WTF, I have never even heard of this place?
The Red Key
Indianapolis
You're having: A highball
You need to have rules when you drink. Like, take your hat off when you enter the bar. Don't put your feet up on the chair across from you. Don't shout, not while everyone is watching General Hospital in the failing light of a Tuesday afternoon. A bar is no more a private escape than it is an assembly of like-minded souls. A community. That's why I like the Red Key in Indianapolis, when eighty-nine-year-old Russel Settle, owner/operator/primary bartender, is working. Russ will just as soon ban you from ever coming in as he will thank you for darkening his door. Why shouldn't he? Having a drink is a choice. Serving them is, too. But drinkers like the old boot-to-the-throat routine: There is always a crowd, small, respectful, a little stimulated by the whip-cracking from the crabby old bartender.
You have to like a little discipline in the mealy heart of a dive like this, where the ancient murals are lacquered with cigarette smoke and grime, and the linoleum is so worn, there are pathways to the only three significant stops in any bar: the men's room, the jukebox, and the exit. And friend, stay on the path, or Russ will give you the boot before that highball ever meets your sorry lips.
:mj10: :mj10: :mj10: