Like I said, the bar scene has never been my thing, much less a writers’ bar.
But it makes sense that given a big enough city, people of certain professions will start to congregate together in certain places.
Such a vivid – profane – description here.
The “gin-blossomed noses” line made me think of a passage by Bruce Chatwin found in In Patagonia:
He had grown into a strong man, with a flat face reddened by whisky and the tropics, pale red hair and eyes that flashed both blue and green.
But, as Stephen King advised, these writers should probably avoid drinking while working.
I am, however, certain that this is not descriptive of The Inklings more celebratory an edifying gatherings.
I’ll never be a regular at this bar. Or any bar. Not even a “writers’ bar.” If you’ve ever even spent ten minutes in one of those—a bunch of bitter, snowy-haired, bilious fucks with gin-blossomed noses and ballooning guts talking too loud and laughing too hard and secretly hating each other—you’ll reconsider ever putting another word to paper. As much as I admire the work of good writers, I’ve found that hanging out with more than one of them at a time is about as much fun as being thrown into a cage full of hungry but toothless civet cats.
-Anthony Bourdain, Medium Raw