Abbey Bar
I can’t exactly recall how we came upon the Abbey. I know it started with a load of laundry at Check Point Charlie, along with a few beers at the bar while the clothes washed and spun dry. A great idea – laundromat, bar, food, pool tables and live music – all under the same roof [see Check Point Charlie]. We were told that Coop’s Place was where we should go to eat, and since we had to pass the Abbey just a few doors up from Coop’s – I suppose we just walked in. The place isn’t much to speak about, not a bar you’d find listed in any tourist guide, and not an entrance that welcomed one by any means. Decatur Street is not short on available bars, the Abbey was just one of many on one side of the street, there were just as many across the street.
The Abbey is located at the butt end of the Decatur Street pub crawl and has a well-earned reputation as the place for serious drinkers to congregate. Visiting sailors and merchant marines once headed straight for this tiny bar in order to get as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible; these days, it’s a little less divey but still dedicated to the art of power drinking. The bartenders have made no secret of the fact that they’ll match shots with absolutely anyone, and I can atest to the fact that I bought a few rounds for myself, Genevieve and her sister when she was bartending.
Her sister…a beautiful blonde, out of the pages of a magazine. She was our bartender the first couple nights. But sadly, one morning at a coffee shop, she pops in and orders a coffee to go. She said she was on her way to Florida for a few days and we’d be on our way to Santa Fe before she returned. A last goodbye and the realization that stopping off at the Abbey wasn’t going to be the same without her. Yeah, there was Captain John, he lived above the bar, but I’d heard his stories, more than once depending on how long we sat at the bar, and the place is only open 24 hours. Later that evening, our feet automatically knowing the route…we once again found ourselves at the Abbey.
Our new bartender seemed to be the complete opposite of the beauty who should have arrived in Florida by now. After trading straight shots with her and talking about everything from jazz to the World Cup, there was something about her face that seemed familiar. I asked and we learned the two were sisters. Hot and cold, day to night… these two seemed like complete opposites. Like most of the patrons at the Abbey, she had tattoos on her arms, shoulder back, and later showed off her latest – she also reinforced the Playboy monicker “the naked bartender”, as she dropped her jeans revealing her new tattoo and the fact she wasn’t wearing panties… “Genevieve, another shot of Jack, please.”
What a great place, laid back drinking Jack chatting to Captain John and getting an eyeful of ……. from the girl behind the Jump. Only in the states, ya gotta love it. No fly blown roos to knock ya off ya chair.
Well, I can’t exactly say what a “fly blown roo” is, but if that’s what you call it, she certainly had one, I saw it in all its glory, and it almost did knock me off my chair.
Years pass…Genevieve is now a well known ‘New Orleans Mistress’. A dominatrix. A leather clad, whip in hand… I doubt she’s still tending bar, just a switch from libations to libidos. But my comment here is from something I came across that she was doing at the Abbey a few years ago — No Pants Night.
Yea, you right! No Pants Night. Reminds me of the old movies — check your weapon with the doorman. She apparently collected pants and would return them when you were ready to leave. Didn’t want to drop your drawers? Then don’t order a drink, ’cause it ain’t coming. Just another night at the Abbey.