While I’ve never actually sat in a bar ALONE, all by myself, one of OUR (me and Brian) favorite things to do is to go to bars “alone,” just the two of us. It’s a fascinating experience.
We are whoever we want to be in the moment.
We relish in the people, the conversations, and the experience.

There’s a 99 percent chance I’ll leave feeling better than when I walked in.

Even better when I get to sit with my thoughts and feel the pressure of time release, and to remind myself as I sip a cocktail, read a book, or chat with R—that even when we’re feeling the most alone in the world, we’re never really alone.

We have our bartenders. We have our escape. We have our entertainment. And, we have each other. It’s rather magical.

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Going to a Bar Alone Guide
(try it at least once in your life)

I once walked into a bar during happy hour, headed straight to the lone empty seat and was about to sit—when the guy to my right grabbed the stool and pulled it closer into himself.

“This is taken.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, leaning against the bar next to the empty seat, grazing it with my thigh just to spite him, sipping a Vesper with my pinky pointed out toward him.

He hogged that seat for a solid hour waiting on his date, leg shaking, unlocking his phone to zero messages and locking it again, and twisting a full 90 degrees every five minutes to check the door.

“She’s never coming,” I wanted to whisper.

It made me nauseous just standing next to the guy. So much movement. I thought he was going to have a heart attack, like being alone at that bar was the worst thing in the world.

I get it. I’m often a little more self-aware, self-conscious even, whenever I go to bars alone. Which is why I try to keep my phone in my pocket so I don’t look like Mr. Fidgety.

Instead, I like to be present, to enjoy the solo time I’ve crafted for myself by choosing to sit at that bar without anyone else. Maybe I’ll have a book with me to read while I drink a glass of wine; chardonnay in the summer, cabernet in the fall.

Or if I have work to do (though I’m not proud to admit this), I’ll be on my laptop typing away in between sips of something stronger, like a smoky Scotch, neat with a splash of water. I always keep a notebook and pen on me in case the bar is crowded. No one wants to be that guy on his laptop in a crowded bar.

The anonymity is nice. When you go to a bar alone, no one there knows anything about you; you’re just a person in a bar. You can be whomever you want to be for the night.

Far from the quiet safety of my routine at home, I can pause and take in my new environment. My brain fires in different ways and the writing comes out fresher, less inhibited. I’m more open.

This openness has never failed me.

I like to be present, to enjoy the solo time I’ve crafted for myself by choosing to sit at that bar without anyone else.

There is, of course, the subject of the drink itself. I take great pleasure in drinking alone. There’s no better way for an introvert to unwind after work than a good honsul (a portmanteau of the Korean words for “alone,” honja, and “alcoholic beverage,” sul), just one of many loner trends taking over Korea right now.

I’ve learned so much about beer, wine, spirits, and cocktails because I go to bars alone and talk to the bartenders. I love tasting something new and adding it to my mental repertoire of future drink orders.

I have one bar that I love the most. It’s “my bar,” and the bar manager there is “my guy.”

Pushing his hair back even though it always falls back into his face, R is easygoing and gives off major cool-dad vibes, probably because he is a cool dad and has the cutest daughter in the world. He talks about her all the time, in that quiet way that dads talk about daughters they’re immeasurably proud of.

Most importantly, he happens to be an incredible mixologist and has taught me a great deal about the world of drink.

The very first time I walked into my bar, I ordered the “Dirty Martini” off the menu because the “Dirty” here was sherry, not olive brine. How creative, I thought. It tasted wonderful and made me realize that not enough people drink sherry anymore, though more and more are certainly starting to cook with it again. It’s time for a comeback, I think.

Earlier this summer, I was reading The Sun Also Rises at my bar. In the first few pages, Jake orders a Pernod and in that moment I realized, “I’ve read this stupid book a thousand times but have never had a Pernod.” So I told R and he poured me my first Pernod. I watched as the ice cube melted and turned the absinthe a cloudy neon-green. He called it a pastis, a category of aniseed-flavored aperitifs, and let me taste a couple others. Now I keep a bottle of the stuff on my shelf at home because I love the way it tastes like a cocktail but feels like a bullet (40 percent, 80 proof). Two of those and I’m good for the night.

Before my solo trip to Northern Italy a few weeks ago, R introduced me to the world of amaros. Now when I go to a bar alone, a whole new wall is opened up to me: Averna, Montenegro, Fernet, Braulio. Less strong than Pernod, but equally delicious and easy on the stomach. Good for digestion, bitter.

I love going to my bar after work and, when it’s R behind the counter, asking him to make me anything [insert a mood, any mood]. One time I was writing about peachesand was living and breathing and eating peaches all week. So I told him that and he made me a lovely sidecar with a splash of peach liqueur. It was floral and aromatic and eased me into my evening after a stressful day at work.

Another time I was hungover, but had promised one of my writers that I’d meet them for a drink and didn’t want to cancel. So I told R my sitch and he made me a bitter, nonalcoholic spritz—herbal, almost medicinal, and life-givingly hydrating. It got me through the meeting and I went home feeling better that night.

Then there was that time my aunt died. That same week, one of my best friends died. A month later, my uncle died. I went to my bar each time not to talk about these losses, but to be out in the world so I didn’t have to be home alone crashing into myself.

Whenever my life feels so bleak and my heart seems about to break, R makes me a drink. I ask what’s in it, write it down later, and recreate it for myself when I feel well enough to be on my own again.

On a night like this, R made me a cosmopolitan because it was, in his words, “an underrated drink.”

He was right.

I held that cloudy pink cocktail in my hand, took a sip, and said, “Oh, okay.”

It was less sweet than I had always imagined “that drink from Sex and the City” to be. Apparently people put too much cranberry juice in their cosmos, so it has a bad rap.

I love things that have a bad rap. Because the reason behind their demise is usually not a very good one. This one in particular was spicy (R had infused the vodka with rose hips and serrano chiles) and it felt good as it went down. It made me forget about my family for a couple hours before I had to head home to my dog and call my parents to deal with funeral arrangements.

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Going to a bar alone is like cooking for yourself—you’re carving out time and space for self-nourishment. You’re taking care of you.

How could that be a bad thing?

The main reason I love going to a bar alone is that I know exactly what I’m in for. It’s a constant, one of the few things in my life over which I have some semblance of control. There’s a 99 percent chance I’ll leave feeling better than when I walked in.

Even better when I get to sit with my thoughts and feel the pressure of time release, and to remind myself as I sip a cocktail, read a book, or chat with R—that even when we’re feeling the most alone in the world, we’re never really alone.