Illustration: Pete Lloyd SEPTEMBER 2019 13

Outside, the night is humid and flat. But inside, it feels like the setting
of a Raymond Carver story. Standing by the stone archway entrance to
the bar, like two cylindrical centurion guards, is a pair of 10-foot rusted
tanks. They face a hotel lobby full of old-fashioned leather chairs and
couches and checkered tile mixed with exposed industrial beams and
pipes and valves. Through the archway is a huge Castilian chamber,
a sort of steampunk-chic bar and lounge with tall cement pillars, an
arched cement ceiling, an unfinished wooden floor, and a faintly glow-
ing brick fireplace.
In the corner, a man in a pink polo shirt talks quietly into his phone.
Two other men, still wearing their golf clothes, share cocktails and
laughs on the couches by the entrance. Behind the bar, the two bartend-
ers on duty are recounting a few of their favorite stories about the place:
how the building used to be the Pearl brewery and this room was the
bottling room, how the chandelier was made with the brass wheel
from the old bottle-labeling machine, how a certain lead actor from the
Lonesome Dove miniseries likes to come in and sit in a corner upstairs,
away from the crowd. As soon as the bartenders see the actor, they start
making his margarita.
This is the Sternewirth Tavern & Club Room at Hotel Emma, in San
Antonio. The bar’s name comes from the “Sternewirth Privilege,” an

1800s tradition that entitled employees of breweries to

free beer during the workday. It’s the kind of place that

shows up on all sorts of Best Hotel Bars lists, understand-

ably. On top of the celebrity sightings, custom cocktails,

and modish décor—some of the giant brewery tanks have

been converted into booths—you can also take your drink

to one of the leather chairs in the massive, two-story,

3,700-volume library.

This is the first stop on my three-day journey to hang

out in a few destination hotel bars in Texas, to commune

with strangers and hear fantastical stories, to experi-

ence the fascinating interactions that tend to occur in

the tomorrow-be-damned atmosphere a great hotel bar

conjures. After two hours on a stool at the end of the bar,

though, I unfortunately don’t have much.

A few small groups come and go, but it’s been a slow,

quiet night—that is, until a voice behind me says some-

thing along the lines of: “You are holding my possessions

hostage!” And, “I’ll be forced to turn the matter over to

the police!”

When I turn around, I see a man in his 40s, wearing

tennis shoes, exercise clothes, and a baseball cap, and he’s

ranting into his phone—leaving a message for someone.

He puts his phone down, exasperated. Seeing that the

bartenders and I have taken notice, he tries to explain.

He’s from Orange County, California, he says. He’s in

town visiting his girlfriend. They had a fight, he left and

came here, and now she’s not answering her phone. He’s

not completely sober and doesn’t get into much detail,

but he’s worried about work meetings he has back home

tomorrow afternoon, worried about his computer and his

clothes, worried about his whole relationship.

He orders me a drink, and one for himself, and he asks

if anyone can help distract him.

“Tell me a story,” he says. He’s tense, trying not to look

at his phone.

I’m sure I can come up with something, but before I get

the chance, the barback, a barrel-chested man in his 20s,

O

Some stories you can only share with a stranger

By Michael J. Mooney

OPEN ROAD | ESSAY

The Magic of

a Hotel Bar