A couple of weeks ago, Starbucks—with 10,700 U.S. stores—announced that it will be serving wine and beer (and savory snacks) in a handful of locations in Atlanta and Southern California by the end of the year. These locations join plans for several coffee-cum-bar Starbucks in Chicago, and the already five existing coffee/bars in the company’s hometown, Seattle, and one in Portland.

Apparently, the change in the coffee-only focus is a response to customer feedback for additional options to relax in Starbucks’ coffee houses. “As our customers transition from work to home, many are looking for a warm and inviting place to unwind and connect with the people they care about,” said Clarice Turner, Starbucks’ senior vice president, U.S. Operations in a release. “At select stores where it is relevant for the neighborhood, we are focused on creating an atmosphere where our customers can relax with a friend, a small bite to eat and a cup of coffee or glass of wine.”

After the decision to roll out the booze to other cities, Poll Position conducted a phone survey of 1,113 registered voters and asked the following: Starbucks is beginning to serve beer and wine in some of its stores.  Do you think that it is appropriate for Starbucks to serve beer and wine?

Respondents were divided with 39 percent saying yes, 39 percent saying no and 22 percent describing themselves as undecided. The poll’s administrators said men and women were divided on whether selling beer and wine is a good move for Starbucks.

Not surprisingly, men favored Starbucks selling beer and wine 49%-34%, while women opposed it 45%-30%.

After reading these results, I decided to take a poll of my own. I asked about 50 people, both men and women, ranging in age from 15 to 75, what they thought about Starbucks’ transformation.

Some were opposed to the idea because of how alcohol will change the coffee-house atmosphere:

“I don’t like it.  Starbucks has a certain vibe that doesn’t include people getting buzzed on alcohol.”

“I like the café experience, sitting there and reading. I don’t want my café to be my local pub also.”

“I think it goes against the environment that Starbucks tries to give off which is a warm, friendly coffee shop. If you start selling alcohol it will lose its peaceful sense.”

“For me, the two don’t mix well–Starbucks is a spot to go for coffee during the day and, at least for now, I still adhere to the 5:00 cocktail rule!”

Some liked the idea of moving towards the European model:

“It recasts Starbucks more in the mold of a European café.  Cappuccino in the morning, Prosecco by night.”

“In Europe, you see coffee bars also selling wine. Starbucks provides a sense of community, a gathering place, and wine always goes with that. The only thing is, I think they’d need to adapt the decor/atmosphere–less utilitarian, more luxe, sexier lighting perhaps. And music.”

“Kids in america are underexposed to alcohol in a ‘part of life’ way.  It can be a good thing to have it around in a place which is not a bar where people act more responsibly…My theory is the more it is not a big deal, the less the kids will make a big deal.

Some expressed concern about teens:

“I think it is horrible. Starbucks is, for some kids, a safe haven, and I’m not sure why they need to introduce alcohol into the mix.”

“As long as they are checking IDs, I’m fine with it.”

“I’m concerned because so many young people are already abusing the amount of caffeine they consume in a day. Then add the temptation of alcohol (and how easy it is to get a fake ID to purchase it).”

“So long as they carefully monitor minors, I see no problem in expanding the line. Having said that, there was something cozy and wholesome about having a non-mood altering zone there.”

There are those who try to stay away from alcohol:

“Total turnoff.  You go there for the calm, for the sip on coffee, open your laptop feel. Not to get drunk.”

“I think selling beer and wine essentially makes Starbucks into a bar—so many people in recovery try so hard to stay out of bars (and we spend a lot of time in coffee houses!)”

“The other night, around 5 pm, I had some time to kill in NYC before meeting friends for dinner, and I didn’t want to go into a bar alone but I thought a glass of wine might be nice. I chose Starbucks instead, and got coffee but fantasized about wine. Still–I think there should be some alcohol-free zones, so I’m on the fence, leaning toward compassion for those who need not to be around it!”

Some just feel strongly:

“I think it is a big mistake. It would probably make me boycott the company whose stores I am currently in about two times a day.”

“I think wine fits more with an upscale coffee store; perhaps select beers, but Bud at Starbucks makes no sense—might as well buy eggs and milk too.”

“I’m fine with it. It broadens their business opportunity and should help strengthen sales,  something all enterprises could use these days.”

“I wholeheartedly support their decision, feels a bit more like the European relationship to wine and beer — normalizes the place of these drinks in our culture.”

There are those who cover all the bases:

“My initial reaction was, “Oh no!”  I suppose I feel that way because I view Starbucks as a calm and peaceful place to read the paper and meet friends while enjoying a nice cup of coffee or tea.  I suppose in some sense that a nice glass of wine or beer would not detract from that experience.  In fact, many people would enjoy a good read or conversation with a glass of wine or beer.  I suppose it is the other problems associated with alcohol that concern me — over-consumption, under-age drinking, and the trouble that accompanies those things that puts doubt in my mind as to why this is necessary.  I like Starbucks just the way it is.  I would prefer to go elsewhere for my glass of wine. I am sure this decision by Starbucks is economically motivated to increase sales by capturing a new group of consumers.  I guess I keep thinking that I like Starbucks just the way it is and if it ain’t broke, why fix it?”

