Dive Bars

In praise of an endangered species

PHOTOGRAPHY BY LIZ BIRNBAUM/THE CURATED FEAST

The first bar I remember going to was the Red Sails in Alameda, Calif., located next to a marine repair shop on the shore of the Oakland Estuary overlooking the Park Street Bridge.

It’s where I have the most vivid memory of my birth father and where we would always end up the few times he took me out, before my parents divorced. Looking back, it was a dive bar.

I loved the Red Sails! It had a nautical theme and even though I was six the staff treated me like a grown-up. The bartender knew my name and my drink—a Roy Rogers with extra cherries. I had a designated seat at the bar especially tailored for me, with a phone book and Playboy magazines piled on its cracked vinyl cushion, and a view of the bridge. Once balanced on my throne of phone numbers and bunnies, I was given quarters for the jukebox and then he would vanish.

Pleased with all the attention and my Roy Rogers, and excited for a boat to sail by, I didn’t notice he was gone. The bridge was a drawbridge, and when a boat needed to pass, the bridge would split open in its middle, each half rising up to the sky. On cue, the bartender would say to me, “Look, it opens just like London Bridge.”

After a couple of boats had passed under the bridge and I had two or three Roy Rogers under my belt, I became the life of the party, taking requests for the jukebox, rolling dice and feasting on cherries from the garnish tray. Eventually, I got cut off and was sent to a booth to sleep it off. The next day, I woke up not knowing how I got home, with my mouth and tongue stained red from the cherries.

Later, I discovered that the red sails in the bar’s name signify a vessel that “dares to be different and embraces the thrill of the journey.”

The first reference to the term “dive bar” was in an 1871 issue of the New York Herald, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, which defines dive bars as “illegal drinking dens in the lower levels of a building, like a cellar or a basement,” where you would “’dive” into the bar.

Webster’s later redefined dive bars as “a disreputable resort for drinking or entertainment.” Today, the Urban Dictionary defines a dive bar as “a well-worn, unglamorous bar, often serving a cheap, simple selection of drinks to a regular clientele.”

Finding dive bar definitions is easy, but defining distinct elements common to all dive bars is not.

Instead, imagine you’re visiting your in-laws for the holidays and finally get a break from the “festivities.” Even though you’re unfamiliar with the area, you take a drive. Tooling around town, you notice the streets are empty and everything is closed. So you decide to turn back, but nothing is reconizable and you suspect you’ve taken a wrong turn. Then, you see people smoking outside a door, leaking colored light and muffled sound.

At that moment, you know you’ve stumbled upon that hardest-to-define establishment whose best descriptor is simply “you’ll know it when you see it.” It’s a dive bar; you go in.

The place is loud and crowded. The jukebox blasts “Weird Al” Yankovic’s “The Night Santa Went Crazy.” You make your way to the bar, order a drink and, while waiting, scan the room. Every surface, including the ceiling, is soaking in sports memorabilia, troll dolls, trophies, souvenirs, tinsel, postcards and newspaper clippings. Each is like a distinct hieroglyph representing a combination of schmaltz, truth and beliefs amidst the perfume of stale beer, sweat, urine and ammonia.

The dive bar has forever inspired artists and writers, setting the stage for Eugene O’Neill’s play, The Iceman Cometh, and the incubator for Beat Generation artists William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac and Gregory Corso. More recently, it has inspired author Kylie Scott’s series Stage Dive and Leticia Ochoa Adams’ book Our Lady of Hot Messes: Getting Real with God in Dive Bars and Confessionals. Not to mention Taylor Swift’s song “Delicate” and the “Dive Bar Tours” by both Laga Gaga and Garth Brooks.

But have dive bars become too mainstream? Would you still recognize a bar as a dive after seeing it featured on “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives?”

In today’s food and beverage industry, “The Guy Fieri Effect,” also known as “The Modern Dive” and “The Post Dive,” is a popular restaurant theme. Popping up nationwide, these diluted dives have names like ”The Dive Bar Grille” or “Taco Dive Bar.” Owned by corporations, engineered by architectural psychologists and fabricated by investment bankers, they overflow with virtual authenticity and Good Housekeeping tested “dive bar” tropes, nostalgia triggers, select soundtracks, kids menus and changing tables in the bathrooms.

“Once considered a pejorative term, ‘dive bar’ has recently become a badge of distinction for patrons seeking authenticity,” according to Wikipedia. It also notes, “A typical dive bar owner or a family member runs the day-to-day operations and is deeply connected with their neighbors and the local community.”

Dive bars often serve as historical time capsules, preserving the memories, stories and experiences linking past and present generations. The National Trust for Historic Preservation, a 74-year-old organization with a mission to save historic places, has put The Dive Bar on its list of America’s Most Endangered Places. It states, “Dive bars are integral to America’s historic character: These careworn buildings exemplify the love and energy we put into our communities. We want to make sure our local watering holes last forever. But rising rents and the inability to find the right owners can threaten places that have been around for generations.”

Back at the bar, you get your drink and the stranger next to you shouts to you over the noise, “This place hasn’t been this busy in a long time…you here to pay your respects too?”

You look at him with a puzzled smile. He shouts, “You know this place is shutting for good next week?” Then you remember your talent at dive bars has always been getting strangers to tell you their life stories, and you settle in for a nostalgia-filled evening.