Monday May 3rd, 2010
Before I started showing up at Jack's regularly, I wasn't all that experienced when it came to bars and other supposedly "low" places that Garth Brooks might have sung about in the 90s. However even I, layperson and noob that I am (well, was) knew back then as well as now that if you're a dude you just don't hit on the female bartenders.
Of course that doesn't keep other guys from trying, particularly if they've grown an insta-spine thanks to one of several alcoholic Miracle Grow equivalents that can be found at any bar in the U S of A.
Today was no different. Emboldened by several drinks, a fellow stepped away from the bar (and his far more sober friend, aka the DD) and saddled, nay: wobbled, on up to the other end of the bar. After steadying himself on the bar with elbow and hips like a mechanic about to dip under the hood of a car, the dude expressed his sincere affection for today's bartender (Aimee B.) and asked if he couldn't call her sometime so they could hang out.
For her part Aimee B. smiled graciously, said no and informed the intrepid man that she already had a boyfriend. Then she went right back to her business as though the fellow had done nothing more than asked for a drink they don't serve at Jack's.
The fellow made his way back down the bar and took a seat next to his DD friend. From what I could tell while trying to look past the man to my left (who had the "Rock Hard" hat on --it's a Chevy Truck thing) at the wobbly guy, his face didn't betray any disappointment. Rather it had more of a "I just forgot the last 30 seconds of my life" goldfish look to it, which is probably for the best. After all, men don't take rejection all that well.
Today I learned that when a customer orders Silver Patron, the bartender asks if the customer wants chilled or regular. After poring, the bartender asks if the customer wants salt too. It's up to the customer to ask for "a little bit of salad on one of them", i.e. a lemon wedge.
If Starbucks-speak (Short, Tall, Grande, Venti) is the modern version of the drinking language, then all the phrases with alternate meanings and the various other bits of bar lingo that have been used and passed down over the ages (like "a little bit of salad on one of them" or "on the rocks") comprise the drinking language equivalent of Latin.
(Let's pause for a moment so I can laugh at my housemate, who's playing World of Warcraft and cussing like a pirate with his Donald Duck voice.)
I wasn't looking to see some serious male ass crack exposure at the bar today, but I did. And now the thought of it is like a visual equivalent of an earworm; it just won't go away. That dude's Zelda ringtone was cool, but the ass? Not so much. In fact, not even a little.
Oh, before I forget: today's Around The World At Jack's drink was Johnnie Walker Black Label. A shot of that and a PBR will put you right at $10, which by the way is exactly the minimum at Jack's for using a credit card. Now something tells me their was a bottle of Jamison up on the shelf that was supposed to be next, but between last Thursday and today it disappeared.
I imagine its replacement will be back up on the shelf before long, at which point I'll happily do some back tracking.
The Black Label had a deep, smooth flavor to it. It was really hard to drink with no ice at first, but it didn't really burn on my lips or in my throat when I swallowed it. One thing it did do was it warmed me up very fast, then it went down a lot smoother as time went by. I was chasing it with beer after awhile -a no no in scotch drinking circles, I'm sure- but it all seemed to work for me.
Today I learned that Johnnie walker scotch is actually comprised of a hierarchy of labels, which denote the quality and age of the scotch. The colors are Red (label), Black, Green, Gold and Blue.
Red would be a relatively cheap $21 bottle, whereas Blue would run you $160 easy. I heard at the bar from a source who wishes to remain unnamed that it's only possible to pick up the higher end labels at duty free shops. Have you ever run across such on your travels, Dear Reader?
About that time and I got a booty call...well, a booty text technically. I performed a self-high five inside my head and found myself remarking out loud that I like getting booty calls.
I went on to say that it's especially nice when they come from women and not guys. In the later case all you get is a "Ha ha, you thought I was a hot chick didn'd you dude?" Whereas in the former, well it's bowchickawowow and all that.
Too bad I had to defer. I've got flowers and plants to water at home and still more plants that need to be put in the dirt. And I've got to dress down my housemate for not cleaning up after himself. And I've got to make a Jeremy sandwhich (you haven't lived, Dear Reader, until you've let me make on of those for you). And I've got to write this here blog.
Busy, busy, busy! ;)
On another note: I'd like to be able to explain why C3PO's voice kept repeating "Let The Wookie Win" over and over in my head when I was at the bar today, but I'd have to break a promise to do it.
As I made to leave for the day, I overheard the DD say to his friend, "Hey, we need to take you home buddy."
So, not very spectacular, but it's a blog post, hey?
Take good care Dear Reader. See you as soon as possible after work on Tuesday at Jack's, as Game 3 of the Sharks - Detroit series starts promptly at 4:30 p.m.