The Amber Room, as we know it, Is Closing

The Amber Room (some know it as Amber Bar or just Amber) is closing down after new years eve. Its owners will put it under renovations for two weeks where it will emerge as a slightly more accommodating, hipper, smoke-free bar. That’s right. No more smoking at Amber Room. This is a time for mourning.

Let’s get right down to the problem with all of this. The owners, who I have always liked, are pretty bummed about the crowds, about the lack of crowds. They say they’re losing a lot of business and getting a lot of complaints about the smoking, even from the regulars. And who can blame them? Well, I can, but who else can blame them? They are running a business, not a haven for me. I suppose all I can do is feel greatful for the years I’ve had the bar, just as it is. Now, how was that possible?

Amber has been kept as a smoking bar for so many years, despite California bans on bar smoking because of a loophole in the law. The smoking law was written to protect the employees of any bar, saying it was their right to work in a smoke-free environment. So what’s the catch with Amber? It’s a co-op. All of the workers there are part owners. If everyone is an owner, there’s no employees to comlain about the smoke and their rights.

What’s so great about smoking in a bar. First off, if you’re a smoker, like I am, there is nothing more comforting than enjoying a smoke indoors. Nothing. It is the life-garnish to every occasion. It goes great as an aperitif before you start cooking, fantastic with a cocktail, and does anything pdistinguish an eloquent point in conversation quite as well as the lighting, smoking or exhaling of a fresh cigarette? Nothing.

For those of you who are non-smokers, who hated it, who are enthusiastic about the changes. Fuck off. Seriously, no offence, but fuck off. You don’t have to like all the smoke. It’s my bar. I get that your clothes and hair stink. It’s my fucking bar. I’m happy there. I don’t mind the smell. You don’t have to come in.

Then there’s the douche-factor. Even assholes who do smoke tend to shy away from smoky bars. I feel like it’s something to do with wanting to have the smoke but not eat it too, or something else involving staying clean.

“But you’ll have the new outdoor patio to smoke on.” When the smokers get sent outside, it will be another clear example of smoker segregation. The point, dear ma’dam, is exactly to stay indoors. Why should I have to stand outside, hearded into an 8x8foot pen, arm crooked up against my body, cigarette pointed towards the sky like a loaded pistol. Give me back my sofa, my long, lean-back story with smoke in one hand and guiness in the other. Don’t send me outside with those pricks.

And now, The Eulogy:

Amber Room was the first bar I was properly introduced to in San Francisco, one of the favorites of my friends who had, just months before me, moved to Market and Castro. They were six friends living in a small but comfortable apartment on the top floor of a building in the heart of the Castro Disctrict. Every night was a party, every day was morning after brunch.

Amber has always been my bar of choice, my default. I have never been over the crowd on a Saturday night, never felt akward by the quiet of a modest Tuesday. Amber is where I wrote half of my essays in college, where I took half of my dates, where I met the love of my life, my current girlfriend. I have always loved her (we’re still talking about Amber, though my girlfriend is truly lovely), and will always remember her fondly. She will be missed.

together