And those that think, why not?

“When people get hung over, they can switch to coffee. With wars and the economy, it is such a minor thing.”

“We do not have prohibition any longer and live in a free market society, so they should be allowed to sell beer and wine.”

Needless to say, the subject of coffee houses morphing into bars is a loaded one. It seems a risky move for Starbucks, but only time will tell how the new metropolitan “coffee/bars” will be received. As far as I’m concerned, a few hours of work while sipping a latte is nice, but so is capping the afternoon with a glass of cabernet. It’s important that teens have a place to congregate, so maybe they can head to the diner, or one of the frozen yogurt places now cropping up on every corner.

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There is an answer to this question, but you’ll have to read on to find the answer (don’t cheat)…

Needless to say, the glass wine bottle reigns supreme. There has, however, been an increase in the types of containers storing wine in recent years. And it keeps on evolving.

For a long time, boxed wine has been looked down upon. But the quality of the wine has recently risen. Eric Asimov of the NYT explains the reasons in his piece, ”Reconsidering Boxed Wine.” Greater acceptance of the boxed wine notion is also good news if you’re counting carbon footprints–according to the Journal of Wine Research, shipping boxed wine produces half as many gas emissions as transporting heavier glass bottles.

Along with boxes, came the can. In a recent article on nytimes.com, “Cans of Wine Join the Boxed Set,” Bonnie Tsui provides great information on some of the newer, and finer, wines–drinkable not from a Bordeaux or Burgundy-shaped bottle, but rather from a specially-lined aluminum can.

Wine in a can isn’t entirely new, Tsui points out, and was “first sold by Barokes Wines, an Australian winemaker that invented a patented process called Vinsafe, which lines the aluminum to prevent any reaction that would impart flavors to the wine or degrade the container. The techniques are similar to what some craft brewers have been using, but wine’s high acidity and alcohol levels require a thicker lining.”

I wasn’t surprised to learn that Francis Ford Coppola was the first American winemaker to sell wine in a can–small, pink ones housing Sofia Blanc de Blancs, named for his daughter.

Wines on tap at Colicchio & Sons

I was surprised, however, when I ate recently at the latest of chef Tom Colicchio’s New York restaurants, Colicchio & Sons. The bar had an extensive selection of craft beers, as well as five “eco-friendly” wines…on tap. That’s right. On tap.

I’ve since learned that there are several advantages for serving wine on tap:

-Better for the environment. While bottles are recycled, wine served on tap is stored in environmentally friendly, air tight mini tanks that are reused.

-Cost-effective. Producers aren’t adding on the cost of the bottle, the cork, the carton and the transportation it comes in, so the restaurant owner pays less and so does the consumer.

-Freshness. Wine left over in a bottle used to pour wines by the glass is often discarded as it doesn’t last for more than a couple of days at most. Wine served on tap always tastes fresh, lasting for up to 60 days.

So I guess that’s what’s next…

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Whiskey has been in the press a lot these days, and all stories seem to focus on its increasingly devoted buyer: women.

The liquor industry is seeing a surge in women buying alcoholic drinks traditionally marketed toward men, reported a recent piece on msnbc.com titled, ‘Mad Men’ effect? More women get a taste for whiskey. The whiskey industry acknowledges that “women make 65 to 70 percent of the alcohol-purchasing decisions for at-home consumption,” according to New England Consulting Group, so its now-finally–concentrating on the female buyer. As a result, a number of companies have added different styles and a wide range of flavors and aromas.

In fact, there’s even a non-alcoholic version of whiskey on the market–ideal for those who like the flavor of whiskey and who are either pregnant or prefer to abstain from alcohol. As promoted on its website, ArKay is “the world’s first alcohol-free ,whiskey-flavored drink…a perfect beverage that anyone can consume.”

There is some controversy about Arkay, however–so don’t throw out the O’Doul’s just yet. According to the Scotch Whiskey Association, ArKay is just a “soft drink with artificial flavorings.”

Historically known as a masculine drink, whiskey advertisements have almost exclusively been directed at men (exhibit right). This sparked an interesting debate, addressed in Brooke Carey’s Huffington Post piece, Women and Whiskey Advertising. After researching whiskey’s advertising past, Carey uncovered that the question “isn’t why don’t whiskey makers pay the ladies any attention but, rather, why do women respond to masculine ads while the reverse doesn’t appear to be true?”

It’s an interesting question. So what do you think about the advertising focus? And who buys the booze in your house?

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In less than a week, my daughter will be off to college. Sitting on a beach chair a few weeks ago, her eyes glanced at her computer screen under the glare of the sun and the ocean only steps away. I assumed she was watching some incredibly gripping movie from which she couldn’t tear herself away. But when I inquired, she rolled her eyes and explained that she was watching an alcohol awareness video—a mandatory assignment for her university.

Despite the efforts made by educational institutions, new psychological research suggests that the pitfalls from all those jello shots and games of beer pong aren’t bad enough to make students stop drinking.

On the USA Today website, an article, “College Drinking is Liberating, and a Good Excuse,” reports on why the efforts to raise awareness are not working.

