My Favorite Bars in the World – a Countdown!

I took these last two weeks pretty easy. The family was in town, and I worked a lot. Made some money. Made some pasta. Stayed in and watched episodes of Southland on my computer. It was delightful, honestly.

Sometimes the best parts of being a travel writer are the days in-between. The ones where you aren’t exhausted from travel, but you also aren’t keyed up about another journey on the horizon. For the foreseeable next month, I’m staying put. Staying in. Taking stock. Enjoying spring in New York City.

If you are Manhattan, let’s grab a drink at Keens. If you are out-and-about doing your own roaming, I have a few  suggestions for you on where to slam one down.

These are my four picks for Favorite Bars Around the World.

No. 4: La Capilla

Location: Tequila, Mexico

I’ve only had drinks at La Capilla once. When I conjure up that long-ago night now, it seems more like a painting I stared at too long. Like something I eventually came to claim as a memory, but that never actually happened. It did happen. Wayne Curtis was there.

He’s a serious rum writer and all around good human. You can visit his work here, and I adamantly suggest that you do. But meanwhile, I’ll fill you in on Wayne. Wayne, like me, is a writer and a drinker. He loves a good bar, a good glass, a good conversation.

For some reason, when Wayne and I drink together, there’s an unspoken game of Double Dare going on. There’s also a chance I’m the only one playing it. Regardless, that night in La Capilla I sent out a challenge.

“I want your worst tequila,” I said to the bartender. Then I turned to Wayne. “We are doing shots of their worst. Not their best. How do I say ‘worst’ in Spanish?”

Seconds later, a dusty, decrepit bottle with half torn label landed on the bar. There was an inch of cloudy liquid at the bottom. I’m fairly certain it was distilled from the saliva of a demon.

The next morning, Wayne all but carried me through security at the airport. I was beaten, but I was smug. I’d won. Sometimes … like that kid in A Christmas Story with his tongue stuck to the flagpole … you have to actually physically lose to win a double dog dare. 

This bar is a must if you are out in Tequila, Mexico. It’s famous for a handful of reasons – great tequila selection; rustic, sun-worn charm; the proprietor Don Javier inventing the Batanga cocktail; so on and so forth. But it’s a favorite of mine because it exudes the thing I love most about bars. That feeling of stepping into a painting. Of losing yourself for a few hours in some dreamy, old-world time warp. Much like Rocky Horror, I long to do the Time Warp again.

No. 3: The Keefer Bar

Location: Vancouver, Canada

Maybe this blog post should be called “Places I’ve gotten Sloshed with Wayne Curtis.” He actually introduced me to Keefer Bar too. While La Capilla is dreamy, Keefer is just straight out strange. It’s dark. The ceiling is low, and it’s kind of like drinking in the galley of a pirate ship.

The bar is crammed end-to-end with vials and jars of murky liquids flickering muted colors in the candlelight, most bearing frayed pieces of masking tape with words written in Sharpie ink. Astragalus root. Yun Zhi. It’s like a voodoo house. With booze. In Canada. I’m pretty sure I saw a baby’s foot in one of the jars.

In reality, the bar is the domain of a lovely girl named Danielle Taratin. She’s got a passion for Chinese herbs and mixology and she probably doesn’t put baby feet in her jars. Entirely self-taught, Taratin has been bartending for more than a decade. She learned about Chinese herbs from the source – old, wise Chinese women in Vancouver’s Chinatown. The outcome is drinks like the Yellow Emperor – a mix of Chinese Happy Wine, mezcal, Ricard, a barspoon of Orgeat Astragalus Syrup and a dash of Seahorse Tincture. Naturally … ’cause that shit would taste totally bunk without Seahorse Tincture.

No. 2: El Floridita

Location: Havana, Cuba

This place is a tourist trap because Hemingway came in here to drink. He came in with friends. Probably discussing how to edit that final piece for Life magazine. He came in alone. Possibly already sliding into the ruined state that would eventually find him in Idaho. In a kitchen. With a shotgun. Who knows? All we know is he drank here. And while I loathe to think what old Ernest would think about millions of people coming in and ordering a Daiquiri solely cause he liked them, I wasn’t going to spend 9 days in Havana and not come in here. Not order a Daiquiri. So I did. That first time was nothing worth remembering. Days later, everyone had called it a night. I wandered back to the front door of El Floridita, alone.

For all purposes, it was closed. The bartender was wiping down the bar. The band was packing up equipment. But the doorman let me in anyway. I found a barstool and spent 20 minutes sitting, silently sipping a Daiquiri and listening to the familiar sounds of a bar being shuttered for the night. I talked to Ernest in my head. I thanked him for being one of my heroes – not for writing, but for living life to the fullest. For fighting and fucking and walking off into jungles alone. For being good at being alone. It’s something he and I share a passion for. I thanked him for his sharp, quick words, which calm me down on sleepless nights and stand as inspiration on the mornings I want to quit writing. I slapped a $10 bill on the bartop and walked out. That remains one of the best nights I’ve ever had in a bar.

No. 1 – Keen’s

Location: New York City, NY

New York is a treasure. I’ve been here for close to four years now (seems hard to believe), and I constantly get introduced to new places all the time. This city has so many famous places, you can’t possibly know about them all at once. You discover famous shit already discovered by millions … all the damn time. Round of applause, NYC … you frequently astounding little vixen of an island.

The other night, I discovered Keens Steakhouse. “How the Hell can you not know about Keens? I’m from San Francisco, and I know about Keens!” That from my best buddy Jackie Patterson, as we marched towards the front door in our high heels. When I first moved here, that admonishment would have made me blush. Might have even lied and said, “Oh, yeah, I totally have heard of this place. I just forgot.” Now, wizened and a bit jaded in my four-year status, I simply laughed. “’Cause this damn town is overrun with famous, Jax. Sometimes you just quit listening.”

And with that, we went through the front door with our dinner companions. We relaxed in old oak chairs with steaks and Martinis in front of us. Chatted with our vested waiter, enjoyed the old art, white tablecloth, smoke-and-a-Scotch, political vibe of a true New York steakhouse. And then … well … Jackie and I did what we do best. “Excuse me, but we’d like to climb up on your bar for a photo shoot. Can you move all the garnish trays, drinks and patrons out of the way please? Thank you.” We took off our heels, adjusted our dresses and then stretched out on top of the bar.

Photos resulted. Keen’s is now a favorite bar for obvious reasons, and somewhere, Ernest Hemingway is laughing. I think we are all famous in our own heads. And, sometimes … you just have to let the famous out.