blog.drunkard.com

Man Tamer or Painkiller?

May 29, 2009 6:22 pm Frank Wacky Booze Ads No Comments

Bud 1950

I detect a pair of divergent messages here. Women will view Bud as a tool to get their men to don dainty white gloves and help out in the flower garden (he brought his pipe, so his masculinity isn’t entirely thwarted.) Men, on the other hand, will see a gent who has wisely turned to drinking (and more than a little, judging by that goofy grin) to make tolerable a task he’d generally not touch with a six- foot pole. Which he brought along, just in case.

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Condition: Getting There emoticon Getting There & Getting There & Getting There

They’ll surrender to anything.

May 29, 2009 5:20 pm Frank Wacky Booze Ads No Comments

bud-life-1948

And, in this case, who can blame them? I, for one, was not aware monstrous wild turkeys invaded France in the 17th Century. The fowl tyrant’s cruel gaze seems to have completely daunted the monarch, but note the chef in the lower right corner appears to be crossing his fingers behind his back as he swears fealty. Watch your back, Tom.

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Condition: Just a Taste emoticon Just a Taste & Just a Taste

Cocktail Sophisticates

April 22, 2009 10:33 am Richard Cocktail Recipe 1 Comment

If you read enough of my various opinions/ravings/diatribes here, then you know my drinking predilections run toward the very simple. Not because I consider myself to be some sort of “man of the people” or anything similarly douchbaggy, but because, by and large, I am a thrifty soul (which you are free to take as meaning “poor,” if you so choose). So, when I hit the bar, I go for stuff like PBR, Hamm’s, Schlitz, etc., and shots of well whiskey and below-the-bottom-shelf tequila.

Ah, but every once in a while, I want to do the thing up right. I want a by-god cocktail. A cocktail mixed with top-shelf booze, by a bartender who knows what the fuck she’s doing. Something fun. Something jazzy. Something that costs a fucking mint and is worth every goddamn penny.

Problem is, I sometimes run into a stupid level of difficulty obtaining these special libations. No offense to the legion of bartenders who have kept me nice and sozzled over the years, but making a special cocktail takes a special attitude. Not only must the mixologist be inventive and prideful, he or she must actually yearn to prepare quality drinks. Anyone can throw together a tall vodka-tonic, or top off a pint of suds. But a properly assembled champagne cocktail, for example, is a whole other scene.

Which is why my most recent foray into the Land of Classic Cocktails was so wonderfully goddamn pleasing.

I don’t normally use this space to pimp specific taverns, but I’m going to make an exception this time and tell you about a joint in Denver I visited last week called Baur’s. General Manager Matt Jackson invited me down to sample the restaurant’s menu of unique, specialty cocktails, and offer feedback.

The original Baur’s opened in the 1920s, as a soda shop and ice-cream parlor. Over the ensuing decades the space (impossible to miss on the corner of 15^th and Curtis) has been home to numerous restaurants, trading under as many different names. Then, about 18 months back, it reopened as a fine-dining establishment, and again took up the name Baur’s. The décor is gorgeous—all dark wood and white linen—and the bar itself is like a time capsule back to some high-end, big-city speakeasy.

Upon our arrival, my guest and I were given over to the excellent mixing skills of Rachel Meyer, one of Baur’s three gifted bartenders. She presented the drinks menu and asked where we would like to begin. My answer was something along the lines of “Just rack ‘em all up, sweetheart.” Watching Rachel work—confidence, economy of motion—I had the pleasant sensation of knowing I was in the presence of an artist.

One after another, an array of cocktails appeared before us, all shapes, sizes and colors. We sipped and slurped, nodded knowingly and puzzled over unusual flavors. As we worked our way through each, Rachel asked detailed questions and was genuinely interested in hearing, not only our praise, which was effusive, but our thoughts on how a given tipple might be enhanced.

