Illustration by Samantha Duran. Courtesy of artworxla.

The public square is the meeting ground where people make society happen. In these spaces, physical or metaphorical or digital, we work through our shared dramas and map our collective hopes. Ideally, the public square provides room to solve the problems we face. It is also where new, thorny issues often arise.

This “Up for Discussion” is part of Zócalo’s editorial and events series spotlighting the ideas, places, and questions that have shaped the public square Zócalo has created over the past 20 years.

Here, our contributors consider the rich building blocks of the public square: personal connections. In our segmented, often lonely world, they are shaking off the blues on the dance floor, telling tall tales over breakfast, and forming friendships through a seven-and-a-half-year-long book club.

They help us answer: How do we find connection in the public square?

The post How Do We Find Connection in the Public Square? appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

The Living Room is the oldest standing Black-owned bar in Los Angeles. Located in the heart of the West Adams district and previously known as Barry’s Cocktail Lounge, the bar has silently woven itself into the fabric of South L.A. since its founding in the 1940s.

Though I’ve lived in the same neighborhood as the Living Room my whole life, I didn’t learn of its existence until I was 30.

It began with a simple Yelp search.

That year, I decided to leave behind the inertia of my corporate career in hospitality to pursue a dream: returning to school to study journalism. I was looking for work near my home to help support my son and me while I followed this ambition. When I searched for businesses near me, the Living Room popped up, located just three minutes away from my home.

The author (left) and the Living Room’s owner Susan Carnell. Courtesy of author.

The photos on the Living Room’s Yelp page were somewhat outdated, but I liked the vibe that they gave off. The environment seemed relaxed; the crowd, who appeared older, didn’t come off as too “Hollywood.” I dialed the number listed on the website. The conversation that followed with Susan, the owner—who had herself tended bar there in her earlier years—was my first step into a world that I had never known, yet immediately felt connected to.

I’d gone to bartending school years earlier, but had never picked up gigs before. I had decided at the time that my hospitality work was a more important use of my time (how ironic, right?). So, during the call with Susan, I puffed up my experience, citing expertise from hosting private events and past restaurant service. Though my skills were confined to informal settings, like bartending at my sister’s parties, the determination in my voice must have landed me the interview.

Then came the reality check. Susan asked me to make a Cadillac margarita. The drink I mixed, though it reflected my earnest effort, lacked its defining Grand Marnier topping. Her reaction was direct: “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, do you?”

I laughed, admitting my inexperience, and promised to learn quickly. Impressed by my honesty and willingness to learn, Susan offered me a chance to train with their seasoned bartenders the next day. She wasn’t just offering me a job, but an invitation to become part of a community and a legacy.

The Living Room proved to be the perfect environment for balancing my studies and parental duties. Once I became comfortable with the bar (and finally learned to make drinks without having to Google the recipes first), I started bringing my laptop to work, utilizing any downtime to study and complete my assignments. Many of my customers turned out to be leading educators and writers, and they helped me with my schoolwork. One retired professor who frequented the bar, in particular, provided invaluable feedback on my writing. Since it had been about 13 years since I last attended school, I was grateful for the support.

The Living Room mirrors the comfort of a real living room. Courtesy of author.

I had been working at the Living Room for about a year when the COVID-19 pandemic struck. It hit us hard. Bars were one of the first types of businesses to shut down and among the last to reopen, and the Living Room faced additional challenges since we didn’t have an outdoor area that was required to continue operating. Undeterred, we transformed one of our parking lots into an outdoor dining experience. For reasons we still don’t fully understand, we were denied loans and grants, making it an uphill battle to keep the establishment afloat. But neighbors and regulars rallied to support us, transforming adversity into an opportunity for solidarity. They hired food trucks to come to the parking lot and worked with restaurants to donate tables and chairs for a patio-style bar. They chipped in to get us a big-screen TV so that we could still watch sports, and somebody even built a TV unit with wheels for easy transport.

