The gold hunters

by John David Borthwick

The American style of drinking is so different from that in fashion in the Old World, and forms such an important part of social intercourse, that it certainly deserves to be considered one of the peculiar institutions of the country.

In England a man reserves his drinking capacities to enhance the enjoyment of the great event of the day, and to increase the comfortable feeling of repletion which he experiences while ruminating over it. Dinner divides his day into two separate existences, and drinking in the forenoon suggests the idea of a man slinking off into out-of-the-way, mysterious places, and boozily muddling himself in private with quart pots of ale or numerous glasses of brandy-and-water.

With Americans, however, the case is very different. Dinner with them forms no such comfortable epoch in their daily life: it brings not even the hour of rest which is allowed to the laboring man—but it is one of the necessities of human existence, and, as it precludes all other occupations for the time being, it is despatched as quickly as possible. They do not drink during dinner, nor immediately afterwards. The most common excuse for declining the invitation of a friend to “take a drink,” is “Thank you, I’ve just dined.” They make the voyage through life under a full head of steam all the time; they live more in a given time than other people, and naturally have recourse to constant stimulants to make up for the want of intervals of abandon and repose. The necessary amount of food they eat at stated hours, but their allowance of stimulants is divided into a number of small doses, to be taken at short intervals throughout the day.

So it is that a style of drinking, which would ruin a man’s character in this or any other country where eating and drinking go together, is in the States carried on publicly and openly. The bars are the most favorite resort, being situated in the most frequented and conspicuous places; and here, at all hours of the day, men are gulping down fiery mouthfuls of brandy or gin, rendered still more pungent by the addition of other ingredients, and softened down with a little sugar and water.

No one ever thinks of drinking at a bar alone: he looks round for some friend whom he can ask to join him; it is not etiquette to refuse, and it is expected that the civility will be returned: so that the system gives the idea of being a mere interchange of compliments; and many men, in submitting to it, are actuated chiefly by a desire to show a due amount of courtesy to their friends.

In San Francisco, where the ordinary rate of existence was even faster than in the Atlantic States, men required an extra amount of stimulant to keep it up, and this fashion of drinking was carried to excess. The saloons were crowded from early morning till late at night; and in each, two or three bar-keepers were kept unceasingly at work, mixing drinks for expectant groups of customers. They had no time even to sell cigars, which were most frequently dispensed at a miniature tobacconist’s shop in another part of the saloon.

Among the proprietors of saloons, or bars, the competition was so great, that, from having, as is usual, merely a plate of crackers and cheese on the counter, they go to the length of laying out, for several hours in the forenoon, and again in the evening, a table covered with a most sumptuous lunch of soups, cold meats, fish, and so on,—with two or three waiters to attend to it. This was all free—there was nothing to pay for it: it was only expected that no one would partake of the good things without taking a “drink” afterwards.

This sort of thing is common enough in New Orleans; but in a place like San Francisco, where the plainest dinner any man could eat cost a dollar, it did seem strange that such goodly fare should be provided gratuitously for all and sundry. It showed, however, what immense profits were made at the bars to allow of such an outlay, and gave an idea of the rivalry which existed even in that line of business.

Another part of the economy of the American bar is an instance of the confidence placed in the discretion of the public—namely, the mode of dispensing liquors. When you ask for brandy, the bar-keeper hands you a tumbler and a decanter of brandy, and you help yourself to as much as you please: the price is all the same; it does not matter what or how big a dose one takes: and in the case of cocktails, and such drinks as the bar-keeper mixes, you tell him to make it as light, or stiff, as you wish. This is the custom even at the very lowest class of grogshops. They have a story in the States connected with this, so awfully old that I am almost ashamed to repeat it. I have heard it told a thousand times, and always located in the bar of the Astor House in New York; so we may suppose it to have happened there.

A man came up to the bar, and asking for brandy, was handed a decanter of brandy accordingly. Filling a tumbler nearly full, he drank it off, and, laying his shilling on the counter, was walking away, when the bar-keeper called after him, “Saay, stranger! you’ve forgot your change—there’s sixpence.” “No,” he said, “I only gave you a shilling; is not it a shilling a drink?” “Yes,” said the bar-keeper; “selling it retail we charge a shilling, but a fellow like you taking it wholesale we only charge sixpence.”