It was nearing 10 o'clock and I was in a part of town I don't often frequent, a part that in some circles might be referred to as the "seamy" side. As providence would have it, I was hungry and thirsty. So, I put both my hands in my coat pockets and headed for the nearest neon light.

As I pushed open the windowless plywood front door I was greeted by the smells of food and drink, the two necessary tonics for both my conditions. Thankfully, the aroma of grilling meat nearly drowned out the stench of old bar, an odor not unlike old musty wood.

This particular bar was a beehive of activity. I squeezed between a threesome of reflector tape-garnished presumably off-duty construction workers swilling Coronas and a gray-haired gentleman intently studying what appeared to be a horse-racing form. The scent of Scotch whisky was palpable.

The buxom bartender glided gracefully up and down the bar, easily 15 years younger than most of the men at the bar, and easily 10 years older than me. She poured gin and whiskeys for many of what I suspected were "the regulars." She shouted out a "hello" to a gruff old sailor entering, and a "goodbye" to an equally gruff septuagenarian exiting. They all knew her name; it was "her" bar clearly. Not in an ownership sort of way, but in the way dominated by the force of her personality. My guess was that the actual owner was the older guy who kept refilling his coffee cup with a mixture of Frangelico, Grand Marnier and Cointreau before retiring

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to his barstool near one of the brass rails.

I gained a seat and ordered some food just as a waitress in the same age bracket as the bartender arrived with a large bowl of ice cream. Together they engaged in a lively banter, the bartender gesturing so widely that her shirt hem lifted up, high enough that anyone looking could see the outline of a rose tattoo on her lower abdomen.

"It's hot in here," she said, as she picked up a little electric fan resting on the back bar.

"Is anyone else hot? It's boiling," she said to no one in particular as she held the whirring motor close to her face.

I suspected that the heat might be coming and going.

By the time my food arrived the bartender and her conspiring waitress were both huddling over a large electric blender.

Into the plastic blender cup went the ice cream, then a hefty portion of coffee liqueur, followed by an equally hefty portion of Cognac - a version of the classic Brandy Alexander.

First recorded in "Recipes for Mixed Drinks" by Hugo Ensslin in 1915 and reportedly served at the London wedding of Mary, Princess Royal, and Viscount Lascelles in 1922, the original was made with crème de cacao (instead of coffee liqueur), brandy and sweet cream.

As with most cocktails, its history is a little murky. Some have suggested that the drink was named after Russian Czar Alexander III, which is in keeping with the history of another cream- and coffee liqueur-based drink known as the White Russian. That drink was made famous in the 1998 cult film "The Big Lebowski."

The Russian argument has further weight because the Russians were certainly fond of Cognac (in addition to the vodka of the White Russian). In fact Cognac was, and is, enjoyed in Russia and in former Soviet satellite republics such as Armenia.

Armenian Cognac itself came into being in the late 1880s (the same decade that Czar Alexander was assassinated) and was enjoyed by no less notable statesmen as Joseph Stalin and Sir Winston Churchill (at the Yalta summit). Churchill would later distill his recipe for long life: "Never be late for dinner, smoke Hawaiian cigars and drink Armenian Cognac!"

I reflected on that as the blended drinks - possibly named after a Russian Czar, made with the eponym of an Armenian brandy and probably enjoyed by a British statesman at a royal wedding - were finished.

The lively twosome poured little glasses of the concoction for all the people sitting at the bar, reserving the largest two for themselves.

"Do you want one?" they asked as I paid my bill.

"No thanks, I'm not drinking," I said as I headed for the door.

Pausing, I looked back at the little microcosm that was this neighborhood bar, taking in the differences between my own bar and this one. I then opened the front door and walked out into the bright sunlight.

It was 10:30 a.m.

Jeff Burkhart is an award-winning bartender at a Marin bar/restaurant and an author. His columns appear weekly in Here. Add your comments to the end of this story at www.marin-sonoma-here.com. Contact him at jeffb@thebarflyonline.com.