Leveraging my own skills, I took charge of the Living Room’s social media presence, using platforms like Facebook and Instagram to reconnect with our community and attract new patrons. This digital push helped bring back the vibrant life of the bar post-lockdown, drawing in both loyal locals and newcomers intrigued by the charm and history that the Living Room offered.

Thanks to this persistence and community support, the Living Room is still here, representing the enduring spirit of the people it brings together.

As I sit on a couch in the Living Room writing this piece now, I am surrounded by the familiar faces of customers who have become like family to me. Observing their interactions and shared joy, I’m reminded of the countless memories that we’ve created together within these walls.

The Living Room has become the place I go when I need to lift my spirits or seek a moment of solace with a refreshing cocktail or just someone to talk to. It’s a venue that accommodates various aspects of my life—from intimate moments on a first date, where a deck of cards can lead to a deep connection, to lively gatherings with friends and coworkers. It’s where I celebrate life’s milestones—every birthday, graduation, and this year, my acceptance into grad school to get my master’s in mass communication.

Fridays at the Living Room are for karaoke, where my friends and I revel in the joy of singing our hearts out in a comfortable and familiar setting. On Saturdays, the live band draws in music enthusiasts, creating a vibrant atmosphere that’s perfect for a night out.

In a neighborhood that’s often marginalized, the Living Room serves as a lifeline. Despite West Adams’ rich cultural and historical significance, it continues to contend with economic disparities, historical neglect, and ongoing gentrification pressures. This makes the Living Room’s presence even more vital, providing emotional and social support to those who walk through its doors.

Its warm and welcoming atmosphere mirrors the comfort of a real living room. It’s set up like one, too, with couches, chandeliers, and TVs. It even has a doorbell: You have to ring it to get buzzed in, the act inviting you to enter and find a reprieve from the chaos of everyday life. For those seeking a place that feels like home, the Living Room has my unwavering recommendation, a beacon of hope and togetherness in South L.A.

The post Where I Go<span class="colon">:</span> L.A.’s Oldest Standing Black-Owned Bar appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

I thought that would be the case with Hollywood’s beloved the Cat and Fiddle Pub. But the building’s owner recently gave them notice to pack up and get out. Apparently they’ve found a tenant who’ll pay double the rent proving once again that Commerce and Sentiment do not make good bedfellows. In fact, they don’t even make good roommates.

On social media, the mourning and the remembrances are underway. People are fondly recalling dart tournaments, Tuesday Trivia night, and lazy Sunday afternoons spent out on the garden patio. Not too many people mention the food; Scotch eggs and mushy peas are an acquired taste. Rather, everyone loves how the place can be so big–with high ceilings and a long bar–but still feel so intimate. There are plenty of shadowy corners for a couple to disappear into.

But it wasn’t always like that. The original Cat and Fiddle was opened in 1982 by British musician Kim Gardner and his wife Paula. They found a small space on Laurel Canyon Blvd. just below the famous Country Canyon Store. The original pub was tiny and cramped, but that didn’t stop fellow Brit musicians like Rod Stewart, Eric Clapton, and Ron Wood from dropping by for a pint or three. That was the Cat and Fiddle that I first remember going to.

It was 1984 and I was sharing a Van Nuys apartment with two roommates. I was only 22 years old and working as a performer at the Universal Studios Theme Park. That summer, a guy named Dominic got hired and we immediately hit it off. Besides a shared love for good music and bad horror movies, we both wanted to make it as writers in the film industry.

Once a month, we’d take Laurel Canyon into Hollywood and blow our paychecks at the Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard. He’d moved here from England less than a year ago, so when he noticed the British-themed pub, he insisted we stop for lunch. When the bartender served me and didn’t serve Dominic, who was still a few years shy, Dominic let out a colorful, quintessentially English insult. The bartender immediately yelled across the bar at us. “Oi. Watch your language, son. This is a family establishment.” That line became a catchphrase between us that still makes me smile 30 years later. The Cat and the Fiddle became our go-to place for lunch whenever Dominic got homesick for London.

