Portrait of a Bar: Henry's

Before we begin, let's go over a pet peeve of mine. The terms "gastro-pub" and "wine bar" are redundant. A pub serves food and ale; a gastro-pub serves food and ale. What is the difference, you ask? The gastro-pub thinks it is better than the pub. And as far as wine bars are concerned, Bloggle said it best. Sitting in a well-known "wine bar" (but not his), a glance around the room found nearly everyone drinking beer. "Everyone wants to own a wine bar cause they think it is classier than just owning a bar. This is New Orleans. Call it what you will, but if you want to be successful, it needs to be a bar," Bloggle opines.

That means you need to serve cold beer and a well-made, stiff drink at attractive prices. Henry's Bar, on the corner of Soniat and Magazine stands for just that. I'll grant you places like Cure and Bar Uncommon have their place in my hearts, but when I want to go to a bar, it is Henry's.

The key to this bar is the way in which it changes throughout the day like watching the seasons change in fast-forward. In the early afternoon, old timers from round the corner sit and bitch ("They shouldn't even call it Jazz Fest, dey don't have much Jazz anymore. Who the hell is Pearl Jam?" And everyone's favorite: "BP can kiss my ass."). It makes for delightful backtalk as you plow through $1.50 cans of beer.

The cocktails here are to be ordered with liberal use of conjunctions and prepositions. This is not the place to test the barkeeps knowledge of emerging applications with Thai basil infused St. Germaine libations. Rather it is a place to find an honest drink. A martini, a Jack Daniels with a splash of water, a scotch and soda; these are the drinks they make well and strong here.

As the evening wears on, the old timers retire and are replaced by white-linened, ex-lettermen and their pastel attired dates. They stroll in from a wedding or party which ended around midnight. "Henry's," one says, "let's go there; it wont be too crowded." But soon the side room with its mismatched chairs and leaning tables will fill to brim with similar thoughts and persons.

That jukebox which in the afternoon hummed out Hall and Oates, Coe, and Cash becomes a dance hall DJ. As if mandated by law, soon someone will play "Come on Eileen" sending the entire crowd in a rush like lemmings off a cliff to join in its addictive bridge. Meanwhile, the bartender with an unlit cigarette dangling in his mouth talks no one out of a shot at 1:45 in the morning.

Soon the crowds disperse, and there is talk of heading to F&M's. But trust me on this, go home. Nothing good ever happens at F&M's. Nothing, you here me. Besides you just left the best bar in New Orleans.

Henry's - Eagle