“We thought if we could demonstrate to students that their performance deteriorated under alcohol, they would be convinced that their alcohol consumption has put them at risk,” says psychologis E. Scott Geller, director of the Center for Applied Behavior Systems at Virginia Tech. But “knowing that one is impaired, physically and even emotionally, did not seem to reduce alcohol consumption.”

Geller, who’s been studying alcohol awareness since the mid-1980s, states clearly that the alcohol education hasn’t worked. “We have shown in several studies that their intentions influence their behavior. If they intend to get drunk, it’s difficult to stop that.”

Going for the effects is what it’s all about. One student, Brandie Pugh, a senior at Ohio University, says in the article: “I think everybody’s aim is to get drunk on the weekend. It’s not about the taste of the alcohol. It’s about the effects of it. It’s about the lowered inhibitions.”

In another study, researcher Laina Bay-Cheng, an associate professor of social work at the University at Buffalo-State University of New York, found that when teenagers drink, they think they can use their intoxicated state as an excuse for their actions. Students in her focus groups–there were 97 teens ranging in age from 14 to 17–described alcohol as emboldening and said it offers “liquid courage,” a phrase other researchers also have cited. Colleges, she says, need to “acknowledge and reckon with” alcohol’s appeal.

According to Bay Cheng, another result of drinking is that it can be an excuse for young women to “act out being sexually assertive, carefree, liberated,” she explains. ”If you have sex, you’re a slut, and if you don’t, you’re a prude — but drinking allows you to do both. You can go out, get drunk, have sex and the next day say, ‘I’m still a good girl.’”

In the USA Today article, Pugh goes on to say that she has seen this scenario play out on her campus repeatedly: “‘I was drunk so I hooked up with that guy.’ ‘I was drunk so I missed my class this morning.’ ‘I was drunk so I got in a fight.’ If it’s something they’re not proud of, it gives them an excuse.”

After next Wednesday, I’ll hope from afar that my daughter doesn’t ever feel that she needs to use alcohol as an excuse for anything.

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Bartenders serve up so much more to their customers than just booze: therapy, jokes, stories, simple companionship, matchmaking, moderation management. Why not offer protection?

Beyond the Bar, a new program in York, PA, trains bartenders and servers to recognize potential sexual abuse situations and prevent them from happening. Who better to look out for sexual predators than the eyes and ears of a restaurant or bar?

“Alcohol is implicated in sexual violence more than any other drug,” according to Kristen Sechrist, who works at the YWCA to help men and women recover from the aftereffects of date rape.

“People are taught to watch for predators in their workplace, school and neighborhood,” Sechrist said, “but who is looking out for them when their guard is down and they’re enjoying a night out?”

The program, led by York County Victim Services, ACCESS-York and Planned Parenthood, includes a free 30-minute training program. Bars are then given informative coasters and consent packets for their customers, filled with a condom, breath mint and tips for how to ask for consent.

But bartenders and servers still play the most important role: they are taught to be proactive and look out for certain warning signals, like a man sipping one drink all night while he buys a woman multiple shots. They can also watch for unattended drinks, offering to refresh or change the drink if they suspect the use of a drug.

The most striking element of this program is that bartenders are expected to actually step in and take action: discussing the situation with patrons and making sure they feel safe, asking patrons if they need a taxi or help calling a friend, walking them out of the restaurant or bar and even offering them a ride home.

This sounds like an amazing program to me, with one caveat: offering a drunk patron a ride home could lead to big trouble for the bartender, and stopping a sexual predator in his or her tracks could be potentially dangerous, so I’d hope there are safety measures put in place.

The key factor here, though, is the effort to counteract the bystander culture so common in bars, the “It’s not my problem” mentality. That, to me, is a great thing. What do you think, readers?

In the Fall, we ran a bar series during which a group of writers shared stories and memories of a particular bar. Although the series has technically run its course, we are always happy to feature work by our contributors that’s related to our blog.

In last Sunday’s New York Times, Helene Stapinski wrote a piece about Max Fish, a Lower East Side bar that was scheduled  to close at the end of January. In her article, The Max Fish Magic: Will It Travel Well? Stapinski recounts her history as a regular at the 21-year-old establishment, and what specifically makes it such a special place.

“Will Max Fish still be Max Fish if it moves?” she writes. “Can the magic be recreated in another space? Is it the people and bartenders, or the walls and the windows and the tin ceiling, that make the place cool — or some mystical combination of them all?”

Read Helene Stapinski’s posts for Drinking Diaries here.

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Le Pescadou

For a new series of essays (and poems), we have invited some of our contributors to share a story, an episode, an experience that took place at a particular bar–a place that they hold in their memory for one reason or another. We hope you will enjoy reading these stories as they appear each Monday.

by Camille Sweeney

The first time I stepped into Le Pescadou on the western edge of SoHo, it was love. It was Valentine’s Day and I was on a date. A saucy French wench (in drag) on stilts teetered up to us through the raucous bistro, playing an accordion, calling out, “Entrez, entrez vous!”

The mob at the bar hardly noticed us as we squeezed past them into a larger dining room in the back for dinner. I was smitten, but it would only be a matter of weeks before I had dispatched with my date – an entertainment lawyer with anger management issues – and years would go by before I would find my way back to the bar.

