• Barred

    Drinking in Vancouver B.C.

    When: Saturday, 4:50pm

    I love The Keg, a Canadian chain which was completely new to me. I wasn’t sure whether to characterize it as a casual steakhouse or a bar and its official name, The Keg Steakhouse + Bar, solves that problem nicely.

    Age appropriate? Yes. Tom Petty and Carly Simon played and a trashed blonde in her 50s was talking to herself in the bathroom and didn’t stop on my account. “Tiger, tiger” she kept saying to the mirror and I half-hoped this was some Canadian form of the Bloody Mary game.


    When: Saturday, 6:20pm

    I have no idea why an Irish sports bar in Vancouver would be called The Bimini. This was a dude-heavy place and basketball was on TV in the main level (bars are so much larger in Canada than NYC) though there were three women in their mid-30s who looked vaguely Latina all wearing San Antonio Spurs jerseys.

    Age appropriate? All Irish pubs are.


    When: Sunday, 3:30pm

    Steamworks is a giant multi-level brew pub right in Gastown, which abuts Vancouver’s answer to the Tenderloin and made for some amusing reviews of the Airbnb I stayed at. Large booths tend to be both family-friendly and middle-age bait

    Age appropriate: Yep, I hadn’t seen so many 50+ women drinking in a room in recent memory. I chalked it up to the cruise ships in town (a taxi driver said that’s why the city was so crowded that weekend). The women next to me were definitely wearing resort wear, real Lilly Pulitzer or not, I don’t know.

    P.S. I was in town the same weekend as that girl got pulled into the water by a sea lion and I have no idea if this was national news or just a big deal locally.

  • Barred

    Barred: Bar Bar

    When: Tuesday, 2:30pm

    I only chose Bar Bar in part because I have anxiety about using an iPads with a keyboard (a laptop would be unthinkable) in public (even after vaping Sour Tsunami in my rental car) and it seemed chill with lots of outdoor tables that were awfully occupied for a weekday afternoon lending further credence to my no one works in Portland theory. (Don’t worry, I have the exact same theory about Brooklyn.)

    Two tiny near newborns eventually showed up with their moms who were practically newborns (OK, plus 26 years) themselves. There were also young black-lipped goths in Birkenstocks, as well as a woman who looked barely 21 keeping the dream of the ‘90s alive by wearing a flannel and stocking cap in 90 degree weather and making me irritated and sweaty just looking at her.

  • Barred

    Barred: Loyal Legion

    When? A weekday between lunch and dinner

    There is a certain style native to traveling Pacific NW (and probably Colorado but I’ve never been) women and German tourists who could be anywhere from 50-75: short no nonsense cropped hair, often gray, loose cotton pants, also cropped, polar fleece, Merrill type orthopedic/outdoorsy shoes. I can’t say I’m a fan of this look but I appreciate that they drink beer, usually craft. I might get shit for this, but it’s not always easy discerning a middle-aged Oregonian’s identity because they often look like stereotypical lesbians. I have friends and family, some straight, some not, who fall into this category.

    Loyal Legion was a generic beer hall that happened to be open at the time I wanted to have a drink. I was amazed that two different couples composed of a nondescript husband (one was larger and gave off blue collar vibes, the other skinny and academic) and exactly the woman I just described entered a little after I was seated and sat at the bar about five stools separating them. Both also had colorful print scarves around their necks.

    Was I carded? No, and it’s increasingly absurd that I continue this category. 

    Age appropriate? Sure, at least during the afternoon.

  • Barred

    Barred: Maison Pickle and The Parlour

    When: Friday, 3:30pm

    There is a dearth of restaurants I want to eat at open between 3pm and 5pm on the Upper West Side, a fact I’ve come to realize since having a regular Friday appointment that ends at 3pm in that neighborhood. Maison Pickle seemed like a good a place as any since I was using a voucher to buy a ticket at the AMC across the street for a movie that started in a little over two hours.

    I walked in and sat at the bar and right into a conversation about age. Within a minute, I knew that the graying bartender was 42 and that the female half of the former Upper West Siders visiting from California was 39.

    “You don’t look 39,” said the young woman seated next to me, who I later found out was only 21.

    Only a 21-year-old would think this woman didn’t look 39 because she has no idea what 39 looks like.That may as well be 59. I’d pegged her for at least 44. I had to bite my tongue not to ask how old they thought I was because often people guess younger and It’s an ego boost but just as often, more so lately, I don’t get that reaction anymore. I also don’t jump into conversations with strangers until I’ve had at least one drink.

    I had to bite my tongue again when the older visiting couple started disparaging someone they met from the South’s taste in pizza. “That pizza has orange cheese on it.” Then they promptly started giving horrible pizza recommendations to the younger couple who’d just moved into the neighborhood.