The highlights of my little sojourn through Alcohol Nirvana include:

The Americana. It’s Baur’s version of the classic champagne cocktail. Bourbon, Peychaud’s bitters, light sugar, and champagne. Served ice-cold in a flute. Whiskey bite and champagne bubbles. The liquid equivalent of being smiled at by a pretty girl.
The Shot. Citrus vodka, grape liqueur & lemon-lime soda, garnished with frozen grapes. A tad sweet, perhaps, for some, but otherwise a long alcoholic tummy massage.
Thread the Needle. Flower petals and green apples muddled with rye whiskey, sweet and sour and apple liqueur, and swizzled over crushed ice. I know, it sounds like Metrosexual potpourri, but the taste is astonishing. Not to mention the fact that rye rarely gets its due as a cocktail base.
The Errol Flynn. Scotch, Drambuie, honey syrup and lime juice. Five or six of these should leave you well braced to go cutlass-to-cutlass with a few pirates.

Baur’s makes most of its own syrups, and does all of its own vodka and gin infusions. And all of the 15 or so drinks on the specialty menu were invented right there behind the very bar you’ll be sitting at.

Be forewarned. You won’t get off cheap. Some of the cocktails run upwards of $12 a pop. Don’t let cost derail your plans, though. For us drunkards, encounters with true sophistication is a bargain at any price.

Here’s to Baur’s. They’re keeping the dream alive.

Cheers.

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Condition:Hungover

Take Your Kid to the Bar

March 31, 2009 12:41 pm Richard Uncategorized 3 Comments

American children receive almost zero education in the finer points of drinking, and of tavern etiquette, cocktail savvy, personal tolerance, etc., they rarely of ever hear so much as a word before finding themselves at large and forced to fend for themselves in an unpredictable world. Their lack of knowledge causes them to make stupid decisions which can lead to tragedy, such as dying from alcohol poisoning after knocking back two dozen shots of Svedka Clementine at some frat party. It isn’t the alcohol’s fault. Such calamities are born first of ignorance.

As professional drinkers we are, of necessity, the arbiters, the village elders if you will, of intoxicated culture, and as such it is beholden upon us to provide guidance to such potentially lost souls, to send them into the world armed not with myths and superstitions, but with facts.

We might approach the problem from any number of directions, but I wish to focus upon the most unaware members of society—kids. Pre-teens. Young-uns. The ones that ain’t got tits and whose balls haven’t dropped. In short: Children.

Take them to the bar. Stand firm against the deluge of moral outrage that could come your way, and do it. Do it a bunch of times, in fact. We’ll get to some specifics in a sec, right after a few short, common-sense caveats.

Caveat One: Barring circumstances which might suggest otherwise, make sure you take your kids to the bar. Dragging random tykes in off the street is a Pandora’s Box waiting to spill its fetid contents all over your life. That, and it’s a little creepy, too.

Caveat Two: Don’t haul the little monsters along on specialty nights. “Implants Drink Free” night, and “Get a Lap-Dance from a Meth-Head” are really not the direction you want to head. Same with “Transsexual Sunday Brunch” and the ever-popular “50% Off to Whoever Can Puke the Most Colors.” Use a little sense. It rarely hurts.

Caveat Three: Other suspect activities include: Strip Beer-Pong, Keg Stands, Beer Bongs (unless the child is over 16), Mosh Pits, Shot Wheels, and any room where Silicone and Bo-Tox are more popular than un-doctored flesh and laugh lines. Avoid bars where the smell of dirty mop water is tolerable only because it masks odors of a far more horrifying sort, as well as those special dives where, when you touch the bar, your hands come back black. I mean really…

And those are my caveats. The MADD Mothers could probably rack up a bunch more, but I really don’t give a crap. I want the opinion of a Mad Mother, I’ll talk to my own, thank-you very much.

So, if you’re ready to schlep your offspring along to your local, here are a few suggestions as to how you can go about it.

