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| Elitism on the rocks, Vandal style |
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| Written by Jon Ross -Argonaut | ||||||
| Friday, 14 October 2005 | ||||||
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I once had a professor who joked that The Quiet Bar, located in the
University Inn, had become so familiar, it was his new office. After a
few trips to the small area tucked away near The Broiler, I can attest
that it does have some office-like features.
I once had a professor who joked that The Quiet Bar, located in the
University Inn, had become so familiar, it was his new office. After a
few trips to the small area tucked away near The Broiler, I can attest
that it does have some office-like features. The bar is very quiet — with soft, non-committal piano jazz piped through hidden speakers — there is plenty of room for meeting with co-workers and the lighting is not so bad that it makes reading impossible. Oh yeah, and there’s lots of alcohol. While The Quiet Bar may appear to be more suited for an after-work cocktail or an after-school conference with a professor, it is actually quite a happening place. I have lived in Moscow for way too long, and The Quiet Bar (or QB, for those hipsters out there) had always been a mystery to me. I thought it was some place old people go to drink martinis and act sophisticated, but I soon learned my preconceived notions were merely delusions. The QB is an establishment that I would endorse whole-heartedly (no karaoke), but, in the end, it is just another place to drink. My first visit was accompanied by nervousness, because I am not accustomed to high-class booze. The QB doesn’t need a full drink menu — clients of the bar simply are in the know — so I stared blankly at the mass of bottles on the wall. I figured cognac was a properly elitist drink (I had silently scoffed earlier in the day when a wayward soul used irregardless in a sentence), and my drinking buddy ordered a scotch. The QB only houses one type of brandy, so I lucked out, but my compatriot wasn’t so fortunate. As he ruminated on the answer to the bartender’s question about brand of drink, a drunken Vandal alumnus slurred out, “Glenlivet.” Seated in a round blue chair and feeling proper, I started to sip my drink (straight-up). There was a congregation of rowdy Vandal parents hunched in chairs to our left and, right as we sat down, the manager approached the group’s table. He confronted the assemblage with eyewitness evidence that one person at the table had been pouring her own drinks, and he politely asked them all to leave. It appeared that a bartender had already asked once for her to stop pouring clandestine spirits into empty cups. This may have been warranted, as no bartender was present when we first entered the bar, but it was still illegal. When the group left, conversation in the room returned to soft chatter until a student started barking loud exclamatory phrases. This was a surprise — not because my ears couldn’t handle this barrage of vulgarity, but because these outbursts momentarily shattered the room’s calm ambiance. I can’t remember if this student left while I was still in the area, but I can recall him asking for a cab and lamenting the downfall of university driving services. On my other visits to this bar, I have learned that it is used as a beginning to a night of drinking. It is the starting point in the game that is the Moscow bar scene, which is kind of like a “Candyland” for adults. The establishment’s decibel level makes talking about bar hopping plans easy, but I suppose properly juiced individuals could just as easily pick The QB as an ending to the night’s activities. I’d rather just plant myself at a table and stay the night.  Add as favorites (18) | Views: 764
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