    * * *

    When: Friday, 4:28pm

    Two drinks later and I butt into a conversation at The Parlour, an Irish pub up the street. I kind of had to because I took the only open seat at the corner of the bar and there was a man standing on the right side where there were no stools talking to the woman on my left, leaving an empty stool and space enough that I assumed they were not close. I quickly sized up the woman, and decided that this was what 39 looked like for nearly arbitrary reasons.Softer features? Longer hair?

    The man, who was in his 50s, lived on the Upper East Side, a world away, and was yammering about restaurants like Ethyl’s and Jacques, the latter which he favored over Le Bernardin or Le Cirque for value. Then he asked the woman, over me because I’m invisible, “Have you been to Maison Pickle? They know the word buy back.”

    I had just witnessed this very thing among the guests who seemed to be regulars, so I finally broke my silence. I ended up talking for a while to the woman who worked in PR and for whatever reason was playing hooky like me. At some point, unprompted by me, she referred to “people her age” and implied she was over 40. I flat out asked, “So, how old are you?” 46. I felt relieved.

    Unasked for datapoint: This guy had no idea who Lena Dunham was. The woman did. 

    Was I carded? No way.

    Age appropriate? Yes to both bars.

  • Barred

    Barred: The Ready Penny Take 2

    When: Friday, 8:15 

     I’ve been threatening to crash the Jackson Heights Dads monthly meetup ever since I first found out about the event where neighborhood men with children can let off steam and bond. It rotates from Legends, Espresso 77, to Ready Penny. But it wasn’t until two of the five member Jackson Heights Ladies Cotillion (JHLC) a loose social club that has organically formed to primarily drink wine and watch Feud, also decided it was a good idea.

    There was a foil tray of wings. There was a porkpie hat. There was also a bun/ponytail hybrid. The bulk of the dads were seemingly under 37 but there was one who looked like a short David Cross in a baseball cap. I did take creep shots and a non-middle-aged me would post them but now I’m mature and have good judgment.

    The bartender, an Irish woman definitely over 40, took a shining to the JHLC, mostly I suspect because we brought our glasses back to the bar rather than leaving them strewn on tables, and gave us a free round of drinks. She also referred to the dads as “ladies” to insult them, which was funny instead of being offensive to real ladies.

    LIke clockwork, by 11pm the dads had all but dispersed.

    Age appropriate? There was a woman at least 50 by herself at the bar, yes.

  • Barred

    Barred : The Queens Kickshaw

    When: Friday, 5:30-ish

    This was the Friday before Easter, a long time ago at this point, and I was playing hooky naively thinking I could get a whole leg of lamb at an Astoria butcher two days before a big fat Greek holiday.  There had been a lot of ticket-taking and line-standing that afternoon and I’m not really someone who enjoys going from place to place to pick up provisions like a a good food blogger. Give me a giant supermarket any day.

    Going to Astoria, where I also have a periodic doctor’s appointment,  is often an excuse to have a drink or two since it’s the closest neighborhood that has non-dive, non-Irish bars geared toward other demographic groups than Latino men, though it’s not all that close as I always forget when it takes 30 minutes on a subway plus a long walk or 30 minutes on two subways. Queens Kickshaw isn’t really even a bar, though there are roughly 10 counter seats.

    Originally, I was alone, as usual, drinking while old and female, and then a few drinks in I realized two solo women had sat on my left and after talking for a while, that we had three decades represented: 25, 36, 44. The youngest woman, Mexican, (which I only point out because I never assume anyone Latina is Mexican in NYC) grew up in Queens, was a veteran of the service industry (she was friends with all the staff) and was now working at a medical office. The older woman looked no older, cute, midwestern, blonde with an undercut, and was telling Tinder tales about polyamorous relationships and dating bisexual men. She turned out to be an E.R. doctor, which impressed the hell out of the receptionist. Me too, though I didn’t show it. I have no math and science friends, nor hang out with any women in traditional, respectable professions. It was one of those situations where upon leaving you all say “connect with me on Instagram” or trade cards, but by the next day it’s all forgotten.

    My hands turned blue while remaining warm to the touch as they do once or twice per year with no explanation. My doctors have been no help and this doctor drinking rose cider had no ideas either.

    Was I carded? That’s pretty much a thing of the past. I might have to get rid of this category.

    Age Appropriate? Yes, but no one my age was present.