Pop by your usual watering hole in the early afternoon. The sun is out, the place isn’t too packed with customers; altogether a more mellow atmosphere. Take a seat at the bar. Get your kid one beside you. Order your standard libation and whatever is appropriate for the child (which largely depends upon your and the bartender’s flexibility). Introduce your little one to the barkeep and to any of the regulars who might be on hand. Give em some quarters for the juke, or to play pinball or Golden Tee. Explain to them what the taps are and how they work, and about the position of the bottles behind the bar—top-shelf, bottom-shelf, etc. Offer a primer on shakers, strainers, garnish, bar mats and the other tools of the drinks trade they are likely to be unfamiliar with. Give em a sip of your beer.

Kids will learn that bars aren’t weird, scary places that adults disappear inside of to engage in mysterious acts. They will come to see that bars are companionable centers of community good cheer; places to have fun, goof around, shoot the shit with friends, and otherwise happily indulge oneself. Taverns have fulfilled this function for centuries, all over the globe.

We need to educate our children instead of shielding them. Prolonging adulthood for 18-21 years as we do in this country doesn’t keep kids from making dumb decisions. It only leaves them unprepared for life’s complexities.

Take your kid to the bar. Call it home-schooling with a real-life bent.

Cheers.

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It’s All About Etiquette

March 17, 2009 3:10 am Richard Uncategorized No Comments

Off and on for the past six or seven years my home-base watering hole has been 3 Jacks Tavern in my home town of Denver. It calls itself a sports bar, but is a damnsight more than just that. With its array of weird, quirky and, ultimately, chummy regulars, 3 Jacks is nothing more or less than a terrific neighborhood bar, a destination for thirsty folks residing in my southern slice of town. It’s owned by Brooke Lohman, a singular barkeep if there ever was one. She keeps the liquor flowing and seems to have a first-name rapport with every customer who strolls through the door. This little missive is dedicated to Brooke because she was, whether she knows it or not, its inspiration. Thanks, Little Sister. You rock like Amadeus.

OK. So I’ve been interested for a lengthy while now in a phenomenon at work in my town’s tavern culture. Over the years, I’ve come to rely on a smallish set of “rules” governing traditional, acceptable, bar behavior, and have attempted to conduct myself accordingly, as often as possible. The “rules” are several, but the one fouling my craw at the moment has to do with the notion of saving one’s seat.

Picture a bar. It is, let’s say, standing room only. The staff is waist-deep in the weeds. And you are sitting solo at the oak, or perhaps with a crony or two at a table, partaking of a tasty tipple, and generally getting jiggy wid it. At some point over the course of the evening, for one reason or another, you are going to vacate your perch—to feed the juke; play pinball; head outside to burn a gasser; enjoy a restorative piddle; whatever.

Now, according to my understanding (arrived at by way of both upbringing and habit), I am allowed to save my place at the table or bar via the simple expedient of placing a napkin or coaster atop my libation. This is, as far as I am concerned, a universal indication, to all and sundry, that I intend to return to my seat, albeit after some indeterminate (though acceptably shortish) few ticks of the ol’ Timex. Yes?

Am I mistaken? Or have I been operating under some sad delusion all this time? I think not, but the fact remains that the napkin/coaster place-saving device has recently failed to act as advertised, somewhere in the neighborhood of 60% of the time. And, as you will soon see, some of those failures are nothing but spectacular.

To whit: a week or ten days ago I was at large in one of my usual hangouts, seated at the bar, hunkering over book and note pad. The joint was, let us say, somewhat jumpin. Not exactly cheek-by-jowl, but also far from desolate. They were having a special on PBR tallboys and I was doing my best to run them shy of as many cans as I could. People continued drifting into the place (mostly for the immanent hold-em tourney), while I drifted the other direction, to enjoy a smoke on the patio.

Now, my space at the bar contained, in addition to a ¾-full can of beer, a note pad, a thick biography on the life of William Shakespeare, a hi-liter, and two pens, and still I paused to plop a coaster atop my PBR prior to vacating my stool.