Maybe not so coincidentally, my return trip some time in the spring of 1999 was with Josh, the man who would become my husband. This time, I wasn’t marooned in the back room, furtively glancing at the doorway to the bar, but rather I was at the bar with Josh, drinking rounds of yellowy Pernod and meeting a whole new cast of characters.

It turned out Josh not only knew about the place, but also practically everyone in it.

“A local,” boomed Chuck, the owner from Montreal, passing through the front room, dispensing conviviality, bestowing on Josh the highest praise and fervently double-kissing his cheeks.

In fact, Le Pescadou was Josh’s living room. He lived only three doors away. As our relationship progressed, so did my relationship with the bar and all its strange inhabitants.

There was the Chinese-Irish tour guide, the indie filmmakers, the bullish English bondsman, the young widowed producer whose toddler scarfed down fries and toddled around playing choo choo train conductor, pretending to collect tickets (and sometimes real money) from the patrons. There were the trivia heads, the pop star and his tranny girlfriend, the aristocrats, some English, some Italian, some both. There was the former French race car driver and the former Czech model and the science editor and the jazz drummer and the record producer and the actor – all the actors – sharing the bar with the firemen whose firehouse was just up the block. (Those on duty, whipping back espressos, those off duty drinking the harder stuff, warming up before going “out out.”)

Rose, an old woman, who lived nearby, would make her way around the corner and stop to stare in the doorway. Age had baffled her about life but she was sure of one thing, she wanted a little glass of something at her neighborhood bar. Arms were always offered to help her get up the step.

At Le Pescadou, conversation was an art form. Arguments rose and were settled. Relationships bloomed and died. Advice was dispensed and predictions about life, love and the pursuit of happiness were made, some right, but just as often wrong. One man would travel over a hundred blocks to wile away an evening, drinking red wine and quoting Pound or Eliot or Shakespeare to whoever would listen—the drug dealer’s girlfriend, the electrician who moonlighted as a clown, the ad exec who kept a Town car and driver waiting at the corner ready to whisk him home to the suburbs.

Wherever else we’d go on New Year’s Eve, we’d start and end the night at Le Pescadou. Whenever we had cause to celebrate, we’d go there to share the news. Some fellow patrons drove over a hundred miles for our wedding upstate and some met our daughter in the maternity ward just after she was born. (Or, a week later when we brought her to the bar in her sling.)

When snow fell, we’d sit at the bar watching the drifts pile up and the city go quiet as we sipped whiskey neat. When the blackout flipped the switch on the East Coast one steamy August afternoon, we were part of a huge crowd, cheering and toasting Chuck, who’d somehow managed to keep the ice from melting and the drinks flowing late into the night by candlelight.

When tragedy struck, we’d gravitate to Le Pescadou as well. Chuck stayed open in the aftermath of 9/11 and the bar became a place where we mutually grieved and collectively healed. Some of our firemen never returned.

Financially, the place never fully recovered from 9/11. And, eventually, about mid-decade as with many small business owners, Chuck was forced to close. My husband and I would walk by, slowing down to peer into the papered windows, wondering how it could have happened and what would take its place. Inevitably, we’d spot someone else, another local, making his or her way past the empty bar, wondering like us, would life ever be the same?

Camille Sweeney, a MacDowell Arts Colony fellow, a somewhat repentant
initiate of the Rye Bucks Drinking Society at Kenyon College and one-time
blogger (The C Spot: A Guide to the Life Erotic), contributes frequently to
the New York Times and is at work on a novel.

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For a new series of essays (and poems), we have invited some of our contributors to share a story, an episode, an experience that took place at a particular bar–a place that they hold in their memory for one reason or another. We hope you will enjoy reading these stories as they appear each Monday.

by Leah Odze Epstein

I’ll never forget the first night I walked into the Royal Palm—or the Palms, as we called it. “New York, New York” played on the tabletop jukeboxes, reminding me of my favorite diner back home.

“Start spreadin’ the news, I’m leaving today. I want to be a part of it, New York, New York,” Frank Sinatra sang in his velvety voice, luring me in.  “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” This pretty much summed up how I felt about college.

After a high school career of pound-the-books nerd-dom, I’d decided that in college, academics would no longer take precedence (if my parents only knew…). I skipped the first few days of orientation to go to a Bruce Springsteen concert. Then I came in with a bang—greeted by the Leah Ooze sign on the door of my dorm room (my last name’s Odze), complete with a dripping puddle some helpful dorm-mate had drawn.

No matter. As I’ve detailed here at Drinking Diaries, I got drunk for the first time my first night of college. I blacked out, in fact. After that, I got a little smarter, but only a bit. Alcohol loosened my inhibitions, and by the second day, I took up with our helpful OC (orientation counselor). Call him Chaz.

Chaz was a junior, and by about night three, he began ushering me around to all the best campus sights: his apartment, his bedroom, and, when he realized he wasn’t going to get as lucky as he’d thought–his favorite bar.

I was thrilled that some guy wanted me. A junior, at that. And he wasn’t that bad- looking, if you could get past the nervous twitch. He was kind of bohemian and I liked that. I still wore acid-washed jeans, God love me, and pastels. My friend Julie soon put the kibosh on my wardrobe when she raised her eyebrow and said, “Pastels?” When I walked into the Palms, Julie’s words really hit home. From then on, I’d wear black and army green.