  • Barred

    Barred: Sam Bond’s Garage & Blairally

    When: Friday, 5:03pm

    I always love drinking in other cities, ideally third-tier, not so much because I blend in more than in NYC but the crowds are often more diverse. At Sam Bond’s Garage, I had never seen so many white ponytails (on men, duh) in a room together. We ran into my sister’s neighbor, a woman who looked like a wizened Patti Smith, I saw a balding man with a hook for a hand, and also a man who was dressed like a senior version of General Zod. In the bathroom line I was talking to a woman who looked late 30s but turned out to have a son who was 28. Maybe she meant stepson? I just don’t know. Of Montreal’s song that was made into that Outback Steakhouse jingle was playing and it didn’t quite seem to jibe with the clientele.

    Age appropriate? Hell, yes.

     


     

    When: Friday, 9:20pm

    Weirdly, Eugene has a dearth of drinking venues that stay open past 11pm. And so I settled on this arcade bar, Blairally, that I didn’t realize hosted ‘80s nights on Fridays and charged a $3 cover after 9pm. I can barely articulate the scene inside. There were very few people actually dancing, though there was an air of grown-up drama kids, trucker hats, and dreadlocks because it’s Eugene.

     

    I had to hand it to the DJ because he wasn’t just playing greatest hits even though I’m blanking on all of them now except for Translator’s “Everywhere That I’m Not.” After I shot a quick video that Facebook wouldn’t let me upload due to copyright infringement, we took off. Thirty minutes, one dollar per ten minutes of entertainment, was enough.

    Age appropriate? There were some gray-beards. Not any overtly middle-aged women. Ostensibly, ‘80s nights would capitalize on the nostalgia of people who were young in the ‘80s, but in my experience it always draws types who are at least a decade younger.

     

  • Barred

    Barred: Beauty Bar

    When: Wednesday, 8:37pm

    Beauty Bar was a thing in my 20s, so maybe it perpetually appeals to 20somethings. As soon as I walked in and sat at the empty bar stool closest to the door, I realized I had made a mistake. It appeared as if I had walked into a sorority party, lots of white wine and shrieks, but maybe that’s a normal Wednesday night. 

    Two nerdy men I had pegged for around 28 came after I did and were hovering for a seat. One said, “I haven’t been here since 2008″ as if that may as well have been 1908. 

    Was I carded? No.The bartender was diligent about asking everyone else for ID, though.

    Age appropriate? Not even close. I drank my beer as fast as possible and high-tailed it out of there. 

  • Barred

    Barred: The Sackett

    When: Wednesday, 6:28pm

    I’m 99% certain that I have never heard Gene Loves Jezebel played in a bar in all my life. The bartender, who was mid-30s at most, was playing a distinctly Gen X soundtrack: Depeche Mode, “Never Let Me Down Again,” Talking Heads, “Road to Nowhere,” Beastie Boys, “Sabotage,” then skipped Green Day and eventually played “Jane Says,” which people at the bar complained about, so the bartender said she was going to play it again. Maybe two of the roughly 15 patrons, males, were in high school when that song came out. 

    Age appropriate? Eh, sort of. Eventually one of the regulars’ wives showed up and I’m fairly certain she qualified as middle-aged–or maybe it was the Ann Taylor style. 

  • Barred

    Barred: Banshee Pub & Finnegan’s Wake


    When:
    Tuesday, 6:20pm

    Banshee Pub I used a visit to Tanoshi Sushi for an excuse to finally ride on the Second Avenue subway (no one told me the station had one of those never-ending anxiety-provoking escalators).  I then had an hour to kill before my reservation, so chose one of the two Irish bars on the same block, one block from Tanoshi. Nothing was remarkable about this place, except that apparently there had been a gas explosion earlier so (under-40) temporarily displaced neighbors trickled in.

    Age appropriate? Not while I was there, though no Irish bar is age-inappropriate even in bro-centric Murray Hill.

    When: Tuesday, I’m guessing around 9pm

    Finnegan’s Wake I’m the type that the more I drink, the more I want to drink so even though I told myself that I would have a few beers before dinner and then to go straight home after sushi, especially since I nearly polished off a large BYOB bottle of sake, I did not. Instead I book-ended my evening by going to the other Irish bar. But it was the right thing because I’ve always thought running into people you know in all corners of NYC was a trope (though based on social media, I have “friends” who run into “friends” all the time) and yet I walked in and saw a “friend” (I’m not sure what you call someone you’ve only met once or twice in person and only have a Facebook relationship with) who lives in far out Brooklyn sitting at the bar. She is only 35, however, so did not qualify for my middle-ages quota. She also mentioned on Facebook shortly thereafter that she wasn’t drinking anymore, a strangely common declaration with women in their mid-30s. Maybe that’s called wisdom.

    Age appropriate? Yes. Clearly, the ladies come out later.