I was gone for perhaps 5 minutes. Upon my return I discovered that my beer, note pad, thick biography on the life of Shakespeare, hi-liter and two pens, had been shoved 2 positions down the bar, apparently to make room for a brace of Avalanche fans, who seemed to take no immediate notice of my situational rights. And what was most annoying was that there was ample room for them (and their hockey sweaters and backwards-facing ball caps) at the bar without my needing to relocate even a millimeter.

I nodded at the Avs dudes. The one nearest said: “Sorry we moved your shit. But we really like to watch from these chairs.” He indicated his current position. In too good a mood to make a beef, I allowed that it was no biggie and stuffed my nose back inside the whys and wherefores of the Bard of Stratford, and all was bumps-a-daisy for a time.

Then, sometime later, the several cans of PBR sloshing about my interior announced that they required venting and, following the same procedure as before, I ambled off for a free-wheeling few minutes of micturation.

Now. Surely you can see where this is going? Yes, of course you can.

I returned from the men’s’ feeling altogether lighter and with a definite spring in my step, whereupon I found the Avs dudes throatily extolling their team to “play some fucking defense,” and next to them, where I had so previously been ensconced, a pair of small people (not midgets, just small) on the precipice of tucking into a pair of unappetizing red cocktails. Additionally, my stuff had been shoved a further couple of spaces along the oak.

Turning my way, the female member of the Lollipop Guild offered me a prolonged gander at her frighteningly white dentition, and apologized for “stealing” my seat. Again, and I mention this with less rancor than you might imagine, there were at least 3 unoccupied stool tandems those interlopers might’ve called home, without deporting a single occupant. True to my basic nature—and I am, let me assure you, positively awash in the milk of human kindness—I let their rudeness slide.

I mean, shit. I’m a tree, right? I can bend.

Time passed. I became aware of a growing lust for another coffin-nail. By now, the establishment was growing quite full, so I knew, based upon what the evening had revealed thus far, that I was running a risk by leaving my spot. But, one should never allow vague apprehensions to come between himself and an invigorating measure of nicotine, so, after coastering my new PBR, I aimed my feet toward the veranda.

Only to return some few minutes later to find EVERY stool occupied, and my stuff squatting precariously at the end of the bar, sort of wedged under the video-trivia machine. My coaster had vanished, too, which was just odd.

The thief could’ve been any 1 out of 6 or 7 newcomers, but I chose to close my speculations there. Instead, I merely grabbed my belongings and hoofed it to a nearby table, where after polishing off my beer, I packed up, settled my bill, and made like a homing-lush for a different bar.

That bar happened to be the aforementioned 3 Jacks Tavern.

Once through the doors, I deposited my ass on a stool and my research materials on the bar. I ordered a pint of Newcastle and a shot of chilled Beam. When they arrived, I spent a few companionable minutes chatting with the bartender about this and that, and with my neighbors on the current disposition of the Nuggets. Then, feeling restive, I realized the previous horse trough of PBR I’d put away now necessitated a trip to the head. So: coaster on pint, I bee-lined it for the WC.

And, yep (you guessed it, or certainly should have), I returned to find myself yet again dispossessed of a stool. Then again, I thought, searching for a philosophical perspective, how could it possibly have been otherwise?

And then something unexpected happened. My friend Brooke, whom I mentioned at the outset of this mild rant, arrived on the scene and asked if “those guys” had purloined my stool. After I nodded in the affirmative, Brooke approached the miscreants and enlightened them as to their rudeness. She explained the sitch, as only she can, with excessive niceness and professionalism. Her demeanor indicated that she was acquainted with them, which is probably why they immediately offered me an apology, vacated their stools, and bought me a shot of top-shelf whiskey.

And thus do we arrive at the moral of our story. It’s the little things that separate a bar from a fucking great bar. Etiquette, friends. Accept no substitute.

Cheers.

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Freak Magnate

October 28, 2008 10:50 am Richard Rant No Comments

I spend an appreciable amount of time in bars. They are my favorites spots to do research and write rough drafts. Bar life is conducive to creativity. Just ask Hemmingway, Dorothy Parker or P.G. Wodehouse (think Cuba Libres, Orange Blossoms & Jeeve’s no-fail hangover tonic). So, yes, I’m the weirdo on the end-most stool by the wall hunkered over a book and scribbling in a notepad. Nothing too remarkable I don’t think. Just doing my thing and minding my business.

