You Know it When You See it

Aside from a Chinese couple sitting at a table in the corner taking photos of each other, I was the only one in the place – surprising, I thought, for a Soho bar, even on a Monday night.

“So let me get this straight, then…” the bartender said. “You came here because of a TV show, but you’ve never actually seen it?”

I smiled, knowing how stupid it sounded. It was No Reservations, or Parts Unknown or something. “Yes,” I said. “He’s got a vibe.”

“A vibe?” the bartender said, drying a glass with a cloth.

The place was small – liquor bottles shoved haphazardly atop a shelf, and a half-opened box with a FRAGILE sticker plastered on the front. It didn’t smell all that great, probably on account of the toilet crammed underneath the stairs, which you could tell serviced way more people than it should when the place got busy. And John, my new bartender friend, did not have much interest in keeping it immaculate.

“Yes, a vibe. Look, I didn’t know the guy, obviously, but I know he wouldn’t have bothered coming here if there weren’t a vibe.”

“Right. And what’s this vibe, then? John asked.

I glanced over at the Asian couple in the corner, who had now busted out a selfie stick.

“Have you ever heard of Potter Stewart?” I asked.

Of course he hadn’t.

“He was a Supreme Court justice.”

“A what?”

“A judge. American. Very important.” I realized I was rambling. John gave me a blank look.

“There was a case before the court where he was trying to define what exactly hardcore pornography was.”

John looked puzzled, but didn’t seem bothered by the questionable direction the conversation was heading.

“He said he couldn’t define what it was, but that you knew it when you saw it.”

“Ah, so this place is like hardcore pornography to you, is it?”

“Exactly,” I said, throwing back a drink of my London Pride.

I’d always liked Anthony Bourdain – his ability to distill things down, both in food and in life. I’ve often pictured myself straight out an episode of one of his shows whether sitting on a plastic stool on a street in Hanoi eating cháo as motor scooters whizzed by, or having a burger at Bud’s Bar in Sedalia, Colorado – just cheese, ketchup, and plenty of grease. And this place seemed to capture it too. No food, just crisps, nuts, and beer, a sign said. And not particularly interesting beer either, if you’re accustomed to the massive wraparound bars of every brewpub in the USA featuring anything from stouts brewed in bull testicles to IPAs infused with the peel of every fruit you could imagine.

Another man came in and sat at the end of the bar. John greeted him, setting an empty Carlsberg glass under the tap.

“Been a while, Seamus.”

One of those Irish names that makes no sense.

“Miss me, feggot?” Seamus said.

As John slid the Carlsberg down the bar, I could smell proof that Seamus had already been here on his breath ,even though I was three spots down.

He and John began talking about something. What, I had no clue. An Irishman talking to a Scotsman – they may as well have been speaking Japanese.

After a few minutes, John introduced me, which I only knew because I caught the word “Yankee” and a sideways glance.

I raised my glass to them and said the wittiest thing I could think of.

“So… a Scot, an Irishman, and an American walk into a bar…” I said awkwardly.

They looked at me with blank stares, expecting a punchline, I suppose. I told myself it must have been lost in translation.

The conversation went on, and after a few London Prides I leaned into the whole would you believe I’m actually of Scottish descent bit – a claim I’m certain was the first time they’d ever heard from an American white guy who stumbled into their joint after watching that episode of No Reservations I still hadn’t seen.

I understood, at best, half of the conversation – smiling and nodding after what I felt were the appropriate cues. No doubt I fancied myself Anthony Bourdain in his element, in for a beer at his local watering hole.

“You know… this was not his spot,” John said.

“Huh?” I said abruptly, awoken from my trance, removing my hand from my hair – the matted curliness no longer there, my New Jersey accent and cool arm tattoos gone in a flash.

I guess he saw the look in my eye, the transfixation of the thousandth tourist looking for that same No Reservations vibe.

“This wasn’t his spot,” John said. “His producer came in on a Friday afternoon. He says, ‘Anthony Bourdain wants to come in here and have a beer tonight, and he wants to film it.’ So I says to him, ‘Who the feck is Anthony Bourdain, and why the feck does he want to film himself having a beer in here?’”

I glanced over at the Asians taking selfies.

“‘Trust me, you want this,’ the guy says.

“So he comes round, has a beer… with a few guys, a camera, a microphone, and a light. He talks to me like he’s my mate for a few minutes, for the cameras, then he leaves. Never seen him before. Never seen him since.”

Like a deflated balloon, my vision of Tony being here began to crumble. Here I was, chumming it up in London on a Monday night with a Scotsman and an Irishman, swapping stories about our grandparents and putting back London Prides as if we were mates from uni – yet it turned out this was just another London pub, special for no other reason than it would fit nicely into your basement. But it had a vibe.

After a few more beers, I decided that given I’d outlasted Bourdain, I’d call it a night. After saying goodbye to John, I pushed back my stool and raised my glass.

“To hardcore pornography,” I said, drinking what was left.

Making my way back up the narrow stairs, I threw open the door and into the drizzly night, pushing past the couple from inside – now taking selfies by the front door with a long stick. Satisfied I’d experienced London just the way Bourdain would have, I made my way to Covent Garden, to the pub Charles Dickens frequented. He, I presume, did not send in his producers first, but I hear it had a cool Dickensian vibe.