I’m in love with every aspect of cocktails’ visual semiotics, but one.
Who could not be seduced by the elegant glassware, the theatre of the bar, the drama of the lighting, the timeless design of the bottles on the shelf, the measured, ritual movements of the barkeep - infinitely more resonant than any boring old sadō. I love that there are themes there of Edwardian luxury, of ocean liner Deco, of Hollywood, of the 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, Yea! Even unto the 70s and 80s. I can think of no other medium, that can induce almost unbearable, precise nostalgia, for every decade of its existence.
And because the signifiers are so effective and plentiful, designers have an easy palette when creating the newest iteration of Oblivion’s Waiting Room.
So why TF do they always specify horrible chairs?
The tiny Deco ‘barrel’ chair which infests pretty much every decent cocktail bar ever.
You know the type. Cylindrical. Too low. Of insufficient diameter.
There’s also the height. The chair will be next to an over-soft sofa that’s even lower, introducing massive social imbalance and an unpleasant ‘job interview’ dynamic. It will be of precisely the wrong height for any adjacent table. You might balance your drink on it, but you’ll knock it over with your knee before your arm can reach it.
A while ago, I took myself in hand and lost a few kilos. I always tell people this was to do with my health but the truth is more horrible. It was the night, in a Soho private members’ club, when I sat in one of the ridiculous little pixie chairs and consumed several martinis. At some point, the fantastically amusing tale I was delivering to a rapt audience required, for dramatic emphasis, that I stand and make an expansive gesture. Which I did... with the chair-ette firmly jammed to my arse. Like a fez on a Zeppelin.
Why? I don’t own pants that tight.
In some ‘high-volume’ operations, I can see how discomfort suits the operator. There are some places where you don’t want the punter to get too comfortable. But this is a cocktail bar, for chrissake. If you can’t make profits without faster turnover, put your bloody prices up.
I once had a Martini in the Athenæum. The chair was superb. The bloke serving me had to come around to the front of it to take my order; so deeply was I installed. I could have dropped my arse in there just after Suez and I’d still be there now - even with barely drinkable, tepid martinis.
As I’ve recorded elsewhere, in my own home, I favour The Lounge Chair & Ottoman by Charles and Ray Eames, which since the 1950s has provided the perfect support, in both ergonomic and aesthetic senses, for a man and three cocktails. I say this with some authority because I’ve discovered that, after a fourth, they have to lift me out with a crane.
Thing is, I’d happily sit on a low plastic stool, a deckchair, a herring barrel or an upturned ammo crate. I just need a place to set my bottom, forming a solid triangle with my feet. Three points of contact support the spine, enabling the arm to pivot off the shoulders and raise the glass to my mouth. This is not NASA stuff.
Why, in God’s name, if I’m to order a grown-ass, Man’s Drink, do I have to sit in doll’s-house furniture?