Did I mention that none of my fellow freshmen had ventured beyond the campus pub? I felt like a pioneer as I stepped into that smoky air, as if it were coating me with a new aura. Pool balls cracked, pinball machines plinked, but mostly, the place buzzed with constant conversation and beer bottles clinking, as if life at this bar were a constant toast to the fun of it all.

Kids sat four or six to a booth, head to head, at beat-up wooden tables with carvings and graffiti. And the smell. The Palms reeked of the beer that everyone drank—Rolling Rock in bottles, mostly—but also Budweiser and Gennee Cream Ale.

Chaz steered me to the back of the bar. Next to the pinball machines, a bald guy with a thin braid down his back sat cross-legged on top of a picnic table, holding court and smoking clove cigarettes, while people stood around him. One guy wore a beret, which thrilled me to no end, because trust me, no guy in suburban Maryland dared to wear a beret.

Yes, there were other Cornell bars, but as far as I was concerned, those weren’t for me. Let the boarding-school types and the upscale snobs have their chardonnay at Ruloff’s; let the jocks and the grunters line up their penny shots at Dunbars. From the day Chaz took me into the Royal Palm, the Palms–with its “I don’t care if you love me” attitude–was mine.

Perhaps I’m exaggerating (but not much) when I say I ended up there every night, after every party, after every study session or to avoid studying. Any excuse, and I was there, sharing a pitcher with my friends. Afterwards, we’d head to the corner deli to marvel drunkenly at the Potted Meat Food Product.

I met my first real boyfriend at the Palms. It was the one time I walked into the bar alone, over the summer, without the armor of my friends. I can’t remember why, but I walked right up to this guy and asked him if he was Swedish (he was). So was I (half). And that was that.

Years later, I went back to my twentieth reunion. My friend Julie and I made the Palms our first stop, in the middle of the day. I looked at her and said, “Thank God it’s the same.” The jukeboxes, the dartboard, the ceiling tiles, each one hand-painted by a Palms regular. We looked for things we’d scratched into the tables, or that had been scratched into the tables about us. At the Palms, you made your mark, literally, whether by writing on the walls or tables, or painting a ceiling tile. The bar belonged to me and Julie and everyone else who passed through.

The owners hadn’t changed a bit–they’d already aged, long ago, from all the cigarette smoke and beer. They seemed happy to see us, even the guy who’d caught me with my pants down in the men’s room one drunken night, when I had to pee and the ladies room was full. I remembered how he stood there relentlessly, refusing to get out, despite my hollering, holding the door open until I pulled up my pants and exited to the cheers of the growing crowd. Still, I forgave him. The grumpy owners added to the charm, and life in your late teens is so much more fun when you have authority figures to push against.

We visited again at night, and maybe that was our mistake, because once the people filled in, we could see they were all wrong: popular people with their fickle tastes, listening to current favorites instead of classics–“Living on a Prayer” blasted from the CD jukebox.

The crowd spilled out onto a back patio, which I never knew existed. Julie and I opted for the bar, where the crowd seemed older than the table sitters or the people milling around, walking up and down the aisles to see who was there. I almost joined them out of habit, before I realized that all our peers were long gone.

We sat down, and Julie whispered to me, “Don’t look now, but that townie guy’s staring you down.” I glanced over at Grizzly Adams to my left, preparing to tell him I was here to reminisce with my friend, so if he could kindly give us some space, I’d appreciate it, when he said, “Hey, Leah.”

“Um, hi?” I said, not wanting to be rude. I felt like I was back in college, at the dining hall after a drunken night, when a guy I didn’t know would say hi and I’d cringe, wondering what idiotic thing I’d done the previous night.

Well, this guy knew me, all right. He turned out to be the boyfriend. My first love. Sitting next to me at the bar. Unrecognizable, until he opened his mouth. Then, he became the same laid-back guy I remembered, minus the frat-boy attitude, plus a long beard and a tattooed girlfriend.

Different-looking. Southern sounding, even though he was from the North. But underneath, he had the same essential nature. Just like the Palms, which, I reminded myself, still had “New York, New York” on the jukebox, just waiting for someone like me to come along and press play.

Leah Odze Epstein is the co-editor of Drinking Diaries. She also writes middle grade and young adult fiction. You can follow her on twitter at @Leaheps.

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For a new series of essays, we have invited some of our contributors to share a story, an episode, an experience that took place at a particular bar–a place that they hold in their memory for one reason or another. We hope you will enjoy reading these stories as they appear each Monday.

by Helene Stapinski

Dexter Roadhouse was a shack of a bar that sat 10 miles outside Nome, Alaska, on the Kougarok Road. On the way, you passed the old mining claims from the Gold Rush era — the scarred, but still immensely beautiful tundra flashing by in red, gold and rusty orange. The Sawtooth Mountains loomed in the distance, like ancient cathedrals waiting for you to stop in to say a prayer.

But you hit Dexter first, to worship at its old wooden bar. When I lived in Nome, it was the great equalizer, where everyone in town came to worship. The judge sat next to the man he just sentenced for DWI who sat next to his next door neighbor and her ex and somebody’s uncle.

