We went out last night to a local pub with my soccer watching buddy to catch a replay of the Manchester United game from yesterday. We were the only ones watching the game so we were secluded in the corner with a tv all to ourselves and really enjoying it right up until the channel lost its feed and went blank. My buddy is a big Man U fan so I thought she was going to shank the waiter if he didn’t fix the tv. Well, he never did fix the tv but he had a laughable self-depreciating demeanor so she let him live.
So after we were done not watching the futbol game, we went to our favorite bar around the corner from us. Now, Sara and I have been frequenting this place ever since we moved here, and by “frequenting” I mean we go there damn near once a week. Since moving to a new city I have been dead set on establishing myself at numerous local restaurants, bars, and shops, in an effort to be known everywhere I go. I want to walk into a bar and say, “How’s it going Jimmy? I’ll have the usual,” and Jimmy will serve it to me in a golden goblet with my name engraved on it then feed me grapes and fan me with palm leaves.
This isn’t just some Cheers pipe dream or something; I just believe good service is hard to come by so the best way to get good service is to get to know those doing the serving. And this isn’t just some pompous statement that people should be waiting on me hand and foot, at least not until I have enough money someday to drive a Bentley with platinum interiors1, rather it’s just nice to be known at the places you go.
It’s worth noting that my plan has failed miserably to date. The only place where I’m even remotely known around town is the bank, and that doesn’t help me for shit because it’s not like you can deposit a check any faster when the teller knows your name nor do you occasionally find free money showing up in your bank account because you tip really well.
So anyway, I haven’t tried harder to become a local at any place more than our local bar around the corner, but to date it’s proven to be damn near impossible because they have like 38 bartenders on staff. Literally, we would go there once a week or once every other week and every time we went there was a different goddamn bartender. It was like that movie Groundhog’s Day because we were doing the same damn thing over and over but no one else was any wiser for it. We would take all of our friends there and I’d be like, “This is our local bar where we hang out all the time,” then I’d walk in, order a Fat Tire, and the bartender would be like, “Sure, can I see you ID?” Sonsabitches! I’m a local here!
So it didn’t surprise me last night when we walked in to find a brand new bartender. We sat down and ordered our drinks, which I sipped with a certain amount of spite for another night spent not being a local.
Shortly after we settled in though, I felt someone tugging my Liverpool scarf and looked up to see the new, young bartender. I was about to deck him in the face when he said, “You’re a Liverpool fan?”
“Does a dog like to lick his balls?” I replied.
So he showed me he had the Liverpool emblem on the background of his iPhone and we looked into each other’s eyes and sang You Will Never Walk Alone. That’s not entirely true, but it’s not too far off.
“Are you new here?” I asked, “I’ve never seen you before,” as if I was the local at the bar.
“No,” he said, “I own the place…”
You should have seen my face – like Scarlet Johansen just jumped out of my birthday cake or something. The only thing better than meeting the owner of a bar is meeting the owner and bonding over an unapologetic man-crush on Fernando Torres, the star Spanish striker. The only thing better than that is meeting the owner and having him say, “Hey, why don’t we just cut out the middle man here? Come on back and stick your face under this tap; I’ll just pour the beer right down your throat. How would you like that?”
So he came over and sat with us for a beer while we talked like long lost lovers. Turns out, the kid is only 26, just bought the bar a few months ago, has traveled the world, spent some time in England, fell in love with the team, blah, blah, blah, whatever. Did you hear what I said? I met the fucking owner of my local bar and now we’re boys! He even invited us over to his house to watch soccer matches! I even gave him advice on a clogged toilet problem they’ve been having at the bar. I’m not making this up! All my hard work drinking beer at this place once a week for the past 6 months has finally paid off!
Oddly, I drank a lot of beer there on Saturday night then had to pay for it all even after getting to know the owner, but as they say, Rome wasn’t built in a day nor did Caesar get free beer the first time he walked into a bar. Actually, he probably did but that’s because he had a huge posse of armor-clad, sword wielding Roman soldiers with him. Maybe that’s all I’m missing.
1. That’s right, I want to own a car with seats made out of platinum.
“Wow, this is a really nice car but I have to say, these seats are really uncomfortable. They’re all cold and hard. Are they made out of metal?”
“Yes, they are. Cold, hard, and uncomfortable – constant reminders of how obscenely wealthy I am.”
No comments:
Post a Comment