Which is usually about the time my Freak Magnate kicks in.

If there’s a Freak in the room, he or she will seek me out; drawn to me like a June bug to the inviting blue glow of an electric insect zapper. They come in many shapes and sizes, but over the years I’ve come up with three main groups: Distractions, Annoyances, and Brain-Cookers.

The Distraction category is populated mostly by talkers. Friendly enough folks who just want to chat away a minute or two with the guy on the next stool. But they do not in any way notice that the guy on the next stool is immersed in a book, and even if they did the knowledge probably wouldn’t cause them even a moment’s hesitation. On more than one occasion I’ve realized that someone has been talking to me for a fair few minutes or longer, apparently unconcerned by the fact that I’ve been utterly unresponsive, and when I finally do pry myself away from my studies the first words out of their mouths are usually along the lines of, “Sorry to bother you while you’re reading.” And then they go right on with their monologue. I usually nod a bit, maybe participate for a minute or two, then go back to work, or tell them I have to get back to work, which sends them in search of other conversation partners. These are not bad people. Quite the opposite, more often than not. They just need a little polish in the manners department.

People in the Annoyance gang are similar to Distractions, but with even less well-refined social skills. At worst, they are semi-literate hillbillies who insist upon knowing what I’m reading and then, when I tell them, get pissed off because, A.) they haven’t heard of it; B.) it sounds faggy; or C.) because the last time they undertook the same activity it resulted only in a grammar-mutilating squabble as to the veracity, indeed physicality, of the lead letter in last month’s Penthouse Forum. It’s important to keep an eye on this bunch, as they are unpredictable and whiskey sometimes makes them volatile. If they conclude that they are being humored or ignored, they can get snarky, and some will even try to stomp on things they find confusing or intellectually threatening. Buying them a shot, however, is usually enough to end the hostilities. Anyone who buys a stranger a drink can’t be entirely queer, book-nerd or not.

And then there are the Brain-Cookers. They are very rare, thankfully, but because they are so diabolically random and strange they can by-God shove a stick through the spokes of a perfectly pleasant afternoon ride. By way of illustrating the exact nature of the Brain-Cooker psyche, take the following brief transcript of an actual conversation that took place between me and a truly surreal example of the species.

I was sitting at a table in one of my usual hangouts, collecting facts for a book I’ve been working on; notebook open; a pint of beer and a glass of bourbon within easy reach. All at once I became aware of a hovering presence and, looking up, found it to be a rather nondescript chick with red hair, holding a beer in both hands as if she was about to conduct some sort of religious rite.

Brain-Cooker (BC): Can I sit at your table?

It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. There were maybe five people in the place. She had her pick of open tables and bar stools. But I elected, for whatever reason, not to be rude, and gestured at a chair.

ME: Sure.

BC: Cool. Thanks.

ME: Hope you don’t mind if I keep working.

BC: I won’t bother you. Just need to sit for a few minutes.

ME: Knock yourself out.

She plopped onto a chair across from me and let out a massive sigh. Glancing up I saw she was frowning fit to beat the band, alternating between sips of beer and gnawing on the cuticle of her thumb. She kept tossing her hair, too. Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss. Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss. Steady as a metronome. It was obvious she wanted me to ask what was bugging her, and I withstood the urge to comply for as long as I could, but eventually caved.

ME: Crappy day?

BC: Fuck yeah. Just broke up with my boyfriend.

ME: Just now?

BC: Yeah, like ten minutes ago.

ME: That sucks.

BC: I dunno. Fuck him.

ME: There you go. Getting better already.

BC: He don’t know what he let go.

ME: They never do.

BC: He’ll never find another me.

ME: Of course not.

BC: Never. Not the shit I can do.

ME: Nope. He probably deserves it, though, right?

