At random times in my life I have considered having a bar in my own house to be a rational aspiration. I have imagined my bar to be one room of a very large house; the room would be large enough to have a lovely pool table and dart board but small enough to feel intimate and it would have the perfect lighting to produce a mellowing effect on both the skin and the mind.
One corner of this room would have a refined-looking teakwood bar with perhaps five leather stool (with backs, mind you, because barstools without backs are torture devices) and there would be shelves of sparkling glassware (that would magically clean themselves). Around the bottom of the bar would be a shining brass bar at the perfect height upon which to rest your feet.
Cut glass ashtrays would sparkle and beckon invitingly at two-foot intervals because naturally we would all smoke and wear hats in my imaginary bar. Perhaps I would have personalized matches made for the bar. The walls would have wainscoting around the bottom half of the room along with a decorative chair rail and the top half would be painted a pleasant shade of ecru.
But the art. The art. What should go on the walls? Until today I had never imagined anything on the walls which is rather lame, really. Now I know what must go on my wish list for the walls of my bar:
“And look at this art! Delia, dear, you have such verve.”
“Don’t you remember, Peter, when we went to see that movie, Fargo? What a hoot! Those accents, my goodness!”
“Another highball, Conrad?”
“I must say this teakwood is polished to perfection! Pass me an ashtray.”