I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I like saloons. But let’s be crystal clear. You don’t have to be a sot to appreciate saloons. The American republic was born and nurtured in frontier saloons from Albany, New York to Carter’s Valley, Tennessee. Let’s use the comprehensive definition of saloon, i.e., a bar, inn and/or tavern, in this reverential dissertation.   

Some Adirondack saloons not only serve a dizzying array of adult beverages, they dish up appetizing grub and rent bedrooms. In other words, they’re public houses. The history of “pubs” begins in really great Britain during the Bronze Age. Anglo-Saxon alewives brewed fermented malt and then ran a green bush up the flagpole to notify the hoi polloi that the potion was ripe for swilling. It was hard on the shrubbery, but no one missed the malodorous boxwoods in the village square after several flagons of mash. Britain’s GNP was declining exponentially with each additional alehouse, so in 965 good King Edgar decreed that there could be no more than one alehouse per village. Edgar, “The Peaceable,” knew how to keep a cork on British hooliganism.    

Having fun in the Middle Ages included pub crawling pilgrimages. Pilgrims not only demanded the hair of the dog, but also chow and a flea bag. Blimey, says the entrepreneurial alewife, “I’ll sell some of those Earl of Sandwich thingies and rent out surplus Roman army cots. And, we’ll add a bit of barely and hops to the mash.” The rest is history.  

The grand idea of saloons spread across the globe like the plague. Saloons became places for people to gather, sip grog and plot insurrections. It wasn’t appropriate to carry on these activities in the library, the market or in church. Heaven forbid.  

A prime example of saloon heritage is the Tap Room and Hotel in Raquette Lake. Folks journey for tens of miles to co-mingle in the informal saloon. The proprietors, Don and Sandy, have kept their doors open for business every day, year round for two decades. We’re talking quintessential saloon my friends. It’s the social hub of Raquette Lake.  The bar is well stocked and the menu is daily homemade specials. During hunting season, Friday’s leftovers head to deer camp for Saturday supper. Although I’ve never visited the hotel rooms, I’m told they’re enchanting, if you aren’t too bashful to share a bathroom. The price is right for an authentic Adirondack sleepover.

Like all saloons, Tap Room patrons are an eclectic bunch. Locals, seasonals, vacationers, blue and white collar workers and an increasing number of retirees, who like me, shun the work-a-day world. We gravitate toward the geniality and kinship of the saloon after an otherwise non-socially redeeming day. The thing about a saloon like the Tap Room is that the food is so good that patrons can have an enjoyable interlude even if they’re not professional imbibers. There were several convivial regulars in for lunch recently who had cast off demon alcohol and they still appeared to be creditable folks. Hey cowboy, there’s nothing inappropriate with ordering a tall mug of sarsaparilla.

I also met a guy on his lunch break who has an affliction similar to mine. He commits notable movie lines to memory. An adjacent table had ordered Tap Room French fries, which are world class by the way, so I broke into my best Karl Childers (Billy Bob Thornton) from “Sling Blade.”  In the movie, Karl’s a mentally disturbed Arkansas man recently released from the state mental hospital for decapitating his mother and her lover with a grass scythe. Karl’s diet consists of French fried potaters and biscuits.  So I politely mumbled to revered saloon boss, Andrea, “I like them French fried potaters, un huh.”  And this guy at the bar turns around and asks me what other food Karl preferred.  He took me by surprise, so I choked on the answer. The guy says, potted meat.  “I reckon it tastes alright. Un huh, Mmm.”  Who says saloon people ain’t cultured.

Good things come to those who appreciate saloons. Deb and I took a day trip to North Creek to explore the back roads and check out their first-rate grocery store. They even stock Thai fish sauce. Hey, North Creek’s an emerging social center my friends. We stopped in the newly reopened Basil & Wicks restaurant and bar for an early dinner and walked right into the wedding reception of the decade. One of the Barton (Mines) progeny had just wed his betrothed. You guessed it, her ring was garnets and emeralds. The joint was jump’n, so we jumped in. We sat at the bar, made friends with Peter the bartender and chatted up the locals. I placed a Jackson on the bar when we sat down and when we departed three rounds later, there was still $12 in front of me.  I had no idea Shirley Temple’s were so inexpensive. Peter’s the main man in that saloon.              

Most Adirondack saloons are welcoming places. Folks wander in to unwind and catch up on local tittle-tattle. If you attend saloons with any regularity, you probably adhere to universal saloon guidelines. Avoid discussing hot button issues like politics, religion and the intrinsic worth of light beers and diet sodas. Like any other public gathering place, strongly held beliefs are usually best left outside. You never know who’s sitting on the next bar stool. During my saloon career, I’ve swapped yarns with Congressmen, judges, school board presidents, artists, and I’m pretty certain, a Russian spy in Naples, Italy.  With each sip, the dude kept repeating, “Za vashe zdorovye, Komerad.” When salooning, loose lips sink ships. Most important saloon rule, make nice with the bartender. Bartenders are like air traffic controllers. The good ones have highly specialized skills which allow them to expedite and maintain the orderly flow of patrons, beverages and food. Bartenders control chaos.  

Remember what the Irish say about saloons, “There’s no beer in heaven, that’s why we drink ours here.”  

Gee, I hope they’re wrong about that first part.