I love both The Manx and Chez Lucien, and on the weekend, I visited both bars.
Waiting for friends at the Manx on a Friday night, I realized that the place has always had a knack for making me feel either very included, or very excluded. Sometimes, I walk in and am swept up into things, becoming a part of an ever- expanding table full of people in excellent moods. On nights like these—with a three pint buzz– everybody seems witty and at the top of their game, and I feel like I’m at a terrific party where I’m making all sorts of brilliant friends.
The Manx is one of the undisputed arts hubs of the city, and all the people who work there carry with them a sort of hipster celebrity. They’re not waiters, they’re artists and musician and poets, and I always find myself hoping for their approval, which is an utterly demoralizing thing to realize.
The bar itself was designed to facilitate conversation. There are no TV sets, nor is there any ambient music playing, save for the fuzz of death metal pushing out of the kitchen. If you’re there on your own, there are no distractions from your solitude, and looking around at the clubby atmosphere, it can be easy to feel like a customer sitting amongst a bunch of friends. When this happens, I always feel needy and awkward, like the last person being chosen in a game of pick-up basketball.
Chez Lucien, on the other hand, was designed to be a safe haven for people who are used to feeling that way. It’s just off the beaten path, and it’s simple in its’ ambition. It’s not seeking to consciously establish a home for the Ottawa arts community, but to provide a place for black sheep to go and have a drink. There’s an effortless honesty and lack of inhibition to the place, and you never feel judged there. While the Manx may make talking easy, Chez Lucien actually makes being comfortable there easy, and in the end, that’s why it will always be my most trusted port in the storm.