Shortly after we started going to the Laurel Canyon location, the Gardners moved their pub on Sunset Boulevard in the heart of Hollywood. We followed. Before hitting places like the Cathay de Grande, Club Lingerie, and the Anti-Club–darker, edgier places than today’s hipper-than-thou crowd on Cahuenga Boulevard would frequent–my friends and I, including a now happily legal Dominic, would start the night at the Cat and Fiddle. As it grew more popular, we often had to wait in line to get in.

I remember one night in particular standing out front for over an hour. The guy behind us tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I had been here before. Turns out, he and his friends were visiting from Israel and didn’t know anything about Los Angeles. I asked him if that was the case, how he knew about the Cat and Fiddle.

“Because,” he answered, “it’s in here.” He was holding up an Israeli travel guide book to Los Angeles. The Cat and Fiddle was one of only three places they recommended for tourists looking for some nightlife.

That’s when I knew the place was getting maybe a little too popular. As time went by, I didn’t make it to the Cat and Fiddle that often. I was living in the Valley and going to Hollywood seemed like too much of a hassle. But in 2004, I had a good reason to return.

I had met a woman online and after a month of e-mails and phone calls, we agreed it was time to meet. We got together one Sunday morning at Amoeba Music, poked around there for a bit, and then went to the Hollywood Farmer’s Market for lunch. That was supposed to be it. But it was such a nice day, the notion of a bloody mary on the Cat and Fiddle’s patio was just too tempting. One round led to a second. We got married a few years later.

All of that was a long time ago and things have changed. Tower Records is long gone, as are records in general. There’s a nice Italian restaurant under the Country Canyon store now. And it will be six years this August since Dominic passed away.

But last April, my wife and I decided to celebrate the 10-year anniversary of that first date. Once again, we headed to Hollywood on a warm Sunday morning. After stops at Amoeba Music and the Farmer’s Market, we found a patio table at the Cat and Fiddle and ordered a round of bloody marys with a traditional English breakfast.

We couldn’t get the same table as last time, but we watched the young couple sitting there stumble through what we guessed was their third date. At the table behind us, half-hidden in the shadows, was another couple. He was thin, pale, middle-aged, and dressed as if he’d just stepped off the stage after his band’s third encore. She was blonde, also thin and pale, and far too young. As they paid and left, I caught a snippet of his British accent. Rod Stewart would have been proud.

The owners are looking for a new location, but before this chapter of the Cat and Fiddle closes on December 15, I plan to go back for one last pint. But it’ll be hard to beat that last lazy Sunday afternoon spent on the patio. The sun was shining, the beer was cold, and Led Zeppelin was playing on the jukebox. It may have been a British pub, but that was a true Los Angeles moment.

The post Last Call at the Cat & Fiddle appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

There’s a certain look that I tend to respond to in bars. I like a timeless bar, one that looks like something out of an Edward Hopper painting, with tiled floors and dark wood and big windows for watching the people out in the street. (A corner bar is especially good for people watching.) I don’t like anything too done-up, overthought, overdesigned. I appreciate a patiently poured pint of Guinness, and cocktails made with a little love and attention. I’m eternally grateful for clean restrooms. And for bartenders who keep an eye on all their patrons, and who make sure that no one is letting their own good time get in the way of anyone else’s.

But two things are most important. The first is hardest to capture in words, almost ineffable. It is, essentially, the genius loci of a bar—the spirit of a place. You either feel it right away, or it’s just not there. It’s the singular energy that animates a bar, that distinguishes it from all others, that marks it as a place entirely its own. (If you ever have the good fortune to visit The Man of Kent, in the tiny town of Hoosick Falls in upstate New York, you’ll know just what I mean: You walk in, and straightaway you know that this bar is unlike any other.)

