AlterNet reported recently that Maker’s Mark Bourbon House and Lounge in Louisville, Kentucky, barred blacks who planned to hold a party at the restaurant.

I know you can’t tar large groups—or brands—with one brush, but the Louisville story brought me back to an experience I had at a different Maker’s Mark bar, this one in Boston’s North Station, which had endured decades without a bar since the Iron Horse was derailed, then shut down.

One July evening, as I waited there for the train home from work, the TV behind the bar showed apes mobbing a jeep, to which this genius barkeep billowed: “Look at the baboons. It’s like the Jacksons dividing up Michael’s belongings.” I asked the barmaid if they ever got investigated. “Not yet,” she said, smiling.

I pledged to myself that this would be my last visit to the bar. Even a sneaky pint I vowed was not worth bearing the racist pig who tended bar. Pleasant barkeeps replaced the racist server and, when the train was late again, I returned.