A Question for Dangerous Times: Is it a Dive or a Dump?

by Jim Nelson

It's a bit of a pastime here in the Tenderloin to swap off-the-cuff reviews of neighborhood bars. More than a pastime, actually. It's pretty much the only topic of civilized conversation in the TL. That's what we do in the Tenderloin: We go to bars and talk about other bars. It's the goddamn American Dream, baby.

Although I value-nay, cherish-these dialogues and discussions, I'm alarmed at the debate's subjectivity. Now, really: Is Jonell's really such a shithole, as one drunken arguer impressed on me last Monday night? I say "Nay." And is The Geary Club really the epicenter of San Francisco refinement and sophistication? I say "Yea." And is getting viciously kicked out of The Ha-Ra by Carl a necessary ritual of passage before one can call one's self a regular? I say "Fuck yeah it is."

But I call on Tenderloin residents to take to heart one vital distinction when evaluating our many and variegated watering holes: there is the dive, and there is the dump. Let us agree to disagree on all other subjects but this. The vitality of Tenderloin culture rests on this distinction. It must be explored, reasoned out, dissected, and taken to heart.

The problem distinguishing the dive from the dump is that they appear similar to the eye. Imagine a bar with beer cases stacked along one wall, ashtrays made of folded beer coasters, the bartender missing two front teeth, and the whole place reeking of kim-chee: Dive or dump? Not an easy call. The beer's got to go somewhere (and you'd not be happy if they ran out of it, even if it's warm and a year old). Ashtrays mean you can smoke inside, and after your fourth shot of Jameson, that's pretty much numero uno on the list of things to do. The bartender's teeth-what do you care? They're not in your head. And the kim-chee? That's grandma's recipe, white boy, not some organic pesticide-free hippie delight they sell for eight bucks a pound at Whole Foods.

This imaginary bar-I won't give it a name because they'd never serve me again-could be a dive, or it could be a dump. These surface details do not tip either tray on the scale. The distinction between dive and dump lies in a full and wellrounded understanding of one word: Dignity. Call it the metaphysics of the dive and the realities of the dump.

A dive is a place to imbibe and meet like-minded imbibers. Conversation flows like the whiskey at a dive, and the patrons have well-considered opinions on all manner of topics. The TV might have a baseball game on, but the volume's off, and the picture might be off just the same, and there might not be a set at all. At a dive you can order a martini and you'll be served one with a cocktail napkin as pristine as a plate of foie gras. There might be too much vermouth in it, but at least they have the glassware, and it's a point of pride that the bartender knows the recipe. But this same dive might have exactly two beer choices: Bud and his lower-calorie stepbrother. The carpet's not been vacuumed in weeks, and the paint's due for a touch-up. These things do get done, but irregularly. A dive is a low-rent public living room run by people who enjoy drinking and company and frequented by people who enjoy the same. It's a rare and cherished place in American society where all sit as equals and without dispute. When I drink at a dive, I'm drinking to the dive.

A dump exists to lighten your wallet and nothing more. Its joyless service fosters the same demeanor in its clientele. You know you've reached a dump when no one is talking-instead they're merely sad sacks sitting a chair apart from each other staring into their drinks. It's possible to be refused a fancy drink at a dive, but the refusal has its charm. In a dump, you are told "I don't fucking make that" the way a puppy is taught not to make its mess on a rug. There's nothing hardboiled or tough-guy about dumps. The dump sees itself as under constant onslaught from the outside world, and you are an intruder. It's weak-kneed, bitter, and spineless. There is no center to a dump-no soul. It's the husk of a dead cockroach with a liquor license and a neon OPEN sign.

With this essential understanding in mind, let's re-engage our dialogues on bars and their merits. Let's separate the window dressing from the window itself. Atmosphere is more than the jukebox's offerings and that funny picture of Sophia Loren over the cash register. Discern the soul of the bar; put your finger on its dignifying factors. Does one go there to drink or merely because it serves alcohol? If this question seems tautological to you, refrain from pressing your opinion of Tenderloin bars on me. I've got drinking to do, precious little time to do it, and I'll be damned if I do it in any but the best of places.

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