BAR EXAM: Where There’s Smoke, There’s … a Guy Taking Notes

It's a Sunday night, and the place has a leisurely feel, a far cry from the noisy bustle I'd experienced on my prior visit. I sit alone at the bar, pull out my notepad and quietly soak up the atmosphere. The bar is made of some polished dark wood. Probably mahogany, but it's hard to tell in the moody yellow lighting, which bounces off the gold-plated ceiling to give the joint its namesake glow. That's the "Gold" part. The "Sierra" comes from the many black-and-white Nevada photographs scattered about the room in shiny frames, as well as the two vintage slot machines flanking the front door, each polished to a perfect gleam like classic cars. The whole bar feels like a sleek refit of old-fashioned Nevada.

And at least for the time being, in typical Nevada fashion, about a third of the bar's 20 or so patrons are smoking. I reach over for an ash tray as the bartender approaches.

"You're making me nervous with your little notepad there," he says.

"Sorry," I reply. "I'll try to be more discreet." My hands shade the pad and draw it closer, which really only makes it look more sinister.

"What are you writing about?" he asks.

"I was here a few days earlier with some friends, and I'm writing an article about it, but since I was a little too inebriated at the time to really note my surroundings, I just thought I'd stop in to get a few details."

"Oh. You're writing good stuff, I hope."

I tell him yes, but the truth is that I haven't settled on exactly what good stuff I intend to write about. The trouble with writing about bar exploits involving your friends is that once they've sobered up, they may not necessarily appreciate your recording their antics for posterity. Many large beer mugs and even a few shot glasses were emptied that night in the small but comfortable lounge area off to the side of the bar, and the process was accompanied by some unsurprisingly odd dialogue.

But now I'm stuck wondering whether a guy who reveals he has 12 toes wants that disclosure to appear in the newspaper. The same goes for spousal arguments resolved with a heated game of Tic-Tac-Toe, or proclamations of one's dating woes.

These are the sorts of bar-side dilemmas that would prove unbearable if I couldn't stew over them with a cigarette. I point out the stack of extra-wide matchbooks adorned with the letters SG to the bartender I've now identified as Charlie.

"So I guess the ‘Clean Indoor Air Act' hasn't gone into effect here yet," I say.

"December 8th," Charlie says, before adding apprehensively, "We'll see what happens. I'll probably just wind up quitting [smoking]. I've quit before when I've given up drinking. But when I start drinking again, I have to smoke."

"I know," I say, nodding sympathetically, having done most of my smoking in bars. "Drinking and smoking just seem to go together."

And that's why the thought of visiting a bar, in Las Vegas, of all places, and not being able to smoke is borderline unfathomable to me.

Smoking, or at least having smoke around, is just part of the bar-going experience. Complaining about air pollution in a bar is like complaining about noise pollution in a nightclub. If you have a problem with it, you're simply in the wrong place.

But glancing around the bar, I note that the nonsmokers don't seem particularly bothered by or even aware of the smokers. And God forbid someone does get so irritated by the secondhand smoke that he leaves before he gets the chance to drink four beers and drive home.

My point is, are the truly health-conscious really going to be in Sierra Gold at 11 on a Sunday night?

Suddenly, I have a realization. I extinguish my cigarette and slap my notebook shut in satisfaction. Smoking does have its limited merits, I think to myself. It just saved me from embarrassing my friends with this week's bar column.

Sierra Gold
Where: 6515 S. Jones Blvd.
Info: 221-4120.