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

