Percy's

Percy’s is two blocks down toward the river, past the loading dock and the laundromat that’s never open, in a building that used to be something else nobody remembers anymore. i started going there because it was two blocks and not because the drinks were good, they’re fine, nothing more. after a double you don’t want a destination, you want a door that’s still unlocked.

the bar top is scarred wood, that gouged look from years of bottle caps popped against the edge instead of the opener that’s sitting right there. one long mirror behind the bottles, half the lights out over the pool table nobody plays pool on anymore, it’s just where people set their bags down. a jukebox that still takes quarters and mostly plays whatever the bartender feels like.

walking in still in kitchen clothes, apron balled up under my arm, shoes that smell like the fryer no matter how many times i change them, nobody looks twice. that’s the whole point of the place. you’re not performing being off work, you’re just off work, sweating through a black t shirt at midnight, and one of the regulars already knows what that means because half of them are wearing the same thing from a different kitchen down the block.

percy, if that’s even his real name, has run it since before i started cooking anywhere near here. the regulars interact and he’s almost always ready to sit and chat with whoever’s still standing, but he doesn’t card anybody, doesn’t rush anybody out, keeps the lights low enough that nobody feels watched. that’s a skill, running a room where tired people can sit quiet or loud depending on the night and nobody’s managing them.

i’m not all that sure why it stuck exactly, but the bar two blocks down is where we usually go, and nothing else really got a vote. there’s a better bar four blocks the other way, better beer selection, better music, and nobody from the kitchen has been there in years, because four blocks after a double might as well be four miles.

the games started small. somebody brought a deck of cards to kill time waiting on a ride, then somebody else brought an actual game in a box, and percy just let it sit on the end of the bar between rounds instead of making us clear it. books came the same way, somebody finishes one and leaves it on the shelf behind the register instead of hauling it home, and somebody else picks it up three weeks later wondering whose paperback it even is.

there’s a guy who’s always there, ap-prone even off the clock, takes ten minutes to pick a beer like he’s working a lunch special he can’t get right. he’s why the table exists as much as anyone. the crew rotates through, dishwashers, a couple servers, whoever closed. i still end up writing about most of what happens there standing at my own counter at home the next morning, because that’s when the shift’s actually done for me, but the table is the reason there’s anything to write down.

percy’s isn’t a good bar by any real measure. it’s a close one. some nights that’s the only quality that matters.