She Adds a Little Cinnamon
Park Lane Tavern, Short Pump, Virginia. Visited on May 7, 2022
It has been threatening to rain all day. I write threatening, as if the sky is a big man with puffed-up chest and wild eyes staring down and shouting, “I’ll fucking do it. I’ll fucking rain on you.” The occasional drizzle is spit flying from Big-Man-Sky’s mouth.
But that’s not what’s happening. So I reject the word threatening. Yes, the clouds have been hanging ominously low all day, as if they’re pregnant (nope, wrong word), as if they’re depressed with rain (maybe, but is it too abstract?), and it takes existential effort to drag their heavy selves across the sky.
Days like this, I ask myself, what is the good news?
The good news is that I’m close to the car. If it’s raining when T ifinishes her appointment, I can sprint across the street and not get too wet. I can meet her in a jiffy.
Until then, I must do something by myself, and the Park Lane Tavern in Short Pump, Virginia, is the most convenient way to lose an hour. And all I need to lose an hour is a seat at the bar and my phone.
I order a Fullers London Pride. I scroll through bad news:
POTENTIALLY HISTORIC WILDFIRE EVENT THREATENS NEW MEXICO, SOUTHWEST
I scroll some more:
INDOOR MASKING RECOMMENDED AGAIN IN NORTHEAST COUNTIES
I continue to scroll:
HOW TO SURVIVE AN ALLIGATOR ATTACK – OR BETTER YET, AVOID ONE
The tavern isn’t crowded, but enough people show up on this dismal day to keep the bartenders busy in short bursts. In between rounds of activity, there exist pockets of latency, during which they stand with hands in pockets or arms folded across chests.
One bartender, she dances. She swings her arms and hips and shakes her head to the beat of “Billie Jean.” When a colleague asks how to make a drink, she shares the recipe. She says, “And I always add a little cinnamon.” She’s lovely, this bartender. She’s the reason I’m not in a bad mood.
It’s warm and cozy in here. I can’t deny that. The atmosphere is quietude. The décor is dark wood. If I were hungry, I could order Shepherd’s Pie or a Monte Cristo. I could fill my belly and be full and sleepy. The word for how I’d feel is satiated.
For some reason, that irritates me. The warmth, the coziness – it’s too familiar. The familiar aspect is how it feels not organic but foisted. What if I don’t want to feel this way? What choice do I have?
It’s not the feeling I hate, but the way in which every aspect of this experience seems controlled and sanitized.
The liquor bottles are a giveaway. The ones turned upside down and racked in a wall-mounted dispenser, designed to deliver the perfect measured pour, signify what really matters here – efficiency, consistency, uniformity.
The theme irritates me.
Park Lane Tavern is to English pubs what mannequins are to human beings. It does not even rise to the level of staged authenticity. It is a simulacrum of an English pub, an implied authenticity based on an authenticity that no longer exists, if it ever did. It’s less an experience than a question that begs another question – what is authentic about any experience?
I ask for another round.
It is easy to fall into despair, but the answer to most of these questions is right there, on the other side of the bar. She smiles. She claps. She dances during a lull. She takes a pick-up order over the phone and scoops ice into a shaker at the same time. She makes the drink according to a corporate-tested recipe, but she adds a little cinnamon.