3B
Wednesday, March 8, 2017 // The Statement
BY JACKIE CHARNIGA, DAILY STAFF REPORTER
L
ike any good story, my column
starts when a girl walks into a
bar. However, this one happens
to be my bar, a hallowed hall
and point of pride. It’s personal,
confessing to which drinking
establishment to which you tether time and
esteem. It reveals something about who you are,
or rather, how you want to see yourself.
Stories need settings. We can all agree that
a lot less would have happened on “Friends” if
it weren’t for Central Perk. Some of the most
important scenes of “How I Met Your Mother”
happened in MacLaren’s Pub. The universe of
“Cheers” exists almost entirely inside of the
titular bar. Of all the gin joints in the world, I
walked into this one. If my senior year of college
were shot as a sitcom, you’d find me at the Bar
on Braun Court.
My first sojourn to Bar was a little more than
a year ago. An older friend brought me, as my
drinking Obi-Wan Kenobi, and ordered on
my behalf my first mixed drink. Before then,
whiskey sours were like life rafts in a sea of
confusing cocktails and crafty beers. In a post-
Solo cup world, this bar changed my perspective.
This bar brought me the White Russian, a drink
to which even today this dude abides.
As Carrie Bradshaw is to the Cosmopolitan, I
am to the White Russian. The drink, a blend of
cream and coffee liqueur, arrives in a rounded
martini glass as a nectar-thick concoction of a
deep mahogany brown. It’s topped with a foam
so delicious that after I’ve finished, I scoop it
out of the glass with my finger. As the menu
boldly describes, it is the best you’ll ever have.
Needless to say, this isn’t where you’d go to
catch the end of a Wings game. Bar is situated
on the second floor of 327 Braun Court, and
unlike the cavernous expanse of The Last Word,
Bar is a much smaller and cozier space in a way
that is familiar, rather than formal. It consists
of two rooms — one a row of booths and the
other a series of wooden tables — separated by
the bar itself, where craft beverages are mixed
and shaken like volatile chemistry experiments.
When you’re breezing through the old college
town, and the kids in the Rick’s line make you
feel carbon-dated, come drink here.
Rather than having a specific theme, Bar
seems to have accumulated decorations over
time, like a dorm room expanding beyond the
Pulp Fiction poster or a single tapestry. They
include, but are not limited to, a framed image of
John F. Kennedy, a portrait of The Last Supper
and a yawning kitten. Deer heads are mounted in
the same room whose own accessories fluctuate
with the seasons. Tonight, the doe is wrapped
with plenty of scarves, while the buck is rocking
beads, a beanie and a forgotten umbrella.
My companion is a music buff, and I can’t
help but appreciate what’s playing more with
her commentary. A tinkling song comes on
that sounds like a jazzier version of the “Twin
Peaks” intro, and I’m told it’s a new song by
Chicago-based soul singer Jamila Woods. I’m
also not trendy enough to recognize the latest
head-bobbing album from A Tribe Called Quest,
which she points out is an interesting record to
spin in what looks like Ted Nugent’s yard sale.
There is nothing tying the room together but
the faint glow of tabletop candles delivered
with the drink menus and the string lights
from the patio downstairs. In fact, most of the
ambiance in the second room is provided by the
wide window on the right-hand side of the bar
overlooking the courtyard, where the view of
Aut Bar’s neon-lit alley transports you straight
to 1980s New York.
The Bar on Braun Court is my favorite place
in Ann Arbor. The service is attentive, the mood
is chill and the drinks are delicious. It’s close to
my apartment and my heart. It’s where, though
not everyone knows my name, or is always glad
I came, they’ve never forgotten my drink order.
Over a flickering candle and a White Russian,
I’ve discussed work anxiety, boy troubles and
personal relationships. It’s where more than a
dozen great nights have either begun or ended.
Yeah, it’s just a bar. It’s a room where people
get drunk. It’s dark, it’s expensive and I’ve never
regretted one second within its walls.
It’s my bar. But it can be yours, too.
Girl Walks Into: Bar on Braun Court
ILLUSTRATION BY MICHELLE PHILLIPS