Introduction

Was there ever a more sublime act outside of religion than drinking alcohol? Whether you speak of banquets or taverns, weddings or wakes, get-togethers with friends or romantic evenings for two, the juice of the grain or the grape always adds to the occasion its own special alchemy. Consecrated by both tradition and experience, imbibing of spirits is one of the most universal acts of humanity.

Not surprisingly, it has been immortalized in song and story. Prohibitionists, moral "reformers," and the various victims of alcohol abuse notwithstanding, from the earliest days of writing--in Egypt, Palestine, Greece, and Rome--to the present, prose writers and poets alike have written in praise of drinking and the festivity that attends it. Because of the wide range of activities involved with the practice, writers on drinking have touched virtually every aspect of the human experience: birth, death, loss, love, camaraderie, hunting, and traveling. Most, including this present editor, would agree with the late Brendan Behan's observation, "I'm a drinker with a writing problem."

Perhaps the glow of good-feeling that can result from the well-downed drink is summed up best in the description of the mythical "Old Mr. Boston," which opens the 1935 edition of the famous bartender's guide put out by the distillery of the same name. Below the picture of a portly Dickensian figure in top hat are the words: "Sirs:--May we now present to you Old Mr. Boston in permanent form. We know you are going to like him. He is a jolly fellow, one of those rare individuals, everlastingly young, a distinct personality and famous throughout the land for his sterling qualities and genuine good fellowship. His friends number in the millions those who are great and those who are near great even as you and I. He is joyful and ever ready to accept the difficult role of 'Life of the Party,' a sympathetic friend who may be relied upon in any emergency...Follow his advice and there will be many good times in store for you. Gentlemen, Old Mr. Boston."

It is this feeling of geniality, of excitement, of contentedness, and of sheer joy, which the best of writing about drinking evokes; but like the real thing, it sometimes also forces an encounter with truth. As my friend and drinking companion Nicholas von Knupffer has well quoted:

Not drunk is he who from the floor,
Can rise again and drink some more.
But drunk is he who prostrate lies,
Without the power to drink nor rise.

As renowned as the act are the favored snug harbors wherein it often takes place. From the taverns of Greece and Rome to the late and unlamented fern bars of the early 1980s, such locales--whether in fiction or reality--have often provided refuge from life's pains, and tastes of the amicability and unity which, in a perfect world, would reign supreme. One female witness in the old Perry Mason television show, asked by that star defense attorney why she spent four hours in a watering hole, replied: "After a few drinks, a bar becomes a fairy land; the people there are so courteous…and considerate." Often they particularly seem that way if they tolerate one's behavior after the seventh round.

Nevertheless, contemplating my favorite places, from elevated bars like the American Bar at London's Savoy Hotel, to dives on the order of the Frolic Room on Hollywood Boulevard, they do have that one element in common--they provide sanctuary. So often, the folk one meets in these places appear--at least for the moment--to share one's views, one's hopes, and one's fears. The ultimate time for gleaning barroom wisdom seems to be about four in the afternoon. Only truly dedicated drinkers, who really have nothing better to do with their time, will be found then.

In times of disaster, such as the nation experienced on September 11, 2001 (or as we Californians do after every major quake), the bars fill. Modern-day prohibitionists are always displeased by such "unhealthy" behavior. But wiser heads realize that in the face of horror, humanity has a need to reach for the familiar and the communal: comfort food, old bars, and good booze.

The best bars will, later in the day, offer a mix of such grizzled veterans' with younger apprentice types. In healthier cultures, such as in Europe, whole families may be found in local pubs: adolescents learning from their elders the fine art of drinking. Certainly, the longing for community is to some degree fulfilled in the most successful gin mills. This is a longing that grows ever keener as modern technology further isolates individuals.

A word ought to be offered for the bars of private clubs. During the 1980s, when I was a young man, fortune brought me to the venerable Masquers' Club, at 1765 N. Sycamore, in Hollywood. Founded as the West Coast affiliate of the still more aged Lambs' Club in New York, the Masquers' was, like its parent, an actor's club. In my day, many an old character actor haunted its storied bar, modeled after one in Stratford on Avon, and used as "Clay's Grill" during the final 1965-1966 season of Perry Mason. Most of the haunters were living, but Alan Mowbray, deceased since 1967, made more than a few appearances. Strange tales emanated from the bar, and became stranger as the night and the drinks progressed. When a member died (a not uncommon occurrence), his favorite drink was set up for a day in his memory.

Alas, as my friend Stephen Frankini has observed, "All good things must go." So it was with the Masquers'. But the bar itself was removed successively to the Variety Arts Club, downtown, and at last to the Mayflower Club in North Hollywood, where it resides at present. Mentioning to a group of cronies one Thanksgiving that "they saved the Masquers' Bar," one of them (who had shared a few adventures there) shot back, "from the people who brought you, 'They Saved Hitler's Brain.'” Such is the affection such a place can instill even in occasional guests.

So it is with the Lansdowne Club in London, much resorted to by many of my friends there. One in particular, Alexander Suscenko, is famed for his practice of, after having reached a certain point of inebriation, saying, "It's all very confusing. I'm confused. Are you confused? It's all terribly confusing." This is about all to be extracted from him for the rest of the evening. Rather than being tiresome, it is a refreshing acceptance of reality in a world filled with self-proclaimed experts.

With the bar as meat rack or trysting place for alternative lifestyles, I have as little to do in this anthology as in real life. But it must be admitted that an alcoholic haze often lends romance to an evening and beauty to a face. As the late Morey Amsterdam observed, "A woman looks her best ten minutes before last call." Alas, such beauty, like the gold of the fairies, is often fleeting and vanishes at daybreak.