BC: Fuck yeah. Never find another me.

ME: So you said.

She tipped the glass to her lips and drank off about two thirds of its contents.

BC: Cuz I’ll do anything, man. Anything.

ME: Oh, yes?

BC: Any-fucking-thing, dude. Swear to God.

ME: I’m sure.

BC: And he’s gonna miss it.

ME: Of course.

BC: Miss the shit out of it.

ME: No doubt.

BC: Cuz you can do it. You can cum on my face. Fuck me in the ass.

ME: Uh…

BC: Have yer friends over and watch while they have a turn. Fuckin anything.

She suddenly sprang to her feet, downed the last of her beer, and slammed the glass on the table, sloshing my drinks all over.

BC: I gotta go. See ya.

And she scurried from the bar without another word.

I stared into space for a few long ticks, wondering if I’d hallucinated the scary mutant and her whole twisted rap, then realized it was just my Freak Magnate operating at peak performance. I tried to get back to work, but she’d cooked a hole in my brain that wouldn’t close. So I closed up shop, dragged my stuff over to the bar, ordered a double Maker’s, and dialed up some Ramones on the juke.

Freak Magnate, man. Jesus…

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Condition:A Shot Away From Paradise

Extra-Sensory Cocktails

August 17, 2008 4:17 pm Frank In the News 1 Comment

In case the cocktail itself isn’t good enough (blasphemy, I know), an Australian bar seeks to enhance your drinking experience by stimulating the other senses. Jay, a bartender I once had the privilege of knowing (may he rest in peace) was way ahead of the power curve on this fad–if you ordered a Bronx Cocktail he’d blow smoke in your face and yell, “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” in a genuine Bronx accent.

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Condition: I May Be Blacked Out emoticon I May Be Blacked Out

The Second Coming

July 19, 2008 2:59 am Frank Drunken Raving No Comments

Not entirely sure why, but my mind always turns to this excellent Yeats poem when I’m shellacked:

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

WB Yeats

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Condition: Pleasantly Lit emoticon Pleasantly Lit

Beasts of Boozing

July 12, 2008 5:14 pm Frank Alcohol AV 1 Comment

This 1972 educational film features a novice drinker taking in a swinging grownup basement shindig. It’s interesting in that instead of relying on the traditional Authoritarian Voice Over promising doom and destruction, it craftily attempts to soft-sell its anti-booze message in a somewhat subtle manner: with the help of his old friend television, the young observer slowly absorbs the idea that hard drinking encourages the grownups to behave as wild beasts. Examples of animal behavior include aggressive snacking, unbridled singing of foreign songs, wanton thrusting of cleavage, salacious staring, public displays of affection, blatant yawning, loony laughter–the works.

Not sure how many teenagers this turned off of drinking. Most likely had the opposite effect.

Online Videos by Veoh.com

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Condition: Getting There emoticon Getting There

Drunkards: Keepers of Mixological Acumen

July 7, 2008 12:05 pm Richard Rant 2 Comments

Serious drinkers are a curiosity-seeking, educated lot. We like to know what others are sipping, not (usually) to aid in our passing judgment on them, but for the much simpler reason that it’s fun. Plus, we might never have encountered that particular cocktail, which means it needs to be sampled and appended to our synaptic drinks databases. This doesn’t happen very often, though, because most of us drinkers know our mixology, even for those beverages we don’t regularly requisition. Sadly, we sometimes encounter a bartender who is foggy on the specifics of our desired tipple. Arriving at this crossroads we have two options. One, we can simplify our order (while grumbling inwardly about the speed at which American cocktail culture is careening toward the Abyss), or Two, we can suck it up and help the bartender along. Generally, I don’t object to walking an uninformed bartender through the basics of my desired drink. If nothing else, my assistance goes a long way toward ensuring I get what I’m thirsty for. And besides, most bartenders don’t mind a little schooling, as there is a direct correlation between a broad knowledge base and increased gratuities.

