Dining and whining: Finding my sea-legs at the Mercantile Saloon
Welcome Sacramento food and drink lovers to my inaugural Dining and Whining column! I’ll be your matre’d. Fleck Whineman’s the name, nice to greet you. I’m a 4.5 month native of Sacramento, originally hailing from Bangor, Maine. I recieved my Associate’s degrees in food technology and woodshop at Bangor Community College, so I’m very comfortable as a foodist’s liaison (and still have all my fingers, ha, ha!)
Food is a passion of mine, so much so that I often have four, maybe six complete meals a day. I’ve found the options in this city are simply limitless, from “few’d couture” to “hamburgers du’jour.” I hope we can spend many wonderful years together filling our bellies with the meats and vegetables of our shared cultural harmony. And french fries. Delicious, savory french fries. And possibly a milkshake, dear reader? Ha, ha!
And so our story begins on a dreary Wednesday afternoon. I had just arisen from my second afternoon nap hungry for an afternoon drive. My meandering path through the gridded streets of our city’s fair Mid-town district gave way to a powerful rumble emanating from within my gullet. It was, my gentle reader, a hunger for both a delightful nosh and a powerful bite of community.
I left my trusty steed of 1993 Toyota Tercel hitched in a parking garage and began my dainty saunter. As if on cue, a tempest of a noreaster of a gentle breeze scooted me along westerly until I saw a lively converted Victorian. Attached was a patio filled with the din of the human experience. Ah! Here was a place to whet my appetite and whistle.
Upon stepping through the swinging door of what I learned was the Mercantile Saloon (forgive me, reader, I did know at this point it was a house of libations rather than a 4 star restaurant) I was immediately greeted with the flush of humanity.
Upon exiting the conveniently located restroom (I find it best to ‘clear ones pallate’ before any dining experience) I sat down at the front bar.
“Barkeep,” I barked. “I am a critic for the Sacramento Chronicle. Bring me your finest spirit, combined with your second finest spirit, two packets of Sugar in the Raw, and a cocktail onion. And I would like to see your menu of specials d’nom.”
The spry bartender looked me up and down with a predatory but welcoming glare. “two-fifty, baby.” He finally replied with a Mona Lisa smile. “There’s a snack machine in the corner. And don’t call me barkeep, bitch.” Lo! So alive with the out-pour and muster of the human experience!
While waiting for my beverage I took the time to glance around at the decor. The name suggested a fantasy of a life at sea, and the decor did not disappoint. With porthole style windows and ruddy wood furniture, I felt as if I was delivering kegs of spices for the East India Trading company, I did! Ha, Ha! Brightly colored flags hung from the ceiling, clearly indicating the spirit of light and togetherness that we all share as a people. I felt welcomed.
I received my beverage in a large glass typically reserved for a pint of Mr. Weiser’s famed lager-beers. The beverage was abrim with a green liquid. The barman referred to it as a ‘Nut-Buster,’ and I can only assume this is but one of many fine specials devised by their head mixologist. A sample taste revealed a biting fruit taste with high overtones of artificial watermelon flavoring, and a strong finish of potato-based spirit (what the Kamchatka bear trapper would call ‘wodka’). I must admit, dear reader, I found this beverage to be so invigorating that I might have been accused of a slurp or two at the end, ha, ha!
Shortly after I helped myself to the supply of “Munchies” in the snack machine (Slot E4 for the snack-savvy among us) and I raised a single digit in the air to indicate another beverage. The bartender, as if sensing my gesture with back-turned eyes, turned, raised another finger in response, and slid another virtuous concoction down the bar at me. I responded with a smile and full-scale tip of seventy-five cents.
As I sat on the comfortable stool enjoying my third beverage, the bar awoke with the sound of the working class man. I see, I thought to my inner monologue, this must be the bar of constructors, machine operators, and other true ‘blue collar’ fellows. What luck! I was inserted into a group of mans men, a true confederacy of brothers. Would we be crooning a shanty into the night’s wee hours, overfilled mugs of mead hoisted into the air? My mind’s senses reeled with the possibilities.
Dear reader! I must confess something to you now. After my fourth beverage I seem to have succumbed to a mild amnesia. I recount what I can recall. A Carnival-like setting, with dancing women and flashes of toned skin. The sounds of screeching tracks d’discoteque, played at high volume. True brotherhood, man and man locked arm in arm and waist to waist, celebrating the fruits of their busy day. Unfortunate splashes of wasted beverage from those who had enjoyed ‘one too many.’And much more, though obscured in visage by the banshee of the spirit - the lord of intoxication.
I arose in the early morning not where I imagined myself to be, not in my comfortable guest room at all but prone against a cinder block wall near the main railway, with my tie wrapped about my head in the style of the samurai. I dusted my sleeves and headed home for a deserved morning rest.
What had actually happened will be left to the ages and the times of legend. But I do know that I will return to the fair Merchantile whenever I am in need of a refreshing beverage garnished with the triumph of the male will.
4 enthusiastic thumbs up!
