There was a bar we loved back then. It was red and unhappy, a dour subterranean neighborhood institution where nothing could stop us from being charmed by it. Not its stubborn insistence on overhead lighting, not the rotting pink bar of soap in the bathroom, not an overtly hostile approach to fulfilling drink orders. (I once became genuinely concerned when a friend I brought for his first visit tried to ask to see the wine list. “No, no,” I nervously interjected when I saw the bartender’s jaw tighten. “There’s no list. It’s house red or house white. Pick one, now, please.” He chose the red.)