The upshot is this: accomplished drunks should always encourage others to guzzle liberally from our reservoirs of tipsy erudition. Desire and accomplishment are two very different things, however, which can make disseminating intelligence to the disadvantaged far more disquieting and wearisome than it ought to be.

To wit: a brace of true stories, recorded here with as much fidelity as I can manage. I was half (okay, three-quarters) in the bag on both occasions, and even when stone sober my short-term memory rivals that of the fruit fly. All I can say is I did my best.

True Tale #1

A week or so ago I was in a liquor store picking up a few bottles of liquid restorative, and found myself third in line to pay. The clerk was busy with the woman at the head of the queue (who seemed not to grasp the concept of sales tax), so, thinking to kill a minute or two, I gestured at the middle guy’s stuff—a twelver of MGD, a handle of Stoli, and some Rose’s lime juice—and said, “Well, that ought a get you through tonight, anyhow.” The guy chuckled and allowed that he’d had a crappy day. The remainder of our tête-à-tête went roughly as follows.

ME: That sucks. Good thing you have drinks to look forward to.

GUY: Yup. Gonna have Manhattans. ‘Bout twenty of ‘em.

Nodding appreciatively, I took another quick gander at his purchases.

ME: Manhattans and some vodka-tonics, too, maybe.

GUY: Nah. I hate vodka-tonics. Stoli’s only for my Manhattans.

And thus, a crossroads. He seemed to be an amiable enough fellow, though, so I forged ahead, donning a polite smile.

ME: Isn’t a Manhattan made with rye or bourbon?

GUY: Huh-uh. Vodka.

ME: I don’t think so… A Manhattan is rye, either sweet or dry vermouth and a splash of bitters.

GUY: (with a look that suggested his willingness to take pity on me.) You’re wrong there. Trust me. I’ve been drinking Manhattans a long time.

ME: No doubt. But—

At that moment the clerk finished with the commerce-challenged lady and motioned for my new buddy to step right up. He spun away from me and fiddled with his wallet while the clerk rang him up, at which point he handed over a credit card, applied his autograph to the slip, and gathered his purchases. He paused at the door, staring at me, wearing a little smirk.

GUY: You should buy a Mr. Boston or somethin’.

ME: Why? I already know how to make a Manhattan.

GUY: (his smirk faltering) I was a bartender for almost three years.

ME: Further proof that longevity and skill don’t always go together.

GUY: Hey, go fuck yourself you fat fuck! Fuck you!

And he vaulted through the door and out of my life. I watched the space where he had been for a moment, then realized the clerk was looking at me.

CLERK: That guy’s a fool. I don’t know what he’s gonna drink, but it sure ain’t no Manhattan.

ME: Think I should a kept my mouth shut?

CLERK: Hell no. Bet’cha he goes home and Googles “Manhattans.”

ME: (laughing) We can only hope…

And, with that, I went about my business.

True Tale #2

The events which comprise my second story took place in a bar, three or four nights ago. It was about ten o’clock and the evening had been quite kind to me and my two companions. The sauce, as they say, was flowing. Most of the customers were sitting at tables, so we had the oak largely to ourselves.

An argument could have been made, however, that the dude sitting alone around the bend from us exuded enough smug self-satisfaction that he had to warehouse his ego on a second stool all its own. This particular bar is a neighborhood watering hole; unpretentious and friendly, and Ego-Man wasn’t a regular, a fact made all the more palpable by his choice of costuming. He was upholstered in a charcoal suit and white dress shirt, open to the middle of his chest. A thick gold chain hung around his neck and another broadcasted its 24-carat opulence from his right wrist. His hair was shellacked in place, sturdy enough, by all appearances, to withstand anything Mother Nature cared to hurl at it. So, yes, he looked more than a touch out of place. To his credit, however, he was knocking back cocktails with commendable ardor, though solely, it seemed, in an effort to ensure frequent return trips by the fetching lady bartender.

