Three Aces

In the early 1990s, traffic in Bangalore was virtually non-existent after a certain hour at night. So a ride from my home in Sadashivnagar to Mahatma Gandhi Road, which, ironically, was the central hub of beer-drinking those days, took all of 20 minutes.

A pub called Three Aces was the first I remember going to in Bangalore. A dark space, full of smoke, men (and only men), cheap beer, and Indian and Indo-Chinese snacks. A walk into the 2nd floor space would take you through a cloud of stale, smoky air and past gruff voices that paused. Mustachioed men with bloodshot eyes would stare.

These men reminded me of the ones I saw standing outside politicians’ houses in my neighborhood. Signs of alcohol and cigarettes in the pallor of the complexion. White pants and a loose shirts to hide a big belly. The top two buttons of the shirt undone, exposing a religious symbol medallion on a chain. Vermillion on the forehead, a sign of habit, not piety. The type of man who, if you told him “Sir, you can’t park in front of my gate”, will quickly work out if he can fuck me up and get away with it.

“Hmm.…Sadashivnagar resident – could be someone important.”

“But house looks old – probably middle class without any power.”

“Fair skin – likely a Brahmin, educated, can give me trouble.”

The quick evaluation would lead to a – “Ok sir, just one minute, I have to give something to minister” and he’d disappear past a gate before I could think of a response.

We avoided these men at Three Aces. A scrawny bunch of college kids just pumped to be in a place where we could buy beer. We’d pick tables far away from the smoke and the threat of violence and order a pitcher of Kingfisher and a plate of peanut masala.