in and stay a while. To make a night of it. The drinks may not be trendy, but they’re unfussy and satisfying. The seats are comfortable, the lighting is moody. If there’s a dance floor, it’s inhibition-free.

“I want to open a place that only plays disco and oldies,” Shorr recalls telling Ingram. “I want it to feel like a ‘70s living room basement, not like a bar."

Here's a photo from The Turkey's Nest and an accompanying excerpt from the greatest non-selling book of all time, enjoy! 

A clap on my back startled me, and I looked up to see Op (“rhymes with hope, not dope!”) take his old bike messenger’s bag off his shoulder and sling it on the back of the stool next to me.

“Paddy,” he announced, “I would like a scotch and soda, please.”

Paddy stared at Op, not moving.

“Ain’t gotta be the fancy stuff,” Op assured him.

Paddy stared.

“I don’t want another container of that shit, Paddy,” Op’s resolve was quickly breaking down. “I mean it. Shit’s gonna kill me.”

“I think the keg lines go through a cemetery,” I offered in his defense. “The shit goes through dead people, I swear to God, Paddy.”

Paddy wasn’t having it. 

“Big Bud?”

Op sighed in total defeat.

“Two.”

As Paddy went to fill our containers with as much foam and as little beer as possible, Op started in on me.