Quite out of the blue, one of my pals (call him Pal #2) announced his intention to buy the suited fellow a drink—because “I like his shoes.” He caught the bartender’s attention, and publicized his objective. Ms. Bartender surreptitiously shook her head and leaned forward, saying, “You don’t want to do that. His drinks are, like, twelve bucks each.”

To say we were flabbergasted would be nothing less than a flat statement of fact.

PAL #1: Twelve dollars! No way.

PAL #2: What, they come with a blessing from the Pope?

ME: Weird, man. He come in here a lot?

MS. BARTENDER: Never seen him before now.

ME: What’s he drinking?

MS. BARTENDER: Johnny Walker Blue and Diet Coke.

A silence settled briefly over our little quartet, as Ms. Bartender nodded and the rest of us struggled to get a handle on what she’d just alleged. Johnny Walker Blue Label retails for something like $200 a bottle. It’s a glorious sipping whiskey that demands to be consumed in elegant surroundings and with a certain sense of occasion. Sloshing it into a tumbler and inundating it with Diet-Fucking-Coke is like entering a cherried-out ‘65 Jag in a Demolition Derby. The only possible reason to treat it so poorly is to attract attention to oneself, or, more to the point, to one’s credit rating. But Jesus! If that’s your intention you have leaped way, WAY beyond run-of-the-mill egomania and sculpted yourself a world-view that, strictly adhered to, must surely lead to a prolonged detention in the Nurse Ratched Wing of one of our gloomier mental health facilities.

PAL #2: I’m not buying him shit.

PAL #1: Used-car-salesman lookin’ douchebag.

MS. BARTENDER: Shhhh. He can hear you.

PAL #1: So fuckin’ what.

I sneaked a look, and sure as shootin’, the dude was giving us a blast of the ol’ stink-eye. I lifted my head in greeting. He did not reciprocate. But I took another crack at it, anyway.

ME: What’cha drinking, brother?

HIM: Don’t worry, guy. You can’t afford ‘em.

Well, golly. What a prick.

PAL #2: (louder than called for) So it’s true?

HIM: What’s that?

PAL #2: Blue Label and Diet Coke?

HIM: Fuckin’-A.

PAL #1: But yer fuckin’ it up, man. Yer gonna mix whiskey, buy cheap shit.

ME: For real, brother. You add Coke or whatever, the base doesn’t really matter anymore.

HIM: Matters to me.

ME: Why?

The guy helped himself to a deep breath and spent a few ticks studying each of us, roots to leaves.

HIM: I’m successful and I want to enjoy it. Guys like you, you wouldn’t get it. You gotta dosomething with your life before the luxuries start meaning anything. Guys like you, a new tube a tooth paste is a big deal, yeah?

Another silence settled around us. This one, though, quivered, you might say, with several different kinds of free-floating emotion. For my part, I was wondering how many slaps it might take to displace elements of the guy’s haircut, a question that would ultimately go unanswered due to the intervention of Ms. Bartender. She spoke quietly to her customer at some length, during which the infuriating smirk left his face and his eyes began darting from Ms. Bartender, over to us, and back again to Ms. Bartender, in a little cycle, as if he were watching a very compact game of ping-pong. At the end of Ms. Bartender’s monologue the guy groped for his billfold, slapped some paper money on the bar, and hit the bricks without a backward glance. Ms. Bartender collected the cash and went to the register.

ME: What did you say?

MS. BARTENDER: (shrugging) Nothin’ much. It was time for him to go anyway.

ME: Seriously. What?

MS. BARTENDER: Let it go.

She grinned at me. I grinned back.

PAL #2: Heh. Sure, he’s successful and all—

PAL #1: A successful fucking twat.

PAL #2: —but at least we don’t cut and run.

ME: And we know how to treat good hooch.

PAL #1: Damn right.

PAL #2: What a tool.

And from there, our conversation trekked off in other directions.

So. Two true stories which, I hope, illustrate the fact that it is incumbent upon seasoned drinkers to correct misapprehensions and confer knowledge. If it is sometimes a less than cheery duty, so be it. And when our words fall on deaf ears? So what. Fuck ‘em.

Cheers.