How does a place become beloved? Well if it’s a bar—an area I consider myself a minor expert in having a spent an unusual amount of time in them—they have to be easy. If I’m going somewhere a lot I don’t want to concentrate too much. It shouldn’t be full every night, so you can pick your spots and talk with somebody or keep to yourself. It shouldn’t be too big, too loud or have a drink list that’s more than one page.

That’s why I used to love Jones, before it was renovated and then rebooted. And that’s why I loved Rusty Knot, which is, alas, set to close next weekend. Taavo Somer, the designer and one of its owners, is a good friend and we actually met each other at the bar. I used to go there on Monday nights, a good decade ago, and bring a copy of the New Yorker, which arrived that day, and sit in the booth by the door. I would read as the sun went down over the Hudson and text my friends (back when more lived in Manhattan) who might or might not stop by. It was a different point in all of our lives and a good one. 

The Rusty Knot staff also had their weekly meetings on Mondays. And one afternoon Taavo nodded toward the man by the window. “That man with the beard is always here. Does he work for us?” He asked. “Are we even open?” That became the beginning of, if I may say, a beautiful friendship. Taavo had lived in Minneapolis, where I grew up, so we talked about that and might have had a pickle back or two (good lord). Later we worked together at Freemans Sporting Club when the going was still good and then on the Freemans book. Though a friendship is never really about work it’s more about play. 

And the Rusty Knot is a specifically good place to play (sometimes too good—it was always too crowded on the weekends). I’m dubious of concept propositions, but the Rusty Knot, was supposed to be an old dive bar even when it was new. Taavo said he got the idea for it when he came across an amazing old ice maker and knew it belonged in a certain type of bar. I’m not sure I believe that, thought the ice maker was very satisfying.

The Knot worked because it followed simple principles of pleasure, which Taavo well understood. Cheap pool table, a few good cocktails, a few not so good wines (they were boxed from day one), a free jukebox (which was originally all yacht rock and mercifully migrated toward The Smiths, Neil Young and the Cure). There were some very good bartenders and one bad one. It may have began as a big idea but it was never fussy. If it was they wouldn’t have served something called a pretzel dog, which I doubt was ever ordered by a sober person.

It's strange to think how many times I ended up there when I had nothing to do or when I had something to celebrate. I had my fortieth birthday party there. I ended up there after the book party for Men and Style. I was there at opening time and thankfully rarely at closing time. The city is changing and after the pandemic it will be far less recognizable. We know that. But when a place you love disappears you realize how much it was part of your life. You may have already known that in the abstract but now it’s much more real. It’s sad because you’ll miss it, and bittersweet because you realize that part of your own past is truly over.