It’s rumored that Wyatt Earp once owned Dexter. And that Hoagy Carmichael wrote “Stardust” here. But I never believed anything anyone ever told me in Nome, since most people were drunk when telling it to you.

The first time I visited Dexter was my first night in Nome. I had arrived earlier that day on an Alaska Airlines flight to serve my year with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps at a church-run radio station named KNOM (MONK spelled backwards). Nome was muddy and ugly and smelled bad, at least in our house. One of the former volunteers was cooking moose stew, which gave off a gamey, awful stench.

To get away from the smell, we went drinking at the local bars that night. There were quite a few. And when they closed, there were the after-hours roadhouses on the outskirts of town: Safety, at milepost 22 on the Council Road, and Dexter.

We took a drive out around 2 a.m. in the station vehicle — a blue, beaten Jimmy SUV, which on most nights, beginning in October, would be plugged into the house to keep the engine from freezing up.

But this was August. The sun had just set around midnight, so the last hints of twilight had been blotted out for good. The road to Dexter had no lights. A dark emptiness stretched for hundreds of miles, threatening to swallow us whole for eternity in its vast loneliness.

I wondered that night, from the crowded but silent back seat, why I had come here and thought maybe it was a mistake. Among a few darkened homesteads along the road, and the sleeping, blanketed mountains, Dexter was all there was out in the middle of all that nothingness. You could see it glowing in the dark, like a firefly hovering, warm and pulsing.

There were only a few stools left when we arrived. We climbed onto them, cowboys already weary at the beginning of a long journey, and steadied ourselves. Bill from Iron Creek, a gold miner, was tending bar and welcomed us with his crooked smile. “Welcome to Sin City,” he said.

From Bill, we learned to drink — and later mix — duck farts and BBC cocktails. But that’s not all Bill taught us. As the months unfolded, we would become regulars and then bartenders at Dexter — at least on the nights when the roads weren’t closed because of snow. The loneliness of those dark roads was replaced with a feeling of freedom mixed with a weird sense of community.

Lazy Sundays that following summer were spent not at church, but playing bean bags in the dirt outside the roadhouse, drinking long necked beers and staring at the silhouettes of those cathedrals in the distance, thinking maybe Hoagy really did write those words here:

The last time I was in Alaska, July 1996, I tended bar at Dexter with Bill for an overflowing crowd. Beanbags were in full throttle and Nome’s mayor danced around in a tall striped Dr. Seuss hat. Little did I know that it would be my last night inside Dexter, that six years later, the roadhouse would be replaced with a new, improved version, bigger, but not necessarily better.

As I drove away that night, twilight segueing into dawn, pinpricks of stars trying to take hold, I took a longing look at the roadhouse through my rearview mirror and prayed that Dexter would be there when I got back.

Helene Stapinski is the author of the bestselling memoir Five-Finger Discount: A Crooked Family History, and Baby Plays Around: A Love Affair, with Music.  She has written articles for The New York Times, New York magazine, Food & Wine, Travel & Leisure and Salon.

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This is the first of a new series of essays. We have invited some of our contributors to share a story, an episode, an experience that took place at a particular bar–a place that they hold in their memory for one reason or another. We hope you will enjoy reading these essays as they appear each Monday.

by Laura Vanderkam

Boxers was my second stop of the night.

I’d been out for dinner with friends on a cold February Saturday in 2003 when a friend from college called. She was at this Irish bar in the West Village with a man she’d recently started dating and roughly two dozen of his colleagues. Feeling outnumbered, she wanted moral support. So I went. The walls of the crowded space were covered with pictures of Irish writers. Some (Brendan Behan) were obscure. Others less so; as I was ordering a drink, a man asked me, “Now James Joyce – what did he write?”

The literature lover in me got flustered. “Um, Ulysses?” The man smiled, and as I started talking to him, it soon became clear he knew who James Joyce was. He knew a lot of things – more specifically, how to get a woman to start chatting about something substantial in a bar. He was tall, and I’d always gone for tall sorts. He was also handsome and eager to hear about my writing projects. He turned out to work at the same company as my friend’s new boyfriend (though not with him), so there was no awkward exchange of numbers as I soon ducked out of the bar to head home. He worked his channels and emailed me soon after. And for many, many days after that as we started talking, dating, getting engaged one year to the day after meeting in Boxers, getting married, becoming the parents of two little boys, and so forth.

Looking at my children now, I’ve often pondered the magnitude of a seemingly small decision. I could have not picked up the phone. I was having fun at that first restaurant; I could have told my friend we would make plans some other night. But bars are always, in some sense, about possibilities. Sometimes, in life, you are open to trying the second bar. You are open to talking with someone new, even if you can’t yet hear, in his laugh, the echo of your babies giggling years hence.

All you can do is trust that when you are, in general, open to such divine gifts, that is when wonderful things start to happen. Even in a bar. Why not? Jesus turned water into wine, not the other way around. Wherever people are talking and celebrating together is a good place for a little touch of some force larger than ourselves to join the party as well. It swoops down, changes everything, and then like Boxers the bar itself (now closed) is gone.

