Pecos

Then there was Pecos. With its entrance crowded by tightly packed motorbikes and mopeds that we had to get around to reach the door. Inside, the footprint was small, but a spiral staircase took us on a winding journey to a couple of equally small spaces with plastic chairs that we’d slowly try out before putting our full weight on them.

The crowd didn’t look anything like my conservative, Brahmin-dominated MES College. These were students of Christian colleges, like St. Joseph’s or Christ College. Long hair, cooler clothes, and smoked without looking over their shoulder. Like a bunch of Jesuses taking breaks from saving humanity.

What set Pecos apart was the music. The drinking establishments in Bangalore those days were mostly playing bubble gum pop. The kind everyone would say “nice song, no?” to and spit it out after a few bites for a new flavor. A few pubs catered to the tastes of long-haired-Headbangers-Ball-watching kids. They rarely made eye contact and looked like they lived on another planet. Guzzler’s Inn was their hangout. I opened the door once and didn’t quite like the opium-den vibe.

I heard Jimi Hendrix for the first time at Pecos. I heard The Doors for the first time at Pecos. I heard Led Zeppelin for the first time at Pecos. While the rest of the city was playing with something bright and plastic or loud and angry, the sound of teak was playing at Pecos, promising to morph the patina of my memory into new and beautiful colors.

Many years later friends told me Pecos watered down its draught beers and the food was always stale. I never noticed.