If You’re Drinking to Forget, Please Pay In Advance
We booze journalists like to tell ourselves that we’re arbiters of some kind of high-minded gourmet sensibility, because we explore and elucidate, say, the subtle distinction between strains of yeast used in malt fermentation or the sophisticated chemistry of how to infuse flavors into recipes. But the truth is, the only reason we write about the good stuff is because rich people like to get fucked up on the good stuff, and they need someone to tell them about it. Most people, however, will settle for just getting fucked up. And the place I learned the most about people just wanting to get fucked up was P&Js, the Philly joint my dad used to take me to when I was seven.
I had plenty of time to learn, because while technically my old man and I went there together, we didn’t get much in the way of quality time, at least not once we got inside. See Booze was always hanging out there, and Dad had been friends with Booze a lot longer than he’d known me. So they’d talk for a while, privately. And I never knew what kind of mood he’d be in afterwards. Best to steer clear just in case. Then after a little while Booze would usually meet some chicks and introduce them to Dad and they’d all start talking. I sure as shit knew not to interrupt him then. It sounds bad, but looking back on it now, I can’t honestly blame him for all this. Dad was young and single and had an alcohol problem. What else was a guy like that expected to do in a bar except drink and hit on women? The geniuses among you might point out that he might have started by not taking his kid to the bar every day, but I honestly think it didn’t occur to him not to. Anyway, I don’t believe I suffered much as a result of his actions. If anything, his questionable behavior taught me to be independent—and gave me some of the best pick-up moves in my repertoire. Plus, him being preoccupied with Jack Daniels and Jane Doe simply meant I got to spend more time with Tall Paul.
Tall Paul was the P in P&J’s — the owner, head bartender and karmic standard-bearer of the establishment. He was a 6’7” 250 lb behemoth renowned for his kind, humorous nature and large, sledgehammer-like fists. He was a teddy bear most of the time, but woe betide troublemakers who attempted to make their trouble in his joint. Because if tempers flared and reconciliation failed, Tall Paul could kick the living shit out of anyone this side of Superman. To me, though, he was a gentle and benevolent giant, who always made sure my glass was filled with Coke and that I never ran out of change for the pinball machine. He even gave me my very own very tall stool so I could see over the tops of the pool and shuffleboard tables. Kept it safely stored behind the giant barrel of pretzel mix next to the men’s bathroom. I used to live on that pretzel mix. Until the day I witnessed a grubby old degenerate exit the bathroom without bothering to wash his hands after taking a crap, then plunge his grubby shit-digits into the beloved barrel. From that moment on, I subsisted wholly on bags of pork rinds and Munchos.
What I remember most about Tall Paul—and the thing for which I am most indebted to him—is that he introduced me to a bar’s most mysterious and magical space, the bar itself. Behind the stick. The holiest of holies. There he laid the foundation for much of what would come to matter most to me later in life, and indeed the story you’re reading right now.
It wasn’t playtime back there, mind you. Tall Paul wouldn’t stand for anyone playing grabass behind his bar. It was a place where serious work got done, and he taught me how to do it, too. He showed me how to make screwdrivers, Bloody Marys, and Rusty Nails. Actual drinks that were served to actual people who tipped me actual currency. (Usually only a dime but, hey, back then that was two credits on the pinball machine.) It was my first summer internship and it was beyond kick-ass. So what that my dad was too busy getting lit or trying to get laid to pay attention to me? I was the only seven-year-old in the entire neighborhood who knew how to clear beer lines and change a keg. You think the other kids understood what it meant when someone ordered from the top shelf instead of the well? Or what the letters on the soda gun stood for? Or that a plastic shot cup turned upside down in front of a customer at the bar meant Tall Paul was buying his next round? Other kids my age were planted in front of TVs watching Tom & Jerry reruns while I was slinging gin and learning invaluable lessons about commerce, toxicology, and the oeuvres of Led Zeppelin, Rod Stewart and Thin Lizzy.
But I think the most important things I learned in P&Js had to do with self-discipline and personal responsibility. Some of this came from watching the way people acted in there, and what happened to them when they abdicated the above. But much of what I surmised about how you should act in a bar came courtesy of a weathered set of hand-written rules tacked to the wall, right next to a framed photo of John F. Kennedy. I can still recite them verbatim. To wit:
P&Js Rules of Behavior
(Note: The following rules are non-negotiable, unless your idea of a negotiation is getting knocked upside the head. In which case, feel free to consult the management.)
1) If you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to be here.
2) Your bartender is not afraid to stomp you into tomorrow. As a reminder, he is armed and sober. Soberer than you, anyway.
3) If we see you arguing with inanimate objects, you’re cut off.
4) Men: No shoes, no shirt, no service.
5) Women: No shoes, no shirt, free drinks.
6) Pricing for fielding calls from wives:
“Just left” $1
“Not here” $2
“Haven’t seen him all day” $5
7) If you’re drinking to forget, please pay in advance.
8) No swearing. Unless you’re swearing to buy the next goddamn round.
9) P&J’s does not serve women. You need to bring your own.
10) Don’t put any shit in the toilet besides shit.
11) If you reach behind the bar, be prepared to lose an arm.
12) P&J’s closes at 2 a.m. sharp every day, unless we close early or stay open late.
13) No dogs on the bar.
14) We reserve the right to refuse service to Cowboys fans.
Sadly, the visits to P&J’s with my dad abruptly ended after my mother was released from the mental institution. Well-meaning relatives had told me she’d gone to a farm to get some rest for a few months. Apparently failing to kill yourself is immensely tiring. When she learned he’d been taking me to a bar most days she seemed to recover her energy, however, going after him with a frying pan out in front of our apartment building. I didn’t see my dad for a few years after that.
But I did see Booze. That guy still hung out at P&J’s even though Dad didn’t. I wandered by the bar pretty regularly for a few weeks after the summer ended. I never got up the nerve to go inside without my old man, though. I just waited out on the curb, watching people come and go, always hoping the door would swing open and Tall Paul would be standing there smiling, with a roll of dimes in one hand and a glass of Coke in the other.
“Come on in, Little Dunn,” he’d say. “Where the hell you been?”
