November in Old Town

Well, the trees in NoVa are finally changing over and dropping leaves in force here. It's still too warm for this time of year; blame it on global warming, bad karma or the wrath of imaginary gods, but there should be a cold crispness in there somewhere.
I am always reminded of bar hopping around Old Town around this time. Oh hell, I know that bar hopping was hardly a seasonal activity for me, but certain places seemed more appropriate for it at certain times of the year: Summer was Gtown, Foggy Bottom, maybe Oldtown, a pub or two out at the West End and the dives out in Maryland; Spring was Downtown; Winter was back to Gtown; but Fall is when I think Old Town really shone. Scuffling down bricked walks, kicking up the leaves, and surrounded by age - a perfect Autumn night. My favorite place in the mid and late 70's was Masons, up at Fairfax and King Streets. It's long gone now, like virtually all my other favorite places. I'd go there alone, or often with some of you reading this now. the thing I liked best about it was the basement bar area, (there were two upper floors that were devoted to the restaurant end of things). It was one of the least pretentious and most comfortable places to hang out. There were large community tables only, but I was never hassled or annoyed by anyone there. In fact, the relaxed atmosphere seemed to make both customers and employees calmer and friendlier than one would normally get at other Old Town establishments. The head bartender was a Springsteen fan and had created two drinks in honor of his songs. Too many years have forced their exact contents from my mind. The Rosalita I only sampled once, it was a wretched thing with sloe gin and a sweetness that even now sends minor shock waves through my psyche. But the Backstreets had a gentler taste, a definite cousin to the Zombie, without the circus-conflict of too many types of rum, served in pint-sized jars. Four or five of them made even the late 70's more tolerable.
Once, the place almost burned down on me. One of the few times I've ever left a bar before I was ready. Edmund and I were there that evening. At first we just smelled a slightly acrid scent. I questioned our server who casually replied there'd been a small kitchen fire that had already been put out. Five minutes later, there was a definite haze in the air. Another question to our server was met with the same casual assurance that all was well. A further five minutes went by and the basement was now full of smoke. I could barely make Edmund's face out across the table from me. The server never lost his cool, mentioning that we might be more comfortable upstairs, (correctly assuming we wouldn't be comfortable being burned alive), ushering us quickly to a booth in the restaurant upstairs as sirens wailed and firemen rushed past us to put out a major conflagration in the back.
Alcohol has never affected physics, nor my understanding of it, and I realized that being directly above a blaze was no protection at all from it. We finished our drinks, (of course!), but then hustled out to some establishment not about to become kindling. A little excitement for the evening.
Masons made it into the early 80's but disappeared soon thereafter, replaced by an Afghan restaurant which in turn was given over to a Thai one. And, much to my regret, I rarely make it over to Old Town anymore. But tonight reminded me a bit of it. The gentle rustling of leaves, and an aroma in the air - someone's having a fire...