Laura Vanderkam, a New York City-based writer, is the author of 168 Hours: You Have More Time Than You Think (Portfolio, May 27, 2010)

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As temporary home to the Olympics, Vancouver has been crowded with throngs of tourists for the past two weeks. With the excitement and thrills come lots of celebrations in the city’s bars, many of which have been spilling out into the streets.

So it’s only fitting that drinking should also make its way onto the art scene. In a recent article in the New York Times, Charles McGrath describes a new exhibit at Vancouver’s Playwrights Theater Center on Granville Island (the artsy area of town), which looks at the fine line between drinking and “drinking” and between the “bar as mere watering hole and as self-activating performance space.”

The installation, created by British neo-conceptualist Theo Sims, is set in a 12-by-20 foot plywood box, and recreates the Candahar, an Irish pub in Belfast, fully equipped with beer taps, a brass rail, and a TV tuned to Irish horseracing. The bar is tended by two Irish men wearing fedoras and thick Irish sweater—two real bar men (and brothers) who are also scripted performers for the exhibit.

“The purpose of the installation,” said the artist in the Times piece, “is to stimulate social interaction, encourage people to re-examine their preconceptions and start cross cultural conversations.”

It all sounds so civilized when you look at it this way. And it makes me think about the purpose of bars and the community gathering that must’ve been so integral for communicating and sharing events years ago. Now with Facebook and Twitter, people can “gather” virtually and video chat while sipping ale in their pajamas. Not quite the same.

*Photo source: Kim Stallknecht for the NY Times

Last weekend, the New York Times ran a piece called “Baby Barflies,” by Risa Chubinsky, in the “Complaint Box” column of the Metropolitan section. In 500 words, Chubinsky, a 20-something who recently moved to Park Slope, Brooklyn, rants about her visits to neighborhood bars, where she and her friends are frequently faced with toddlers grabbing at their drinks while the moms chat away, and babies crying right up against the bar next to their martinis.

She argues enthusiastically that bars are not for kids, and how aghast she was to see a dad changing his kid’s diaper right there on a vacant table at the Bohemian Bar and Beer Garden. Why, she wonders, are parents not leaving their kids home with a babysitter when they feel the need or want to drink at a bar?

After her piece ran, 376 comments followed (mine is comment #154), with readers defending the author’s tirade, telling her to chill out, or shedding light on all kinds of ways for peace to ensue for bar-loving moms/dads and booze-loving non-parents alike.

As both a parent and social drinker, I love the idea of being able to be at a bar with my kids nearby (if I’m not trying to escape from them, that is), and so was immediately drawn to the notion of neighborhood pubs in England, where many have play areas for young children to stay in sight of mom and dad and vice versa. But with our country’s Puritan ideals and school campaigns teaching children as young as nine years old that drinking is ALWAYS bad, I don’t think that idea would fly.

What are your thoughts on kids frequenting bars?

Think 20-somethings are the biggest boozers? Think again. A new study of Danish and English women found that women with high incomes and good jobs drink more often and more heavily than almost any other group of women. According to the researchers, society’s preoccupation with teen and college-age drinking has led them to overlook another group of heavy drinkers: professional, middle-aged women.

Why the discrepancy? Researchers says it’s because middle-aged drinking is seen as civilized, compared to the drinking-fueled antics of 20-somethings. Middle-aged drinking is simply not as sexy and visible (Is there a “Gossip Girl” or “Sex in the City” for 40 and 50-somethings?) Picture a 20-something drinker and you picture a gaggle of women hitting the bars, socializing. Older women, with serious jobs, relationships and perhaps, families, tend to do more of their drinking in private, at home. But just because they’re not jumping up on bars or hooking up with random men doesn’t mean they’re consuming less.

Over the holidays, I couldn’t resist going to the latest chick flick, IT’S COMPLICATED, a middle-aged woman’s wet dream, whereby Meryl Streep looks amazing and gets romanced by not one, but two, suitors. I don’t know about you, but most of my friends’ moms who were divorced waited years till they found someone else, while their exes seemed to hook up right away. I’m sure that’s not always the case, but let’s face it: IT’S COMPLICATED is total fantasy-land, people, including the drinking.

Oh, the drinking. IT’S COMPLICATED literally made me want to drink. Everyone had such a rosy glow, and when Meryl throws back a few, then a few more, at the bar with Alec Baldwin, she laughs! She dances! She glows! And she has the time of her life. Sure–things do get “complicated,” but if complicated means great sex and lots of admirers, what’s so bad about that? Yes, Meryl Streep’s character does get sick from all the booze. But still–even the scene of her barfing into her nightstand drawer is cute and funny, rather than sad. It’s all in the lighting. Plus, in the movie, she has a fabulous career as the owner of a high-end bakery, a beautiful house, three gorgeous, well-adjusted kids, and an ex-husband who still carries a torch. Oh yeah, and a killer wardrobe.

Meryl Streep drinks with her warm and witty group of girlfriends. She drinks with her ex. She drinks with her kids, and has a ball. She even smokes pot, and makes it look fun (you’ll have to see the movie for yourself to see the Steven Martin/Meryl Streep pot-smoking party scene–hilarious).

