An American Bar

What has that ever meant, and what might it mean when the world changes tomorrow?

One of my favorite travel activities in a European city is seeking out a top-notch American Bar. They’re often in hotels, they’re usually overpriced, but they’re almost always fantastic. I think my favorite has been the one at The Stafford in London - the military-and-college-branded hats and ribbons hanging from the ceiling was a fun addition, and the glassware was fantastically inventive.

But, aside from the American brands on the ceiling, what made it an American bar? There was bourbon and rye on offer, certainly. But I think there was more Scotch. There was a large amount of tequila and rum, and dozens of Italian bottles. I don’t believe a Budweiser was available. And I highly doubt there was any American gin with such a wealth of excellent English options so close.

An American bar, therefore, can really only be defined by “a vibe.” You know one when you see one. You certainly know one when you’re in one. It has almost nothing to do with the drinks on the menu or the bottles behind the bar.

And that, I think, is what makes it American! The menu is creative, probably expensive, but the components are always top-tier. The service is impeccable, the snacks are sweet and salty, and the seating is heavily cushioned. It is comfortable, more than the sum of its parts, and confident in combining those things into something wholly unique. Ingredients are, indeed, being mixed to great effect. It can be anything it wants to be, and it can constantly evolve that decision.

But what happens when all of a sudden what’s behind the bar has to start mattering to stay in business?

My American Home Bar

In my own bar, there’s really very little that’s “truly” American. The Bourbon, of course (Washington). And the Rye (Kentucky). The sugar I use for my simple is from Florida. I assume, but do not know for sure, that the oranges and lemons in my fridge at any given time are US-grown as well. And Fee Brothers produces all of their bitters domestically.

Other things would be relatively easy to replace with domestic alternatives. There is a wealth of amazing American gin. Fee Brothers produces aromatic bitters that are a decent sub for Angostura.

But what of the tequila? The rum? The brandy? There are a few domestic agave and cane spirits, and they’re growing, but they’re not the same. Applejack may be the most American of spirits, but it ain’t Cognac.

The liqueurs, vermouths, and amari have no domestic alternatives; sure there are some bottles out there, but they’re all so different that they can’t swap into a recipe without modifications. We have not been making them for hundreds of years with a secret recipe. Just like no one else could exactly replace KFC or Coke.

The only cocktail I can absolutely make with only American bottles is the Old Fashioned, and even then I’d need to forgo the Angostura bitters and the cherry (and its juice) that helps bring it all together.

None of my house recipes are tariff-proof, or really very close to it.

Mixing Countries

But the reality is, even a slightly-modified Old Fashioned wouldn’t be unaffected. I don’t know exactly where each of those producers is sourcing all of their ingredients before it all gets into the bottles, and I don’t know where they’re sourcing the bottles either, but I guarantee that in no instance is the answer ever “only the US.” And certainly the distilling equipment, and most of the bottling equipment, isn’t made here!

So, the mash bill cost has increased. Repair and replacement budgets must grow. Margins are shrinking. Made in America will either cost someone more; the only open question is how much of that impact hits which parts of the value chain. I might be spared as the consumer, but this isn’t a famously high-margin business; shrinking profits may push some of these smaller producers out of business (or into a conglomerate) over time.

Taking Out the Middle Man

And that’s only the stuff that’s made here! For everything else, what happens? The US is the world’s largest importer of alcohol; Gruppo Campari, LVMH, and all the rest can’t ignore it or they’ll face existential questions too. But they’re huge and have good pricing power, so they should be able to avoid taking on much of the cost themselves.

They’ll pass it onto importers, because importing alcohol is a highly-specialized business in the US. There is a very limited number of people who can buy this stuff, and buying this stuff is their only business. They buy it, hold it, and resell it. Sometimes to wholesalers, and sometimes directly to retailers. Occasionally those wholesalers and retailers will do some of their own importing, but that’s the exception that proves the rule.

Some importers are massive, and they’ll be fine. They have pricing power with their wholesale and retail partners and they’ll pass on their increased cost of the imports. But many more, like Jason Wilson’s officemate, are small and specialized and have no pricing power. They’re on the hook for a much more expensive bill to get their stuff off the boat, and even if they can afford that they don’t have much pricing power downstream to push that down.

These are the tastemakers. These people are doing the legwork to find awesome new stuff and bring it here. They’re usually working with smaller retailers that build those local communities. They drive local traffic and sales dollars. They make the interesting part of the world of booze in the US go round.

Importers get a bad rap, and I get it. No one likes a middle man. It’s annoying when you calculate the retail markup you’re paying and you realize that ~20% may disappear if only the retailer could buy directly, and someone else now has your hard-earned money for only taking something off a boat and shipping it along to the store.

That’s selling them a bit short, but still: some criticism is valid here. The regulatory environment around alcohol in the US is tedious at best, and there’s undoubtedly extra costs that inflate prices that aren’t really adding value or improving safety. But those regulations aren’t being discussed. The plan, as it stands, is business-as-usual-but-way-more-expensive.

Less American, Not More

This, to me, is true tragedy. Small businesses will shutter, communities will shrink, and local spend will begin to dry up. The folks available to step up into those gaps will try their best, but they won’t be able to fully fill them.

And so, my American Home Bar will start to look less American. There may be more domestic product on it, but there will be less variety. There will be less flavor. There will be less creativity. There will be less history. There will be more imitation and less originality. There will be more limitations. And it’s not even conceivable that this could change for at least a decade. My money’s on closer to two.

I don’t know when it will start, or if it will end. I expect I’ll be able to handle it better than most, and a degradation of my home bar is a silly complaint in the grand scheme of things. But it’s sad. It’s not my kind of American.

An American Bar is defined by vibes. And the vibes are exceptionally bad. I want to find ways to make them just a little better where I can.