My love of Good Oak Bar, an unassuming establishment on a busy downtown street in Tucson, Arizona, dates as far back as my love of the city itself.

The first time I stepped through its doors I was in town on a reconnaissance mission; deciding whether this dusty, desert city could be my home after an hours-long job interview.

I couldn't tell you now, nearly five years later, how I found Good Oak Bar, or what exactly drew me in. If you were walking down the street, you might not even notice the place. It's wedged between a historic theatre and a vibrant burger joint, with dim lights and modest signage.

Inside, those soft lights warm the slim space. A long bar topped with black fills one side; pressed along the opposite wall is a row of tall, rustic wooden booths. A large mural above the booths spells out "Tucson," the letters stretching to the high ceilings. The name is written backwards, intended to be read in the mirrors high above the bar.

You could easily carry a conversation across the narrow space between the booths and bar, and people often do, chattering with the bartenders and sometimes even other patrons from their respective positions.

On my first visit, I took a seat in one of the high wooden chairs. The bartender was a young woman, about my own age, and when I told her what brought me to town, she welcomed me, wishing me luck on my interview and orienting me to the menu.

Good Oak prided itself on a curated selection of Arizona beers and wine, plus a small but mighty menu of well-crafted cocktails. A collection of spirits–primarily whiskey, tequila, and mezcal–were also available, with flights of each to tickle your fancy and tastebuds.

I ordered the beer press, one of Good Oak's more unique specialties. It comes in a French press, a mix of beer and spices filling the glass container. The beer press required audience participation and patience; it came with instructions (let it sit for three to five minutes so the flavours can adequately mingle) and a warning too. If you pressed the plunger too quickly, you were likely to make a mess.

It was early May and already 100 degrees outside; my skin glowed pink from a few hours under the Southern Arizona sun. The press of the moment immersed chai tea spices in a local stout, a choice questionable for the season. I chose it anyway, with no regrets; it was, and remains, one of the best concoctions I've ever tasted.

Warmed by beer and kindness, I quickly became enamoured with the bar and, by extension, the town. Before the weekend was over, I returned once more to Good Oak, this time with my husband in tow. We moved to the city a month later and soon found ourselves as close to regulars as two introverts like us can be.

That was, of course, until the Covid-19 pandemic shuttered the doors of our well-loved bar. It was temporary at first, but soon the weeks stretched into months. A sign later appeared in the dark window, offering the space for lease.

For all intents and purposes, Good Oak Bar was gone—a casualty of the pandemic.

***

I thought about the bar a lot after that, never quite able to accept that it was gone. I would check Good Oak's social media accounts for months, once lively and now silent. I searched their website and the internet for any glimmer of hope that they might return. When I left a full-time, salaried position to become a writer, I imagined myself in the wooden booths, clacking away at my laptop, composing the next great American novel.

Despite my hope and desperate Google searches, those booths remained distant, locked behind the wooden door.

““Warmed by beer and kindness, I quickly became enamoured with the bar and, by extension, the town.””

I'd like to tell you that it was about more than just a bar; that my refusal to accept its loss was more deeply tied to the pandemic, to the collective losses we've all experienced over the last two years. And in some ways, that's true.

But, while Tucson has no shortage of excellent bars with friendly bartenders and high-quality, locally-driven menus, there was something magical about Good Oak. It was an unofficial welcome centre to the city—an honour held by the space long before the bar opened its doors in 2013—experienced by more than just myself.

In the 1920s, the parcel of the building that eventually became Good Oak Bar was inhabited by the Tucson Sunshine Climate Club. TSCC's goal was to draw new visitors and residents to the city—a task accomplished through keen advertising and glowing publications and publicity stunts like tapping beer from a saguaro cactus out on the edges of town.

That history was marked at Good Oak with a framed TSCC poster hanging above a cooler on the furthest wall. It was a homage to the history of the space, but more so a representation of what Good Oak Bar was and could be again: a welcoming, inviting, and essential part of the Tucson community.

That legacy is part of why my favourite bar, presumed lost to the pandemic, got another chance.

***

In September 2021, my mobile phone pinged with a notification from Instagram. Good Oak Bar had made a post, its first in over a year.

I skimmed it, unable to focus on the exact words, lost in the promise they held: Good Oak Bar was set to reopen.

Relief and excitement washed over me, but trepidation too: I've made the mistake of trusting in my nostalgia before and found it to be a dangerous drug. Standing on the corner of a once-familiar city, I was betrayed by the passage of time and the way the city had moved on without me.

It was devastating.

I worried that Good Oak's return, now under new ownership, would result in the same. New ownership means new ideas, new directions. Good or bad, those ideas usually mean change. And as much as I hated the loss of the bar, I was even less prepared to find it altered.

Nick Fox is a partner at LoveBlock Partners, the bar's new ownership group. Like me, he has a personal connection to Good Oak Bar. He and his wife spent their second date there several years ago, and it's as special to him as it is to me.

Nick assured me that I would find the space unchanged. The booths, the cocktails, even the fried pickles–a favourite of patrons new and old–were all returning. Some of the staff had also come back, ready to join the bar's next chapter.

He was right. When I walked in later that day, it was as if no time had passed, despite the 18 months, or maybe more, since I'd last set foot inside the door.

There are still the tall wooden booths along one side and the black-topped bar on the other, with a basket of citrus, stripped of their rinds for cocktails, in the middle. They still offer the same local beers, though with some new additions that emerged in Good Oak's absence. The vintage photo booth fills one corner, as dysfunctional as ever, though Nick assured me that repairs are coming.

““Standing on the corner of a once-familiar city, I was betrayed by the passage of time and the way the city had moved on without me.””

More importantly, it's still the welcoming space I remembered and cherished. Two women sat in the middle of the bar, still in their work clothes, enjoying happy hour or maybe an early date. An older gentleman with a white moustache sipped his drink at the corner of the bar, grateful for the bar's return. Others filtered in and faded out, in groups and couples and alone.

Tim, the bar manager and a stalwart of the old crew, came to greet us. He told us he remembered us from before, that he's excited to be back and excited about the bar's future.

It's not entirely the same; there are new offerings on the menu, and some new faces, like Griffin, the chef from next door who brings us a plate of the potato tacos. He tells us about coming up with the recipe, almost by accident, how it shouldn't work, but it does. As the tacos' spices warm the back of my throat, I agree.

Sitting there, I'm in awe of it all. Even if the bar hadn't changed one bit, I have. We all have. Our lives, our understanding of health and security and wellness, have all changed. Nothing will ever look quite the same after the last couple of years. But walking in, I had the same feeling I had nearly five years ago.

It was like coming home.