The Best Night of My Life

I was out late last night, nursing jasmine tea and playing online at a 24-hour café downtown suggestively named Tom-and-Toms (inside of which there were both a small gym and a fish-tank smoking section.) Finishing up around 1:30 a.m. I stepped out onto a dark street shimmering with reflected neon signs in puddles formed by a good hour’s worth of rain drizzling from a black sky. After only a few steps toward home I realized the clouds were done fooling around: The day had been sunny and warm, so I was without an umbrella or sleeves and was not looking forward to the hike home in these conditions. That is why I decided to turn in when I saw the sign for the German Bar. I had been told that this was not a bad little business, with musical acts regularly and a decent foreign crowd. I was a little disappointed, though, as I passed through the double doors and realized that the crowd was freshly evacuated: Evidenced by empty and near-empty mugs crowded on most of the tables and cigarette butts pouring over ashtray edges. Only two Korean men remained, leaning together at the bar with drinks and smokes of their own. I guessed immediately that the elder was the bar's owner and the younger his employee. My first thought was to turn on my heels and apologize for intruding after business hours, but they opened their arms and welcomed me loudly and sincerely. Hello! Welcome!

I asked if they would mind serving me a single whiskey while I waited out the rain, and the owner bowed his head slightly while holding a sideways smile and walked around to the front of the bar, pulled out a chair and motioned me over. Once I inquired, this man claimed to be known as Casanova, and his employee answered to Playboy. The man's attitude was joyous, kind, playful and mysterious all at once. He spoke English quite well, and I was thankful to have this moment for some small talk with an interesting stranger.

He told me about his family: "My wife, she looks terrible, but my girlfriend is very pretty"

He told me his children are beautiful, and I asked how old they are- "Not as old as I am," he replied, "And so they are very, very young."

Finally, after feeling I had waited a polite enough amount of time, I asked if I might be allowed to play with the guitar I had noticed on the stage the moment I walked in. There was also a full drum set, an amp, and an electric piano that needed some repair. Of course, he said, and fetched the instrument for me. The fourth string was broken, but he had backups.

I laid the guitar on top of the bar, pushing aside some napkin holders and empty mugs. Mr. Casanova stood across the bar from me for the operation, and, when I asked if he might have pliers around, produced a small box of tools without moving an inch. “Happy to be of service” may be his motto in life… that or “It’s all good”. I don’t believe he ever stops smiling that slightly suspicious grin.

Both men watched me wind the string. Playboy had prepared a Jack on the rocks for me but seemed uncomfortable with the amount of ice he’d included, and twice fished an extra cube from a small bucket with tongs to carry carefully to my glass. Once I had a sip or two and got the guitar in tune, I asked what I could play that they might know. They both seemed eager with suggestions for a moment, but as soon as Mr. Casanova saw I was not from the same America they had piped in through the airwaves, he asked if I would play something of my own. “This is best, always,” he said.

I opened with my song, “Isn’t Any Town”, and when it ended I looked up and found both men completely attentive and breaking into cheers. “You are genius!” Mr. Casanova shouted. “Please more!” Next I played Bobby McGee, A Case of You, and Creep- all receiving enthusiastic applause along with vague familiarity.

Then we had a joiner.

A man walked in with longish hair under a smart green hat like Tom Waits would not shake a stick at. He sat in the chair on the corner between Casanova and myself, and seemed very pleased at our little scene. He had an almost permanent smile also, though more demure. He introduced himself timidly as Mr. Cho. I believe he was Casanova’s brother or cousin. I played more songs; Bizarre Love Triangle, House of the Rising Sun; one or two more of my own, and Mr. Cho constructed a small percussion set out of the napkin holders and mugs with chopstick drumsticks and kept my rhythm, even sang backup now and then. I was quite glad of his addition, and eventually relinquished the guitar to his capable hands. He played with thick calloused fingers, picking professionally and singing with strength and confidence. Beautiful, beautiful. Mr. Cho sang a handful of Korean love songs and tried to play songs for me to sing (oh, yes, at this point Mr. Casanova had grabbed the microphone and set it up between me and Mr. Cho) but I am afraid I let him down on my knowledge of lyrics by Peter Paul and Mary and, sadly, even Elvis Presley. (As a side note, I am continuously surprised by which popular American songs, shows and movies make it this far and which ones don’t- More on that later)