All this is to say that the middle-aged, highly educated professional played by Meryl Streep–and all the other middle-aged and above characters in the film who have great wardrobes, big smiles and great jobs–make the twenty-somethings look tame by comparison. So what gives? Is this another part of the IT’S COMPLICATED fantasy-land, or is there some truth to the thought that established women drink just as much as twenty-somethings?

If you’re 40- 50 or 60-something plus and you’re reading this–do you drink more, less, or the same as you did in your twenties?

Right now, while raising three kids, I definitely drink less, mostly because I’m too tired at night, and I’d rather take a bath or read. But I can envision a time, down the road, when the kids are away at college (like Meryl Streep’s kids in IT’S COMPLICATED) and I start traveling, hanging out more with friends, and yes–sharing bottles of wine…Wow–that sounds like fun. (Not to be a downer, but for some women, who have struggled with alcohol-related issues, the drinking in IT’S COMPLICATED must seem like a sugar-coated fantasy–like Russian roulette, because you never know who’s going to be adversely effected).

By Deirdre Sinnott

Much like the Mickey Mouse Club, I too had my “Anything Can Happen” days. When I was drinking, Mickey might not have made an appearance, but other rodents did.

One of my messiest nights began at Macy’s. It was just before Christmas. Mary, a friend from a theater group I worked with, and I sweated on a long line waiting to buy a pepper grinder. This was the first simple, hand-cranking pepper mill I’d found after searching in various stores.

Mary was due to sing at the Fulton Fish Market in Manhattan. Each year the businesses at the Market set up bleachers made to resemble an isosceles triangle. Choral singers wearing green and red holiday outfits crowded the steps and formed a living, singing, Christmas tree. Mary pulled away from the checkout line. “I’ve got to go or I’ll be late. You don’t want to see some naked cherub dangling off the tree do you?”

We made plans to meet after she was done singing, but once I finally purchased my pepper mill I didn’t want to go directly downtown.

Soon enough, I was elbows on a bar, drinking a shot of scotch with a beer chaser. It was the first of the evening and as the burning liquid raced down my throat, I felt like the night had endless possibilities. I agreed with the bartender that one set deserved a companion and slammed down another two drinks. Soon my Macy’s bag and I were headed downtown.

Once at the Fulton Fish Market, I followed the sounds of the chorus until I stood before the display. It was glorious. Mary was near the top, properly dressed in a pointed green felt hat, red collar, and elf-like green jacket, exactly like the rest of the singers. There was an outdoor café and I squeezed my way up to the bar, turning sideways so that I could fit between the white guys in suits that dominated the scene. I put my Macy’s bag on the bar, ordered a new shot and beer combo, and watched the tree vibrate with holiday spirit.

“Fun isn’t it?” asked one of the suits. As I sipped my scotch, I assessed him. He was sort of chubby with an unruly lock of hair that skittered around his forehead in the breeze coming off the bay. He looked like a boy dressed up for church by his mother.

“It’s not exactly my type of music,” I said. “I’m more partial to Blues than caroling.”

“You know a place?” he asked. I nodded and pitched my drink into my mouth, swallowing hard. I was ready to go. Mary was totally forgotten, secondary to an impulsive adventure. My Macy’s bag was almost forgotten too, only rescued by the quick-thinking bartender. Moments later we were in a cab heading to Dan Lynch’s on Second Avenue and Fourteenth Street.

At Dan Lynch’s I continued to indulge, putting down more drinks. When I stepped away from my stool and walked into the gloom to go the toilet, I realized that perhaps I had drunk too much. In the women’s room mirror, my pale reflection glowed blue from the fluorescent lights. I looked like the exhausted ghost of Christmas-yet-to-be.

When I got back to the bar, my suited companion was gone. “Is he in the bathroom?” I asked the bartender.

“Went the other way,” he replied, nodding toward the door. A large African-American man leaned against a barstool, surveying the action inside and giving the once-over to any new customers.

I asked him if he had seen my suit leave. He nodded. “Got into a cab,” he said.

Here is where it gets a little dicey. I can’t quite remember what I did next. I do remember the bouncer hugging me and, since I had been so unceremoniously dumped, asking me if I needed a little company. Apparently, with total willingness, I went downstairs into the office for sex. I remember a blowup mattress, already fully inflated, being thrown down on the floor. I remember, as I lay on my back hugging his solid body with my legs, seeing cases of beer and hard liquor ringing the mattress. I remember the smell of stale ale and the scratching noises of mice scurrying around the periphery. I remember begging the man on top of me not to come inside of me.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the subway traveling back to Astoria, Queens where I lived. I looked in my lap and saw the Macy’s bag. When I peeked into the box, my pepper mill was gone. I threw the bag onto the floor, much to the disgust of another passenger who loudly complained.

How could I explain myself? I opened my mouth to try, but couldn’t. Instead I sobbed.

This essay is a follow-up to Deirdre Sinnott’s well received Video Tour of a Few NYC Bars, a short, sassy “tour de glass” of her old drinking haunts. Deirdre’s work has appeared in the special nonfiction issue of the literary magazine Cadillac Cicatrix and she is a regular book reviewer for ForeWord Magazine. Her writing appears in Catskill Review of Books, World View Forum, Blue Collar Holler, Della Donna Webzine, and in two anthologies. Much more information and other stories can be found on her website www.DeirdreSinnott.com.