Tales from the Bar
Cocktails, Conversations, and Unlikely Altars
Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had happened across a bar. Not the noisy kind where the music drowns you out, but the quiet corners where the ice melts slowly in the glass and people tell the truth they didn’t plan on sharing.
I bartended my way through college. Back then, I thought I was just paying tuition and rent. Looking back, I realize I was also learning how to listen — how to notice the way someone holds a glass when they’re nervous, how a story can shift when you give it enough silence, how the right drink at the right time can feel less like a transaction and more like an act of caring and kindness.
I still remember one of my early solo shifts behind the bar. The manager told me to focus on pouring drinks and not get caught up in customer conversations. Well, you know me — I didn’t listen. There was an older gentleman, nursing a whiskey, staring into the distance. I asked if he wanted another. He just shook his head. But he came in every week, ordered the same whiskey, and little by little began to tell me about his wife who had passed away — how he missed her laugh, how her perfume used to linger in the hallway. I didn’t have answers, but I had time. And sometimes, that’s all someone needs.
I’ll admit — I didn’t learn much about the history of cocktails while bartending. I was young and only cared about talking to people, slinging their drinks, having a good time, and making enough to pay for school. The real history came later, in these last few years, as I’ve been making drinks for friends and family, listening to podcasts, and reading about the origins of the classics. Now I find myself pairing the stories behind the drinks with the stories I’ve carried from the people who’ve sat across from me — in bars, in church pews, and in living rooms.
Years later, as a pastor and now as a celebrant, I’ve stood in other places where people tell the truth — at hospital bedsides, gravesides, kitchen tables. It’s not so different from a bar, really. The lighting changes. The glassware changes. But people still need a place to be heard.
That’s what Unlikely Altars has always been about — those sacred, surprising places where grace shows up without warning. This new series is simply taking that same lens and setting it on a bar top. Because sometimes the altar is a bar top worn smooth by years of conversation, lit by a neon beer sign, and set with a glass instead of a chalice.
This series is about those places — and the drinks that go with them. Some you’ll recognize, some you won’t. Each post will bring you a story, a bit of bar lore, and a recipe (always with a zero-proof option, because the altar isn’t in the alcohol, it’s in the ritual).
There’s a sacred rhythm to making a drink well — the measured pour, the quiet stir, the citrus peel pressed just so. Not because you’re trying to impress, but because you’re paying attention. That’s all most of us want, really. For someone to pay attention.
They’re not sermons. They’re not drink manuals. They’re glimpses of grace served with a story — sometimes in a rocks glass.
So pull up a stool. The first altar is waiting — and it’s Old Fashioned.
May you find your own unlikely altar — whether it’s at a bar, a kitchen counter, or a park bench. May the conversations be honest, the company kind, and the moments slow enough to savor. And may grace meet you there, right where you are, in whatever glass you hold.
Disclaimer: Alcohol can be enjoyed responsibly, but it is not for everyone. If you are in recovery, choose not to drink, or simply prefer another way, every recipe in this series will include a non-alcoholic version. The sacred moment isn’t in the alcohol — it’s in the slowing down, the paying attention, and the company you keep. If you need support, organizations like Alcoholics Anonymous (aa.org) are there to help.
Note: This post reflects on a cocktail, but really it’s about ritual and grace. If alcohol isn’t for you, the altar can be tea, coffee, water, or stillness just the same. I didn’t develop a taste for the Old Fashioned until Hurricane Harvey. I didn’t lose power, but the floodwaters rose all around me, turning streets into rivers and plans into question marks. For days, I was stuck inside — not in danger, just surrounded. Restless. Grateful. One slow afternoon, I remembered something I had read — a description of an Old Fashioned, elegant in its simplicity: bourbon, bitters, sugar, orange peel. So, I made one. Not to escape, but to pause. To breathe. To anchor myself in something steady. I didn’t know then that I was stepping into a kind of ritual — that the act of making this drink, slowly and with intention, would become a quiet practice for me. A way of creating a small altar in the middle of uncertainty. Now — before we go any further, let’s talk about the name: Old Fashioned. It sounds like something your granddad might order right after telling you how gas used to be 29 cents a gallon. Or like your aunt who still writes checks at the grocery store and thinks “LOL” means “lots of love.” But the drink itself? It’s aged beautifully. Simple, steady, and still showing up on menus everywhere. Turns out “old-fashioned” isn’t always an insult. Sometimes it just means tried-and-true. Later, I learned that the Old Fashioned is considered one of the earliest cocktails, dating back to the early 1800s. Originally called a “whiskey cocktail,” it was just spirits, sugar, water, and bitters. Over time, as drinks got fancier and more complicated, some folks asked for it to be made “the old-fashioned way.” The name stuck. Simplicity became its signature. There’s something almost liturgical about the process — not in the sense of organ music or stained glass, but in the steady rhythm of it all. The slow swirl of the spoon. The clink of ice settling into glass. The careful peel of citrus, not just for garnish, but as a kind of offering. It’s a ritual that invites you to slow down and pay attention. Like any good liturgy, it’s not meant to be rushed. You don’t chug an Old Fashioned. You honor it. You sit with it. You let it open you up — not for escape, but for reflection, maybe even reverence. It’s no surprise that so many of us reach for rituals when we’re weary. Whether it’s lighting a candle, saying a prayer, walking the same wooded trail, or crafting the perfect cocktail, there’s comfort in repetition. A sacred rhythm in doing something the old way — not because it’s trendy, but because it tethers us to something older, deeper, steadier. The Old Fashioned is often seen as a “dad drink,” a grandfather’s favorite, a retro relic. Maybe that’s part of its charm. It connects us to people we miss. To stories we’ve heard at the corner of a bar or the edge of a kitchen counter. It reminds us that presence matters. That slow is sacred. In some strange way, the Old Fashioned mirrors the gospel. Because the gospel, like the drink, is simple at its heart — just a few core ingredients: love, mercy, truth. Not flashy. Not complicated. But with power that sneaks up on you. It’s meant to be savored, not rushed. Received, not conquered. Shared, not hoarded. And like any good ritual, grace is best experienced in community. Over stories. Laughter. Honest confessions. And maybe even a few regrets. You can’t microwave an Old Fashioned. And you can’t fast-track grace. Both require a kind of patience that modern life resists. You have to show up. Measure things out. Pay attention. Trust the process. Maybe even believe that slowing down isn’t laziness, but holiness. I’ve come to believe that even small rituals — especially in the moments when no one else is around — can hold us together. So here’s to the Old-Fashioned. And to all the unlikely altars we find in things stirred slowly, tasted deeply, and shared freely. May your glass be full — not just of bourbon and bitters, but of memory, meaning, mercy, and maybe a maraschino cherry if that’s how you roll. And may you always find God — not just in stained glass or scripture, but in the hush of an evening, the rhythm of a sacred habit, and the grace that still finds us, even when the lights are on and the streets are flooded. A Note of Care: If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart. Recipe: The Old Fashioned 1 sugar cube (or ½ tsp dark sugar) Splash of soda water 2–3 dashes Angostura bitters 2 dashes orange bitters 2 oz rye or bourbon (I like James E. Pepper 116 proof rye for backbone) Garnish: Amarena cherry (never maraschino) and/or orange peel Method : Muddle the sugar cube with bitters and a splash of soda water in a rocks glass until it dissolves. Add whiskey and ice. Stir slowly until chilled. Garnish with an orange peel twist or, if you must, an Amarena cherry. Sip. Savor. Do not rush.
One of the things I love about baseball is that you can’t run the clock out. There’s no dribbling the ball to kill the last seconds or taking a knee until the whistle blows. Nine innings. No ties. If the score’s even after 9 innings, the game isn’t over - - it just keeps going. Nine innings can feel like a lifetime when you’re losing and like a blink when you’re ahead in the ninth and the other team is down to their last strike. But then there are those special games - - the ones that refuse to end. You know the kind: both teams have had their 27 outs, the score is still tied, and the air is thick with tension. Welcome to extra innings. Every pitch, every swing, every foul ball becomes part of a slow-burn drama. The script is gone. The game starts writing itself in real time, and you’re never sure if the next swing will be the last. Just ask Carlton Fisk. It was Game 6 of the 1975 World Series - - Boston Red Sox vs. Cincinnati Reds. The game had already gone past midnight, deep into extra innings. Fisk came up to bat in the bottom of the 12th, the crowd on edge. He swung, connected, and sent the ball soaring toward the foul pole in left field. As he ran down the first base line, Fisk famously waved his arms, willing the ball to stay fair. It did. The crowd erupted. The game was over, and that single swing became one of the most iconic moments in baseball history. Extra innings carry both the weariness of the battle and the thrill of possibility. And life is a lot like that. Grief can be an extra innings game. You think you’ve made it to the end; the funeral is over, the casseroles are eaten, the thank-you cards are mailed. And then, months later, a song plays, or an empty chair catches your eye and the ache rushes back like it’s brand new. But sometimes, even in the later innings, there’s a flicker of beauty a memory that makes you smile through tears, a reminder you’re not as alone as you feel. Relationships have extra innings too. Sometimes you’re still in it, but it feels like the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Conversations that once flowed now work against the count. Every word matters. Every silence feels louder. And yet… you’re still on the field together. Still showing up. I’ve seen it in families keeping vigil in a hospital room - - hours blurring, fluorescent lights humming, burnt coffee lingering. Then, in between the