Whether you believe it or not, not too long ago people were perpetually under the influence of alcohol. Booze, that permutable antiseptic, was added to all drinks to prevent bacterial infection. Luckily, we as a species enjoy the stuff very much—some of us, a little too much.
If alcohol consumption were a religion, bars would be the shrines where pilgrims consult the oracles on the future, the past and everything in between. There is wisdom to be found at bars.
Wisdom, and often a lot of fun. This city needs a resource that can explain the joys and pitfalls of local bars—an investigative team of experts, a “special forces” unit that specializes in bar culture.
Mr. Harada and I are up for the challenge. He’ll be illustrating this effort, and I’ll be taking notes, asking meaningful questions, forgetting the answers and reporting back to you as soon as I find my notes.
We’ll share stories from the lowliest dives to high-roller havens tucked in the creases of Silicon Valley’s tech office sprawl from the perspective of two painfully awkward barfles. Cheers!
A Night at Patty’s Inn
Mr. Harada and I rode past the two-headed tiger that shone its laser eyes across the light-rail station playground. We headed to a local spot that claims the “oldest bar in town” title.
Some will suggest that the Cinebar is actually older, but in a town that places little value on maintaining historical records of bars, it’s hard to tell. I always thought the old Faber’s bike shop that just burned down was the oldest drinking establishment in San Jose, but since it hasn’t held a liquor license since it was Ben’s Corner in 1913, and is now a pile of ashes and charred lumber, I suppose the point is moot.
Patty’s Inn is a simple building, framed with ancient redwood and probably sided with the same stuff. It’s made out of the kind of wood that even termites won’t mess with, out of respect.
Above the door, there’s a large fan, housed in a cast-iron frame that reads “Ventilation Company, Chicago, Ill.” Its blades are caked with a mix of tar, grease, dust and whatever else floats in the air at a place like this.
Inside, Patty’s is pretty comfy. Interior decorators have never been invited to update the space. This bar has aged like the people who frequent it: naturally and with character.
An alligator-skin steamer trunk hangs above the bar; the flavored vodkas hide underneath a thick layer of dust; the urinal is a trough; and the walls carry the patina of decades of cigarette smoke. A large black and gold clock looks like it was lifted from a Robert Palmer video. In general, the place is era-ambiguous.
A man name Larry Limo danced and pantomimed the music playing on the juke. It’s the only type of interpretive dance that I can stomach. Larry Limo was pretty good, and he even caught the attention of two women. His Jheri curl bounced to a James Brown track, and his fingers sparkled from various oversized gold rings as we took our place at the bar.
.Bars & Clubs: Barfly and Mr. Harada Visit Patty's Inn
