Where everybody knows your name

Singapore Diary # 2

The Lot, Stock and Barrel has quickly become a home-away-from-home of sorts. See, I grew up on 90s television. Which means I believe in having a 'local'. Central Perk for Friends, Monk's Cafe for Seinfeld, the pizza place for the folk from Two Guys, A Girl and a Pizza Place. I've always wanted a regular joint where everybody knows your name, where the bartender slips you your drink before you order it.

This I suspect is a generational malady. I dare say I'm not alone in this particular craving for some sort of recognition, of gratitude and respect for your loyalty. In a way, it's a personal attempt at celebrity, no matter how small the scale. For those few minutes -while you wait for your beer while the newbies, the passers-by all queue up and enunciate the names of their fancy little cocktails hoping the bartender will get it right- for those few minutes, you are king. You can see it in their faces, the pangs of jealousy at the easy familiarity between you and the person behind the counter.

Of course, being a 90s child, and being very much of the grunge-and-flannel persuasion, it just wouldn't be right if things didn't go horribly wrong. I was conditioned -by years of TV and absentee parents- to believe that everything will go wrong, that life is basically shit. So even the seemingly harmless little pleasure of barface celebrity would not be as pleasing as it is if it was entirely welcoming. So while, I'm very much a regular (it's just across the road from work), I'm something of an unwanted regular, like that chronic-bachelor uncle who shows up at all the family weddings and funerals and baptisms, the one nobody likes.

And this is why I love Lot, Stock and Barrel. Pauline, the owner, told me that she used to be a hotshot lawyer before she bought the place. She didn't choose the name. I told her I thought the name was too obvious, too posturing-ish. She didn't take that very well. The usual bartenders -this nerdy/indie Malay girl with glasses, a Sri Lankan engineering student who wears teeshirts with fire and cheesy heavy metal insignia on them  and this other girl who climbs up on the counter and sings Valerie for me every night after closing time- they all fake the necessary camaraderie, but the one truly great thing about the place is that they let you know at all times that its all unreal. It's a commercial establishment. I drink, I pay, I puke, I make gross confessions, they listen, they don't care. Its modern community living. Where you have to pay for conversation, where you have to be inebriated to be capable of intimacy, of honesty. Its all very physical and metaphorical and metaphysical in one go.

Like all normal men, I've always wanted to own/run a bar. This is exactly the kind of bar I'd like to own/run. There's a projector for the big games, there's always footy on the telly, there's a very retro jukebox with lots of retro tunes, its dim and dark and depressing and moody, and you can order takeaway and have it delivered at the bar. And eat it there. Its the dream. And they'll never tell you to leave as long as you're still buying drinks. No matter how big a fool you're making of yourself. Doesn't matter if you ask the big fat sailor if his moustache is actually a furry rodent resting on his upper lip, or if you play If Only You Were Lonely twenty times on loop. All you gotta do is pay. Keep paying, keep playing, and everybody knows your name.

                Valerie - Amy Winehouse (RIP)