A Night At The Palms

 - Cocktail Correspondent: Weldon Gardner Hunter

I once took a Greyhound Bus from Kitchener, Ontario to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I was visiting the great US poet Mike Hauser (author of Advanced Baby Syndrome), and I finagled a poetry reading at Woodland Pattern featuring the two of us, which was attended by precisely one person, whom I had convinced to come to the reading because I was going to perform "authentic Canadian poetry."

The important thing is, during the long Greyhound ride, which was mostly at night, passing through the outskirts of Kalamazoo, with many spectral signs for "The Indiana Dunes" (what an image for a Prairie Canuck!), the movie they were showing on the tiny TVs was Taras Bulba, starring Tony Curtis.

I didn't buy headphones for the movie, but I was spellbound watching the very physical, very expressionist (hammy) performance of Tony Curtis. I didn't need to hear the dialogue to know what was happening when he was on the screen. That man can play "drunk" better than any other actor, at least for a captive Greyhound audience. It may be the best movie I have ever seen, who cares if I never heard a word ...

Anyways, that's the kind of story I tell when I'm bellying up to a bar. I'm ruminating on the stories we tell and the people we meet at cocktail lounges - a big part of the experience you'll have at any gin joint worth its salt rim. Locals, tourists, bartenders who hip you to the underground scene ... you have to be open to whatever conversational vectors are created in your spell at the saloon.

When I was in Victoria in April (see "Wayward Krupnik"), I popped into The Palms, the cocktail/drinks room attached to The Rialto Hotel (1450 Douglas Street, Victoria). Back when I lived in Victoria, as a starving MA English student in the early 2000s, The Rialto was the Douglas Hotel, possibly the most notorious beer parlour in the city, full of lost souls finding friendship and fistfights at one of the last down-and-out boozers in Teatime Toytown. I remember walking down Pandora and peering in to see the "Merry Drinkers" who dotted the cheap barstools. 

(Frans Hals, De vrolijke drinker, 1628-1630, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)

Now, the space is elegant, the bar is stocked with liqueurs, and the vibe is upscale but casual. The Victoria cocktail world does not stand on ceremony. While I was at The Palms, on a quiet Wednesday evening in late April, there was just myself at the bar, and the two very new, and very happy-to-be-there bartenders who were glad to sling me a drink, and to get to know each other on their first shift together. If you own the bar, they also were cleaning while conversing. Model employees.

At some point, another solitary middle-aged man appeared at the end of the bar. He appeared to be a Rialto guest. He spoke with the servers, then significantly asked them what I was drinking, which happened to be a "Tofitian Slingshot*":  Gin, Shelter Point Sunshine Liqueur, Benedictine, Lime & Pineapple Juice, Heering Cherry. Fruity and notes of maple, after I had one sip, I knew I was having a second. Luckily, the second came from my soon to be friend at the other end of the bar ...

I suspect he engineered the encounter. He wanted to talk to someone, and he smartly sussed another bearded bloke at the bar would be grateful for a gratis guzzle. He was a tradesman in town for a tradeshow. He'd had a rough day at the gravel convention. We chatted and he mentioned he'd recently lost his Dad. I picked up that I should let him unload some of his burden on me, and the drink was the price of admission. I was happy to help. Even if I didn't know exactly what to say, I tried to channel Tony Curtis in Taras Bulba - the convivial companion. 

We meet all kinds at bars. We should be kind to those at bars. We go to bars for cups of kindness. Be generous, whatever side of the bar you're on.

*I'm guessing, a play on "Tahiti" and "Tofino," both exotic island destinations.