He's restless, he's thirsty, and he's barely legal

When it comes to bar-hopping, no one does half-yards better than a Yalie turned 21.

By Ian Blecher

I was going to start off by saying something like this: I'm a law-abiding citizen. So when I reached drinking age this past Wed., Nov. 3, at midnight, I knew it was nothing less than my patriotic duty to drink a lot. It's amazing how fast things change when you're an adult: Connecticut State Law, for years a strict loco parentis, suddenly became my partner in—well, legality.

Then I was supposed to say why the following is a good way to spend your 21st: to drink as much as possible at as many bars as possible from the minute you turn 21 to state-sanctioned closing time. I was going to close with a quasi-ironic homily: God bless America!

But in fact, I hardly ever drink (I am a law-abiding citizen). The only reason I did all this was because the Herald said it would pay for it. I don't really have any good advice (though that hasn't deterred me from giving it anyway). Especially right now, as I write, too hungover to look at my computer screen. Hungover on my own birthday.

All I was thinking about while I was drinking was: am I under budget? It kept getting harder to remember. The whole night's pretty much a blur now, but I recall stumbling down Crown Street.singing to the tune of "Oh, Susannah": "six, nine, seven, 65, nine, six, five..." Besides that, I vividly remember worrying that I might lose my umbrella. And the truth is, as I sit here, too weak to leave my room, I have no idea whether I really lost it or not.

The first bar I went to was Richter's, on Chapel Street. What I think is funny about this place is how Richter is the guy's first name. His last name is Elser. Richter's is also the Taft Tap Room, which means some very important people like to drink there. Like, for example, my former girlfriend's secret society. Every Saturday, it was, "Bye, Ian, I'm off to Richter's with you-know-who." "Could I come too?" (I really am this pathetic.) "With what ID?" So off she went to Richter's for half-yards, which, for you uncultured types, is a foot and a half of beer in a weird-looking glass.

Well, now I have some ID. Too bad I don't have a girlfriend anymore. Which brings me to...

Piece of advice No. 1: Get a girl/boyfriend for your 21st birthday, unless you want your half-yard to conjure up all kinds of depressing ghosts.

On this particular Tuesday night, there was almost no one at Richter's besides the usual specter of a broken relationship. When I walked in, the bouncer got up from his beer and mumbled something to the effect that I take my driver's license out. I looked at my watch: 11:52 p.m. This is the "suspense" portion of the article. Would he let me in? Or would he make me wait eight minutes? I had to say something to cut the tension as the bartender was fiddling with my license. "Umm...it's actually my birthday." Very smooth. "Happy birthday," he said, dis-interestedly.

Time for a drink. I ordered a Beck's in honor of Richter being a German name (which means, ominously enough, "Judge") and also in honor of Beck's being a hell of a beer. What can I say? Beck's would probably be good anywhere. But at Richter's, 'neath ensigns armorial and the ancient oars, I couldn't help but forget how much I was overpaying.

Next stop: The Anchor, on College Street. I heard it was Jodie Foster's, CC '84, favorite bar in New Haven. It's the kind of place cool people go so they can forget how cool they are. Like Utica, maybe. The juke box was playing Sinatra, the lighting was soap operatic, and the bartender was giving the woman next to me love advice: "You just have to move on. It's his problem now." I was still thinking about my umbrella, and trying to remember how much money I'd spent so far, when I ordered a scotch.

Now, I don't like to admit this, but I've never ordered scotch before. I didn't exactly know how to do it. You can't just say, "Scotch, please." You have to specify. I decided I'd try it with ice, but I hadn't yet decided whether to say "over the rocks" or "on the rocks." So it came out something like this: "ov-on the rocks." Needless to say, I was terribly embarrassed. Which brings me to...

Piece of advice No. 2: Prevent embarrassment by preparing what you're going to say ahead of time.

Besides that, all I have to say about The Anchor is don't go there. You'll just ruin it for the rest of us.

Next, I walked over to Bar, on Crown Street. I guess some people think Bar is über-hip. To me, though, it feels a little more German than is morally defensible. The seats look just like electric chairs, and the service makes you wish they were.

But what is most nefarious of all is that on a Tuesday night, Bar had a $3 cover charge. Why? Because, the bouncer explained, they had a dance room with a DJ. That only made things worse: it meant that someone was actually choosing the techno music coming out of the back room. So, of course...

Piece of advice No. 3: Never pay a cover charge on a Tuesday night, even if the `Herald' is paying. This rule does not apply where strippers are involved.

So I left Bar, and swaggered over to Viva's, on Park Street, just for old time's sake. Then, something really incredible happened: I got carded. It was now 12:20, so I was pretty confident that I was 21 by this point. The bartender looked at my license and handed it back to me without a word. Now I got suspicious. Why didn't he wish me a happy birthday? Was he just plain rude? Or did he just not know what day it was? In that case, why was he even bothering to check IDs? What was he checking them against? Viva's and carding may be don't go so well together. But all these questions stopped swimming around in my mind when I dove into a sangria. Which brings me to the biggest mystery of the night: the wine is bad, the juice is bad—even the fake cherry is bad by fake cherry standards. But Viva's san-gria is still the best around. You also get a nice basket of complimentary peanuts at the bar.

The last place I visited that night was Kava-nagh's,on Chapel Street. I once saw the notorious James "Uncle Phil" Avery walking out of there, but that night there were no celebs (besides local mogul Ian Blecher, of course). It's the kind of bar that would normally be entirely too Yalicious, but on Tuesday nights, only hardcore alcoholics and reporters come to drink. I ordered a Guinness, which seemed appropriate in an Irish-type place. I heard that the Book of World Records originated in arguments fueled by Guinness.

Even if the rumor isn't true, I can see how it got started. I was telling the guy next to me how many bars I'd been to that very night, and I think I must have set a world record for exaggerating. In any case, besides the patrons, they have a lot of neat stuff at Kav's, like old-fashioned cash registers and black and white photographs.

I was pretty drunk by the time I got home. All I could think was, "shit, I have to write an article about this for the Herald tomorrow." And now I have. The important thing is that, as it turned out, I didn't lose my umbrella.

Graphic by Koi Anunta.

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