"It looks like a hardware store," Dr. Cocktail says flatly.
We're standing outside the Dispensary Lounge on Thursday, June 22, the second day of an epic four-day Vegas dive-bar extravaganza. Before it's over, Doc—expert on libations and curator of the Museum of Cocktails at Commander's Palace—and I will drink at a dozen joints and hang out at the Modern Drunkard Convention, where he will be received like the hero he is. It will be grand, but, apparently, a bar that looks like a hardware store makes for an unpromising stop along the way.
"Wait till we go in," I advise.
Sure enough, the Dispensary is quite different inside. Nice lounge couches, a water wheel, Kool and Gang and Bootsie groovin' on the sound system.
Being Dr. Cocktail, he wastes no time getting a drink. "Can I have a sidecar?" he asks the bartender, Tom, a white-bearded seventysomething ready for any challenge.
"No problem," he says.
The Doc turns to me. "That's impressive," he says. "You can always tell how long a bartender has been around if they know a drink as old as the sidecar."
As he finishes his drink, he dwells on the charm of the place, by which he means the lack of lighting. "To me, it's an oblivion bar," he says. "A few drinks here, and the whole week can go by before I notice it." It puts him in a state he calls "Barrovia."
"You care for something else?" Tom asks.
"How about a martini?"
Tom gets to it and Doc eyes him like a vice principal after a wayward pupil.
"Look he's stirring, not shaking the martini—that's good. And now he's adding the right amount of vermouth ... good ... good!"
Before Doc says anything, Tom whips out a lemon peel. "You want the oil?
Doc's eyes fly out of his socket. "Brilliant, yes! The oil from the lemon peel!"
"This is a good thing?" I ask.
"Most bartenders will squeeze the pulp in," Dr. Cocktail says, "but it's the oil from the peel that gives it that great touch."
He hands me the drink.
"Don't shoot it, Mike. Enjoy it, sip it." I do, and it is excellent.
"Everything in it balances like a great song. Balance is the key to everything. It's a metaphor for life."
From here we're off to the Fireside Lounge at the Peppermill. "What will the crowd be like?" he wants to know.
"Remember Davey's Locker?"
"Yes." A hooker had memorably come on to me there.
"Nothing like that."
He sighs heavily.
Friday, June 23
It says Edward Haigh on his birth certificate, but he goes by "Ted" when he's not going by "Doc." A Hollywood set designer just shy of 50, he takes exacting care and pride when it comes to the art of the cocktail. We met through a mutual friend 18 months ago, at a little get-together at his home in Burbank, California. What I remember most vividly about that night were the liquor bottles adorning every wall and cupboard in the living room.
We kept in touch, and when he mentioned that he had a few days open in his schedule, I jumped at the chance to squire him through the lower echelons of the Vegas bar scene.
We walk into the Hill Top, a single-story house on Rancho, just off Cheyenne, and Dr. Cocktail is immediately taken by the Christmas lights that are left on the bar 365 days of the year.
Brian, our bartender, bearded and burly, is arguably the friendliest bartender we've had yet.
Doc orders: a martini for him, a whiskey sour for me. As Brian gets to work, Doc takes in the place. "I love the fake wood paneling!" Not to mention the whiskey selection. "Look, Mike," he says, "they've got Old Overholt Rhy Whiskey!" He turns to Brian. "Can I see that old bottle of Old Granddad?" Doc fingers the label. It's a 30-year-old bottle.
The martini isn't bad, but Tom's was better. He drinks it anyway, with assist sips from me.
"There's nothing wrong with Brian's preparation, it's just that Tom had an intuitive understanding of the pour."
"You gentlemen been in here before?" Brian asks.
"I have," I tell him, "but my friend here's from Burbank. I'm taking him to some of the neighborhood bars in town."
"Really! Where to next?"
"The Rice Paddy."
Brian grimaces. "Sorry, but they flattened that down about six weeks ago."
No!
Doc sure knows how to console a guy: "Let's drink to the Rice Paddy!" The two of us and a nearby couple raise our glasses.
"You know what I like best about this bar?" Doc asks. No, what? He flexes out his fingers and caresses the bar in front of him. "There are no video consoles! I could put my head on this bar and take a nap without discomfort."
Saturday, June 24
We make our way Downtown to Ogden and Third. It's the third annual Modern Drunkards convention, sponsored by Modern Drunkards magazine. The brain behind it all, Frank Kelly Rich, is a good friend of the Doctor.
When we arrive at Celebrity Ballroom, I can hear the obligatory Irish drinking song. It's obvious from the moment of our arrival that the Doc has his following. As he mingles with his people, we get our first break from each other. I check out the activities. There's a lively drinking contest called Name That Shot, where contestants do exactly that.
"What makes a hangover worse," observes an English comic, Stanley McHale, "is when you've got f--king cheerful friends in the morning!"
"Where to next?" asks Doc. There are some dives that need our company.
"Another old-time place, Huntridge Liquor."
"How old?" he wants to know.
"Old enough where they don't have video poker consoles at the bar."
"BRILLIANT!" Doc screams.
On the way, he points out that, in some ways, what we've done in the last few days is historical documentation.
"LA hides its history," he says, "but Vegas just denies it." It's all about reinvention here, and never mind if a wonderful place like the Rice Paddy gets flattened in the process.
We eventually went to the Huntridge, all right, and other bars, too, and then Sunday afternoon came and Doc took off. My eyes are bloodshot, and my neck aches. Then again, I held up better than I thought I would. I didn't trample on anyone's flower bed, and there were no rueful morning-afters. It's a shame we didn't get to some other popular holes that I love: the Cellar Lounge, Four Kegs, Atomic Liquor Store. But no worries. We'll get to them when the good Doctor comes back—and he will be back ... this is one doctor who loves a house call.