Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world

“By then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped. But if it was bad, the emptiness filled up by itself. If it was good you could only fill it up by finding something better.” - Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

It was the worst place for a bar, and consequently also the best place for one. The old Red Derby was almost at the top of the hill that led to all the bars in Adams Morgan; hidden away atop an Ethiopian restaurant with nothing visible to the street but a picture of a red derby hat and a dusty, decrepit staircase. The inside was painted vermilion red, and there was a pool table as you walked in, along with mismatched couches strewn around the place. The bar was hidden in the corner furthest away from the stairwell, long and sleek and organised. The sexiest parts of the place often escaped notice – the two large skylights, and the bathrooms, impossibly tiny but decorated with an artist’s eye for collage.

I think most of all it was the people that made it a comfortable bar because they were all interested in each other and in their drinks. They were all good and real and wished nothing but the best on you. There was always somebody there to talk to and everyone had stories. Even if they were lying they always told the stories well, and it was much more enjoyable than listening to a true story. And people only lied when they got too drunk, as everyone does, and then who can really blame them?

At the centre of it all were Sasha and Dave, who welcomed everyone in with a disarming honesty that made you feel at home immediately. They treated everyone like long-lost friends, and there is nothing else really to do with long-lost friends but raise your glasses. They would always sit and chat if they were not busy and were the perfect hosts. Pat, the bartender, had kind of a manic energy but in a good way, and it was always a good time talking to him.

Matthew brought me to this place the day after it had opened; he and Katie had stumbled upon it only the night before. For the next few months it was all I ever went to. I remember walking up that street and looking out for the lights of the main drag of Adams Morgan, and stopping before even getting there. We walked in semi-darkness past the tennis courts on the right and we were never there early enough. It was one of those places where you ordered a shot of Jamie and a Schlitz or a PBR to start the night, and then maybe you could trade up to a mixed drink. Nobody would look at you funny if you had a mixed drink. But it was beer that we were most often there to drink, and they had all their beer in cans so it was easy to drink and to dispose of.

The Derby did not last long in Adams Morgan: the official story was that they had gotten into a dispute with the landlords and had to move out. I found this out the night before they were to close, and it distressed me to no end. The night itself I was there from open to close, right to the very end when Sasha played ‘New York, New York’ and we all sang along. When the song ended she pushed us out even as we drunkenly called out for an encore. She told us that she wanted to clean up and get out early but I could see from her eyes that she wanted to close the doors and grieve in private. As I walked back down 18th St I felt like someone had kicked me in the shin with a steel-toed boot. I did not cry, but there was a knot in my stomach and it felt like there was no other pain in the world.

Dave had promised that they would reopen in another location but spring came and went and the Derby was still no more. There are other great bars in DC and I was never short on entertainment but as the days went by I became surer and surer that this had been a one-time deal. It had come and gone and I was glad I had taken advantage of it as best I could, but it had been taken away and all the good times could barely make up for the heartbreak.

The Red Derby finally reopened up in Petworth, and I was fortunate enough to visit it several times before leaving DC. They kept the vermilion red walls, and Sasha and Dave and Pat were still their amazing selves. They still served beer only in cans but had expanded their selection and had started serving food as well. But somehow it felt different and also it was ages away, so sadly I did not go there as often as I would have liked.

What I liked about both versions of the Red Derby was how effortlessly it transcended the sum of its physical spaces. I never felt like I was in a room of any sort when I was there, never noticed whether the walls were grimy or if the paint was chipped. Anybody can take a space and serve liquor and beer in it but it takes something else to transform that space into a bar that people enjoy themselves in and can call their own.

Dave had told us once that the Red Derby was his trial run, and what he really wanted to do was open a bar called the Gin Rickey, named after the drink. I knew that no matter how long it took or wherever the place might be I should try my best to be a supporter and a good friend. He and Sasha had no shortage of good, good friends and supporters but I enlisted as another without hesitation. For I knew if they could create a place as good as the Red Derby that they could go on to create more, and make even more people happy through food and drink.