Until my first visit to Apropos – Appies from now on – most of my drinking had been confined to isolated freehouses in the Welsh Marches. Which is another way of saying that I was naïve about almost every facet of adult life. Prior to my first descent of the steps into this beautiful subterranean galley, the last pub I’d been to was a flat roofer on a caravan park in Mid Wales, full of people from the Black Country who had accidentally bought mobile homes in a country that they seemed to utterly despise. Now I was a thousand miles away in a pub that I would come to feel more accepted in than I ever had back home.
It was dingy – it’s a dive bar. There was no natural light, and the light provided by the scant handful of bulbs had to compete with smoke so thick you could almost feel it weighing on your head. A pack of Marlboro Reds cost about four Euros. I was there with my new colleagues, but led in by Paul, one of the few working class people I would interact with over the next couple of winters whilst working in a ski resort. He was from Salford, and told me that he’d once played drums in a band called Master Bation and The Four Skins that had supported Joy Division. I still don’t know or care whether this was true or not. We’d drink into the early hours, and I’d argue that The Who were better than Led Zeppelin, even though I didn’t really believe it, I just really liked Quadrophenia. I think Paul probably despised me, but gradually grew to tolerate me, perhaps because I was one of the only people in our team that understood the principle of The Round. There was no jukebox in Appies, but Paul had his own playlist on the bar’s internal system that got played as soon as he walked through the door. It started with Trampled Under Foot, and that’s all I can remember.
The salient facts of Appies are these. It was the first time that I’d ever had a good pint of lager (Zillertal Pils). The Jagermeister was served in miniature bottles only; they were kept in a freezer under the bar. The Scotch selection was world class. The pool table had pockets the size of the Sarlacc, so even I could play. The darkest corners, of which there were many, always filled up first. The Happy Hour began at 8pm and lasted until 10:30pm, and it was €2 for a large beer. You could get a toastie at any time of night. The machine in the bogs dispensed Benetton branded dunkies. And no one knew what time it closed. I was once in there at five AM, with beer still in hand, as the beautiful bartenders were doing the hoovering. One of my most treasured possessions is a till receipt, signed by bartender Rommy, from the night I spent €78 on shots in twenty minutes.
The decor is completely fucking mad. There's a random mannequin in a ball gown on a plinth, a white upright piano (nailed shut), gas lamps as light fittings, horrifically unrealistic fake flowers in coal scuttles, drinks posters - which includes absinthe, obviously, and portraits of famous faces which presumably occupy a special place in the owner's hearts. Included for posterity are Albert Einstein, Bridget Bardot, and former World Cup winning French goalkeeper Fabien Barthez. At some point between 2010 and 2012 the disgusting leopard print velour upholstery of the banquettes was swapped out in favour of disgusting red alligator skin PVC.
But what really drew the eye was one wall at the back of the room which had been covered in large photos of all the barmaids of Mayrhofen, in various states of dress. The photos might have been the result of some sort of fundraising event, I honestly can't recall, but I can recall that one was a silhouette of an impossible to identify barmaid with her thong around her ankles. It's not there any more.
It never crossed my mind to text anyone before going to Appies. I’d just go, because everyone I wanted to see would be there. By the time I was halfway through my second winter working in Mayrhofen, I’d become a sort of Appies social butterfly, flitting between tables occupied by all my different friend groups. This was the first time I’d ever felt truly comfortable in my own skin. And it feels like a different life.
Some of my happiest memories are from those winters in Mayrhofen, and by extension, Appies. But there was some utter despair too. The occasion which mainly leaps to mind is the time that I was on an absolute promise with a local that I'd really put the legwork into on the previous two nights, but they failed to show and I had to spend the entire night waiting as an annoying, pissed Austrian guy bought me cans of Guinness and repeatedly played me a pirate metal cover version of The Wurzel's classic 'I Am A Cider Drinker' on his phone. It was a low ebb for me.
After my second winter I didn’t go back to work in Mayrhofen, but I went out for a holiday. I was squatting at a chalet I knew was empty, and after dropping my bags off my first port of call was, naturally, Appies. It was a subconscious, magnetic attraction. I jogged down the flagstone steps and imagined the reception I would get as I strode towards the bar – everyone would have missed me! But everyone had moved on.
It was quiet. A handful of locals at the bar, a couple more in booths. I embraced the head bartender, Sabina. She’d put up with a lot from me. We caught up and I asked why it was so quiet, and she told me that the ski bums and seasonal workers don’t go there these days. ‘But it’s Happy Hour!’ I replied, stunned. ‘Oh, we don’t do that anymore.’
And I sat in a booth, watching the bar with my Zillertal Pils, and waited for it to be like it was before. But the company I used to work for had collapsed. My old flatmates had been chased out of town for never paying their bills. My Austrian friends had grown up a bit. And Paul had died.
The world was being torn out from under my feet. This was cognitive dissonance, I knew exactly what should be happening right now and yet it also felt impossible. I went up to the bar for my next – last - beer. I asked them to put on Paul’s playlist, the one which opened with Trampled Under Foot. It had been deleted.
Comments
Post a Comment