And that’s when it hits, why any of us would fight for a bar carpeted with the smells of four score years of drink and its terrible consequence, an easy place that beckons men with name and rank on lanyards about their necks, conventioneers’ familiar appeals, Chazz—if I may call you Chazz, and tired shoppers lured by the promise of an elegant flute, because California fizz is just as good as any frog by glass number three, and art school kids sweet on the idea of cheap wells and so don’t stop off at their dorms to drop that five foot roll of duck canvas, which is now propped next to a canvas completed well before their parents could drink. Or then again, how old is this place? The 1890s vis a vis the 1970s, time out of time, the place opens at seven in the morning so who’s really counting?
There are bars, as well you know, that go in search of a name, scenes to be made and fought over, and then there are bars that simply are.
The Gold Dust Lounge is the alpha and the omega, likely cares not for any pretense being made over it, and so may it continue to simply be.
When next you are in Minneapolis, on the other side of the first bridge built over the Mississippi, do yourself a favor and stop in for a cocktail. Don’t forget to tip the man who has been playing piano for longer than you’ve been alive. He will play a Getz-Gilberto number that appeals to the 103 degree temperatures you’ve endured all day, and though the twist in your gin will have far too much pith on it, what does it matter? The place has no windows, is as dark as a tomb, and smells like home.