beeping of machines, someone cracks a joke. Soft laughter rises in the middle of exhaustion. It’s not denial - - it’s survival. I’ve seen it in people whose “Plan B” career became the thing they were made for all along. What started as a detour became the road they were meant to walk - - a calling they wouldn’t have found without the curveball that sent them there. Extra innings can be exhausting. They can feel like a test you never signed up for. But they can also be holy ground - - Unlikely Altars - - those sacred places where grace meets us long after we thought the story was finished. Grace doesn’t play by our timing. It stays when we’re ready to pack it in. It keeps showing up in the dugout, ready to step to the plate one more time. When we whisper, “I can’t do this anymore,” grace says, “Just one more pitch.” Sometimes the win we’ve been hoping for doesn’t look the way we pictured it. It’s not always a walk-off home run. Sometimes it’s just enough light to see through another inning. Sometimes it’s the hand on your shoulder reminding you you’re not alone. The breakthrough doesn’t always come in regulation. Sometimes you have to hang in for a few more pitches, a few more sleepless nights, a few more honest conversations. Extra innings aren’t just about winning — they’re about discovering what you’re made of. And about the grace that keeps showing up, even when you’re ready to quit. If you’re in extra innings right now - - in your health, your work, your relationships, your faith - - remember Yogi Berra’s words: “It ain’t over till it’s over.” The story’s not over. Not yet. Because sometimes, the most sacred stories are the ones that go into extra innings. And sometimes, the most Unlikely Altars are built right there - - in the long wait, in the stubborn hope, in the space where grace refuses to leave.
In the 1960s, the Mets were terrible. Not just bad - - lovably, inventively, heartbreakingly terrible. And in the middle of all that losing, one fan kept the faith with a marker and a message. He was known as Sign Man , Karl Ehrhardt. Always seated in the box seats on the third base line at Shea Stadium, derby on his head and a folder full of signs at his feet. He brought 60 to every game, handpicked from a collection of 1,200, each ready for a moment. Some were clever, some were brutal, all were honest. One of his signs read:
“To err is human. To forgive is a Mets fan.” I remember seeing him when I was a kid. He was a legend; part cheerleader, part critic, part poet of the bleachers. And that sign? That one stuck with me. Because baseball is a game of failure. Even the greats fail more than they succeed. Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs - - and struck out 1,330 times. Cy Young won 511 games - - and lost 316. That’s the rhythm of the game: t ry, fail, recover, repeat. But not every error gets that kind of turnaround. Sometimes the error becomes the moment - - the one you carry, the one who have to learn to live with. Just ask Bill Buckner. Game 6. 1986 World Series. Red Sox vs. Mets. Bottom of the 10th. The ball trickles through Buckner’s legs at first base, and the Mets go on to win. That single play cost him years of peace. Boston needed a villain. Buckner, a solid player with a long career, became the face of failure. He stayed away from Fenway. The city stayed mad. Until 2004.When the Red Sox finally won the World Series, fans held up a banner that read:
“Forgive Buckner.” It took 18 years - - but grace caught up. That’s the thing about errors. They don’t define the whole game. They’re part of it. Part of us. Not just on the field but in the living rooms and hospital rooms and quiet conversations that never quite go the way we hoped. We all make errors. We speak too quickly, or not at all. We say things we wish we could take back, and leave other things unsaid until it's too late. We mess up relationships, drift from people we love, miss the mark as parents, partners, friends. There are divorces, estrangements, and phone calls we still haven’t returned. And sometimes we wear our errors like a jersey - - as if that one play, that one failure, is the whole story. Grace remembers differently - - not to condemn, but to redeem. Its voice doesn’t shout; it whispers hope. Grace is stubborn - - holding your hand through the long nights, offering a clean slate in the morning, and whispering, “You’re still welcome here,” even after the mess. It’s not just forgiveness, it’s so much more. It’s restoration. A reminder that we are not the sum of our failures, but the beloved bearers of a story still unfolding. Grace is God’s way of saying, “I see all of you — and I’m not going anywhere.” Grace shows up not to excuse what happened, but to help you stand up again. It’s the banner in the crowd after 18 long years. It’s the walk-off home run you never saw coming. It doesn’t erase the past, but it refuses to let the worst thing be the last thing. In The Dark Knight , Alfred says to Bruce Wayne, “Why do we fall? So, we can learn to pick ourselves up.” That’s grace. Not the absence of failure but the courage to rise again, story still unfolding. We all miss the grounder. We all make the wild throw. We all have those plays we’d rather forget. But grace doesn’t show up after perfection - it shows up in the middle of the mess. Sometimes, the most sacred stories begin in failure. Often, the most unlikely altars are built right there - - in the rubble of regret, in the shadow of a mistake, in the space where grace rushes in. And sometimes, the loudest cheer comes after the biggest mistake. Just ask a Mets fan.