The two of us passed the guitar and the mic back and forth, making each song a duet somehow, although neither backup singer ever knew what the hell we were singing. Mr. Casanova and Playboy did not get back to work or clean up the mess of the missing crowd. No, they listened and clapped and smiled and praised. Mr. Casanova said “This is the best night of my life” a number of times until I conceded his point. Now a couple wondered in from the storm; a tall, pretty Korean woman in a bright yellow shirt and her date who seemed homely and smitten. They came in as I was finishing “Sweet Nothing” with Mr. Cho banging out the beat with his chopsticks. They, too, were happy for the surprise entertainment, and offered to buy me a drink in exchange for another song. Mr. Cho took the guitar and played, finally, a song I knew and knew well- and we rocked out to “What’s Up” by 4 Non-Blondes: When I got to the screaming parts, my female audience screamed with me.

When I played “Albatross”, Mr. Cho was touched and asked me to explain the love story. I began, but his English ears are not so good, and he soon gave up and stopped me, “I don’t understand,” waving his hands in front of him to signal my story’s end, “but I think I understand,” and he pulls both hands in to his chest, covering his heart, and nodding slightly.

Music breathed deeply and freely in the German Bar. Mr. Casanova disappeared into the kitchen twice, returning after a song’s time with a plate of fish and then a plate of eggs cooked with peppers, onions and cheese for Mr. Cho and me. I hopped over to the piano and made tinkering additions to Mr. Cho’s Korean songs. He ran over with the guitar and I played a song or two there on the stage, the piano missing keys.

When we struggled to think of words to a song together, Mr. Casanova pulled up the karaoke equipment and had us look there. We sang You are My Sunshine, Hounddog, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Friends in Low Places, House of the Rising Sun (again), a couple of Dylan tunes, Proud Mary… how I wish I could remember them all. I wish I could remember every tiny detail of this magical night.

Mr. Casanova never ceased his praise. He said he wants me to come back Friday and Saturday to play and meet some people. “I will introduce you! I have more friends than you!” he said laughing. “But my friends will be your friends. Maybe you come here every night. I will make you dinner- and if I am here, you do not pay for things. If it’s my staff, different story, but me- you are free”

The guitar was black. The eggs and cheese were delicious. The cheese, he said, was Korean- no added salt or sugar. I was wearing jeans rolled up, my black shirt with white flowers. Mr. Casanova commented on my Irish heritage. He would not give me a straight answer as to why his bar is the German bar. Mr. Cho said Mr. Casanova lived in Germany a while ago, but Mr. Casanova denied this claim with a shaking head and, “No, that’s what people tell me- but I don’t remember that. But I don’t know- Maybe.”

As we slowed on songs, Mr. Casanova ordered Playboy to get him his song. Playboy chuckled and set up the karaoke for his boss. The girl in yellow braced herself with fingers hovering next to her ears. Mr. Casanova gave a most magnificent performance of “I Did It My Way”.

5:00 A.M. rolled around. My glass was empty, my heart was full, my head was swimming and the rain had slowed. I decided to say goodnight to my new friends and trudge home.

I plan to return Friday or Saturday- who knows, maybe both, as he requested. I will play there again, with a bigger audience next time, most likely. But I am reluctant to return in a way. I don’t believe this experience there could possibly be topped.

The next morning, I learned Kevin had spent his evening making music also. He finished his first song. No, you’ll never hear it- but I did, and out of all the songs created that night, I do believe his will stand out the most in my memory.

But it’s like Mr. Casanova said: You must play your own song. This is best, always.