Down on the corner...

Although I grew up with the traditional English pub, and love it dearly, I think I have come to prefer American bars.

The notorious English 'reserve' is nowhere more apparent than in the pub (well, OK, it is even more apparent on a train....): the lone drinker is generally left on his own, and it is much harder to start random conversations with staff or fellow customers. In America, they really do work to make you feel "one of the family".

And they have 'Happy Hour' - what a wonderful invention that is. (It's a bit of a shame, of course, that all the other hours seem unhappy by comparison, but we learn to live with that.)

And the barkeep is a much grander being there than in the UK: not just an underpaid and disaffected hireling of the owner, but a veritable demi-god within his or her little domain..... the person who will effect introductions for you to the regulars (and perhaps to the cute girl down at the far end of the bar that you are too tongue-tied to approach), will encourage the regular imbibing of shooters to accelerate the onset of happy drunkenness, will keep the banter flowing all night, and - if you tip generously and are a good sport - will contrive to 'lose' a hefty portion of your tab when you finally decide it's time to leave.

I have travelled extensively in North America, have lived there for a while and still visit regularly, have in fact probably spent nearly as much time there as in the UK over the past 5 or 6 years. And I have whiled away many an hour in American bars, especially in the unpretentious, blue-collar bars you seem to find on every street corner in working class neighbourhoods in places like Boston or Philadelphia. I love the darkness of them, the cosiness, the friendliness. I can't even remember the names or locations of most of them, but they do account for a sizeable proportion of my favourite drinking memories - and several of them will feature in these posts over the coming months.