Barfly is a column that celebrates old haunts and new hotspots of Los Angeles nightlife. Sometimes playgirl and former sex writer Nicky navigate hangovers and heartache, one bar at a time.
Newly returned to my West Hollywood single life, and finally feeling myself after several self-critical mojo-less months, I’d been on Bumble for barely an hour when Thor slid into my DMs.
I knew “Thor” wasn’t his real name, but he’d taken the time to read my bio, gleaned that I was a cheeky lady who liked poetry, and then took the time to ask me out via a two-paragraph rhyme which succeeded in being objectively clever, tolerably cringey, and really fucking sweet, so I engaged. About an hour-and-a-half later he’d charmed me into agreeing to a late night supper, and soon after we were seated across from each other at a booth in a Sunset Boulevard pub, about a stone’s throw down from Guitar Center called The Pikey.
Though he resembled a Norwegian viking — down to the beard so long and blond it sparkled like the glowing chin halo of a Greek god, eyes like gigantic blue lagoons, and a smile that was perfectly imperfect — he was actually an Icelandic CFO and recent divorcee from San Diego in town for the weekend hunting for an apartment and hoping to relocate to Santa Monica.
Thor was somehow both rustic and preppy, an aesthetic the Danish coined a name for, Hygge, which a quick Google search defines as: “a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being.” His style was clean, simple, and refined, but his face was rugged and tanned. His aesthetic matched the bar perfectly, and as my eyes began to stay from the Viking-like face before me, I noticed two large gnome statues pleasantly seated above the wall of whiskey. Thor was a gnome and I love gnomes!
The way the lights from chandeliers bounce off the walls of The Pikey makes this place feel like a warm, golden egg. The bartenders wear either vests or suspenders. The music is good but too cool for my limited knowledge — the selections have a live feel that replicate the sensation of a bluegrass band playing in the corner. It’s the kind of place that has red and white paper straws; it’s a place that makes you feel like you should order whiskey. It’s a place that feels fresh but familiar, as though you’ve been coming there for years.
The date went fine and though I’d say yes to another meal with Thor a few weeks later, I left feeling far more drawn to the bar. The Pikey, too, is both rustic and preppy, cozy but chic, electrically authentic and uniquely its own. It’s also only a few blocks from my house, so since that date I’ve started going there regularly.
I went to The Pikey alone on the day before my birthday and quickly noticed all around me were grownups out on dates. I sat sandwiched between two different couples on internet dates, and all four of them have great hair. One couple was dressed alike, both in denim jackets. The woman to my left had a pink silk shawl effortlessly draped across her shoulders over a crisp white shirt, her perfectly popped collar peeking through. She’s a remarkable looking 60, if I had to guess, and I was transfixed by her delicate hands as she cut through a large piece of fish. The man she was with had a heavy accent. Her date sounded just like Ringo Starr – you know the cadence – which is fitting because The Pikey is an English pub. They spoke about work and family and from what I could gather, things were going well.
My bartender that evening was handsome. Like, I can’t even mention his name because he’s that handsome and I’m embarrassed that the information might somehow make its way back to him, and I refuse to risk any awkwardness at my new favorite bar. Around 8:30, when the lights had dimmed, the golden egg of warmth turned a fiery deep orange.
I ordered a shot and a beer, affectionately dubbed Coach and Horses, an homage to the English Pub with the same name that sat at this location for over sixty years before the rent was raised and it was forced to shut its doors. Handsome took my menu, said, “Good choice.” and I smiled. He’d said that the last time I was here, too, and I can’t tell if it’s something he says to everyone, or if he just says it to everyone who orders the beer and bourbon — because of course that’s what I’d ordered the last time.
I saw a guy at the end of the bar who used to be a regular at the dive near my old place. We’d shared some flirtations in the past — walked each other home a few times, exchanged numbers at some point, and we still follow each other on Instagram. Even with all that familiarity under our belts, I’m still not sure he’ll recognize me if I say hello, so I sip my bourbon look up at the gnomes. “No,” I think, “I’m sure he won’t recognize me – I have one of those faces.” I always tell myself I have one of those easy-to-forgot faces despite never being told that, which means I either do and it’s fine or I don’t I’m a rude asshole who never approaches anyone I recognize because I always assume they won’t recognize me.
There are a lot of pretty people here. They’re understated and cool. I’m surrounded by men with salt and pepper beards who have a few too many buttons undone, sleeves perfectly cuffed and rolled up just above the elbow. It’s so sexy.
I’d brought a lover here a few months back, on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day. We’d enjoyed several shots of whiskey and lots of beers and soon made friends with a woman named Molly. She was drunk and couldn’t stop touching my hair. She told me I was beautiful and for thirty minutes it was a lovely affair. Molly had a friend with her named Jack, and when she went to the bathroom, Jack confessed to us that he was in love with Molly, but that she was in love with someone else. “He’s taking up all the real estate in her heart,” he told us, “But I’ll wait. Some room will open up.” Jack was also drunk and probably couldn’t have realized how profound he was being, but his words have now been rolling around in my head for months. Who am I devoting my heart real estate to? Am I making a good investment?
Certainly sitting between two couples on dates was not where I wanted to turn 34, so as soon as a seat with less monogamy around it opened up, I decided to make my move. Handsome moves my drinks for me as I collect my things, and I briefly debate asking if he has a girlfriend.
A few minutes later, a salt–and-pepper man with two cuffs in his sleeves sits down next to me, and asks if I’m having a good night. “Sure. It’s my birthday at midnight, so I took myself out. I’m having a nice night. You?” I answer. Once he finds out it’s my birthday, he insists on buying me a round. He smiled directly into my eyes and I instantly felt myself starting to blush.
The scene is set. The gnomes are working their magic, the Hygee was palpable, and I’d found a new favorite bar. My heart’s “vacancy” sign is brightly lit, there’s all the room in the world for something new, something unpredictable. As I listen to the music and sipped my bourbon I realized — this is the perfect place for me to turn 34, and damn — I’m only a few blocks from home.
