Duluth, Georgia has never really offered much in the way of nightspots, neither sixteen years ago when I was growing up nor today, with its great influx of Hispanic and Asian culture into this once-sleepy pre-Civil-War town. I mean: I’m sure the karaoke bars are fun, and the Latin salsa nights likely rival any around Atlanta, but when you’re looking for a pub with a little character in which to have a conversation and a dram of scotch, Duluth is not the first place one would consider.
Siri was no help, either, directing with her mechanical lilt from the iPhone 4s’ speaker: “I have found fif-teen bars near your location” – all of which were closed, obsolete, ethnic, or dingy hick-type pool halls surrounding Gwinnett Place Mall, the now-low-end area where only America’s corporate chain restaurants and scores of ethnic stores claim presence.
Strange that they should intermingle, the low-quality, high-volume places of America, Asia and Mexico, all within a few square miles, now the sickening sign of someone’s lack of care for anything but the pennies and dollars they can stuff into their pockets at the expense of producing anything of quality. Yes, there is a market for the stuff….
But we drove past, my nose wrinkled slightly as if at an unpleasant scent.
“Keep going straight,” I overrode Siri’s mechanical expertise with my natural instinct and sense of direction, not really knowing to where the vehicle was headed but feeling that this was right. My companion, no more familiar with the area than I, continued, trusting my instinct and content to simply keep my company on our drive down the lonely road on this chilly night.
Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in downtown Lawrenceville, its tall, grey brick buildings and small, curving streets more quaintly maintained than in my hometown. And drove – the wrong way – up a one-way street to park near the tavern I’d spotted on the corner.
The sign, the lights above, the big glass window in front all told of a wealth of wood within, of a traditional British-American pub where two friends might sit and enjoy each other’s company over scotch or beer or – maybe, if the bartender was skilled – a classic cocktail.
My companion was impressed as we walked up, found half-a-dozen leather chairs circling a small oval table beyond the large square of glass; I worried that the deserted half of the pub we saw was closed.
We pulled the door to McCray’s Tavern On the Square and entered the large wooden space lined with long booths and tables, the expansive bar tucked directly ahead and crammed, in that narrow quarter of the room, with twenty-somethings boisterously drinking. I almost reeled in more than just my mind, struck by the great noise of pop music and loud university students obviously reuniting with hometown friends on this day-after-Christmas. And scanned the room for a place to tuck ourselves away from this crowd.
Invited in by a girl in a red T-shirt, we were escorted to one of the long, wooden booths near the empty room we’d seen behind the glass, a table large enough to fit eight or ten on its double benches. I was struck by the complete lack of awareness of this girl but was willing to let the evening play out; as I tossed my purse in the one side, my companion graced me with his common sense and suggested that it was far too large. I took over and, retrieving my purse, asked if we might sit on the leather chairs I’d seen before entering.
So we were guided up three steps into this long room, full of empty tables and chairs that were gratefully distant enough from the bustling youths, asked about drinks. I opted against a cocktail, guessing that the bartender in this establishment probably knew vodka-cranberries better than gin gimlets or Tom Collins’; Lauren, our waitress, knowing nothing of scotch, offered a menu containing a fairly-broad selection including The Macallan 12, 15 and 24.
We chose the 12, mine neat with a side of water (poor Lauren betrayed her absolute inexperience by bringing me first a tall classic Coke glass filled generously with ice water and garnished with lemon and a paper-capped straw), his on the rocks. We upgraded to the 15 when informed they were out of the 12 and I politely redirected my request for a sidecar of water, instead of the glass of water-and-ice.
And, over sips of strong liquor, we took in the room, at last.
Our respective views were something of mirrors to the scotch. It was pitch-black outside, a tall, old pine thoroughly-laden with candy-colored lights played tug-of-war with the wind, its frenzied game framed perfectly in the center of this great pane of glass gave evidence of the strong gusts held just outside; the twinkling scotch-on-the-rocks held just as safely beyond the walls of my companion’s glass was equally strong and sweet and smooth, candied in its own right with caramel and honey notes that burned cheeks and lips in cool feverishness as surely as the wind outside might had he stood beyond that pane.
My own partially-obstructed view was luxurious: I basked in the richness of black leather chairs with sturdy, wooden block feet, long planks of golden wood that lined the floors of this room, the quiet knowledge that no one but ourselves bothered with this room to the right. And I sipped clean scotch improved with only a splash of water, its caramel-and-honey flavors and colors like luscious reflections of varnished wood purified into essential liquid and poured into this glass; the smooth, rich texture of scotch was an exact replica of the smooth, rich leather on which I relaxed.
For myself, this luxury in the simplest form was incredibly sweet: an empty room devoid of distraction where I sat comfortably, to sip and scent a challenging beverage in the midst of a challenging interlocutor; I am yet enchanted by such things classical and timelessly charming.
Being what it likely usually is – a bar to draw those looking for interesting beers-on-tap and cheap-but-tasty pub fare to soak up copious draughts of alcohol while tossing tales with the boys and girls of town – the girl who served us was quite right with the place, and we had lucked into something special.
On any other night, I question whether McCray’s of Lawrenceville would have such draw… But for one night only, it was the perfect choice.
We’d stepped through the glass; I’d found Wonderland.
Oceans of Mine 
Reblogged this on Nient'Affatto.
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