The other most important factor is the people. Above all else, people make or break a bar. A great bar always has a mix of patrons, young and old, male and female, rich and not rich, working all sorts of jobs, coming from different worlds, different professions, and different sensibilities.

The Liquor Store, in New York’s TriBeCa neighborhood was one place that passed these two tests. It’s long gone, and its former home has, to the heartbreak of many of us former regulars, become a J. Crew store, with the bar intact, just to torture us a little.  It sat on the sunny southeast corner of West Broadway and White Street, in a whitewashed federal-era building with a gambrel roof. I drank there in the late 1990s in the company of artists, students, burlesque revivalists, businessmen, editors, a tugboat captain, a cab driver, electricians, cooks, and craftsmen.

Sometimes it felt like a bar equivalent of Noah’s Ark, with two of everyone. And that’s exactly what bars are for: Bringing together people who might never otherwise meet, uniting us only because we all value whatever it is that makes that particular bar special. No other social space gives us that gift.

The post Where Everybody Knows Your Name appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

When I first patronized the Gowanus Yacht Club (better known to its fans, and by my friends and family, as “the GYC”) in the early summer of 2007, I wasn’t impressed. It’s not impressive. The GYC is an outdoor bar wedged in a small corner of concrete at the intersection of Smith and President Streets, practically on top of a subway exit in Brooklyn’s Carroll Gardens neighborhood. Customers crowd around uneven picnic tables hoping to catch the attention of the surly bartenders. It’s lit up by haphazardly strung Christmas lights. The menu is scrawled onto a chalkboard; when a keg runs dry, the beer is crossed (or smudged) off the list. The single toilet is down a dank flight of stairs. Visitors to the toilet must wash their hands with pink institutional soap stored in a ketchup bottle. My father declared it the worst bathroom he had seen in 20 years (he obviously doesn’t remember Gladstone, New Mexico). Overall, the GYC aesthetic is more white trash than white privilege—appropriate considering the bar’s namesake canal is a Superfund site.

But that summer of 2007 was incredibly hot. So without air conditioning in my apartment, I started going to the GYC more often. The umbrellas provided shade, and the surly bartenders brought cheap, cold beer to me at my uneven picnic table. Friends came, and we often met new friends chatting while waiting in line for the single toilet. Burgers went for $5, and cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon for $2.50. While still not impressive exactly, the GYC was an outdoor oasis for Brooklyn’s sad apartment dwellers. As fall came, I unhappily realized that the GYC was going to close for the winter. I attempted to stave off the inevitable by wearing progressively thick layers of clothes. Yet in late October, it closed.

I impatiently waited all winter long for the GYC to reopen. After weeks of Internet rumor-mongering, it just opened again one clement spring day—as it did for the next five years. I moved into bigger apartments (trading up from a windowless room to a converted closet with a window and finally to a room where I had a bathroom of my own)—never with any outdoor space—but the GYC remained my backyard. It’s where I went to celebrate taking my LSAT the second time (the first time was too much of a disaster even to drink), and then a few years later after I took the New York Bar Exam. Just before I moved last month, I said my farewells with my best friend there. Mostly, I just went there anytime the weather was good enough and I wanted to be with friends. I eventually discovered that the GYC serves the best PBR in town, and the bartenders aren’t surly at all—as long as you spend at least two years cultivating them.

As I’d expected, the Asheville Yacht Club didn’t measure up on my maiden voyage: it’s inside, open all year round, and the bartenders are attentive. But I think it might eventually. I didn’t use the bathroom while I was there, but judging from the divey tiki vibe, I imagine it’s similar to the GYC’s. So there’s potential.

Elizabeth A. Newman is a native of Ponca City, Oklahoma, and currently resides in Asheville, North Carolina. She really doesn’t spend that much time at bars.

*Photo courtesy of Elizabeth A. Newman.

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