8.5% on draught
There seems to be a common refrain that you can never have a happy future with a girl you picked up at a bar. People always snicker, “Huh huh, wouldn’t want to meet your future wife there.” Well why not? I have at least four friends–conservative friends even–that met their wives at bars and all of them currently have swimmingly longstanding relationships. This is 2009, not the fucking Roaring Twenties.* You can most certainly meet your future wife at a bar. Just depends what kind of future wife you want. And what kind of man you are.
She: is an underemployed alcoholic with a minor STD or two whose face you’d never want to see in the harsh daylight and who ends each night vomiting wherever she sees fit.
You: are an emetophiliac.
FAUX DIVE BAR
She: is into drinking pitchers of beer and isn’t concerned about her shoes getting sawdust on them.
You: are the kind of guy that enjoys the romantic bohemian notion of being a Bukowskiesque barfly but has too much cowardice to start drinking at 9 AM, get into alley brawls, and ruin your liver because even though you fucking hate your accounting job you really don’t want to lose it and have to tell your mother.
MIDTOWN HAPPY HOUR BAR
She: rarely goes out to bars and only did this one time because her co-workers forced her and now she’s done and gotten drunk off of two white wine spritzers and will soon enough start loudly singing along to trite songs like “Brown Eyed Girl” even though she thinks its opening line is “Hey there, Rodrigo!”
You: are not into loosening your tie just one millimeter before heading into the bar because you think women are actually impressed that you have a job that necessitates wearing a suit even though most wealthy people nowadays don’t wear suits while such occupations as doorman, movie theatre usher, parking attendant, and rent-a-cop security guard are always besuited.
She: listens to bands you’ve never heard of, reads books you’ve never read, has lots of skinny and scruffy platonic male friends who bitch about the fact that the bar sucks ever since it replaced its shitty old-fashioned quarter jukebox for one of those awesome digital Bose ones that hold 100,000 songs, and lives in Brooklyn on her parents’ dime.
You: have no issues with pretending you’ve heard of her obscure bands, read her obscure books, hanging with her “platonic” friends that you are certain fuck her and make fun of you behind your back for ordering Tom Petty from the Bose jukebox, and having two-borough walks of shame in the morning.
She: is a bit chubby, a prodigious drinker, eats most of her meals at the bar, and gives frequent mouth congress.
You: consider romance to be dates that begin with a shared Shepherd’s Pie followed by countless pints of Guinness and relationship that ultimately culminates in a dream wedding which includes you dancing your first dance to “One” because you’re a fucking moron that doesn’t realize the song is about breaking up.**
She: is so annoying no women will be friends with her.
You: are into faking you are a homosexual in order to capitalize on insane Men’s Night drink specials (2 for 1 WooWoos?!) and are willing to capitulate to an “Ivy League rub” at the end of the night if you strike out with the bar’s fag hag or two.
She: is a lesbian.
You: are too daft to notice the giant rainbow decal on the bar’s front door and wonder why the place is so packed with stuck-up bitches you can’t spit game to. Or, you are just way into standing on the sidelines during tribadism sessions.
She: is an aging recent divorcee that had a tiresome day window shopping on Fifth Avenue and is very much into scoring a self-esteem boost before returning to Tulsa.
You: are into intentionally guessing that women are fifteen years younger than you know they really are (”48?! No way! You look 35 at most.”), drunkenly making out while the piano player pounds out “Lover’s Sonata,” disgusting the old men bartenders that wear aprons, breaking your personal “record,” and ordering a $25 room service Western omelet in the morning on her tab after having killed her minibar at 4 AM the previous night.
She: likes killing times during long layovers by drinking Bloody Marys cheaply made with Mr. & Mrs. T’s mix and Absolut, wanderlusting, and flirting with strangers.
You: always kill time by getting drunk at the nearest bar, flirt with anything that will listen, and have enough hubris to think that telling her you are from New York will get her to drop her panties in the airplane lavatory for you.
She: is a slightly overweight drama queen with a lot of gay friends.
You: are a slightly underweight and majorly effete dude that thinks performing an ironic duet of Neil and Babs’s “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” will sufficiently stand as foreplay before heading back to her apartment for some mammarian outercourse.
She: is a snooty, pretentious, lush that still lives her life according to “Sex & the City” and has a bookshelf at home with predominately pink covered books about the “dos” and “don’ts” of dating.
You: are either on a date at the very moment or a homosexual. Seriously, no single man goes to a wine bar.
She: is a stripper.
You: are a rapper or professional athlete with a tattoo and fake tit fetish who wants a few more illegitimate bastards in your life.
She: lives in the kind of crappy burg that doesn’t have any place better to drink at, forcing her to sit at the overlit chain restaurant bar swigging margaritas and praying that this is the night a man finally walks into the bar that she didn’t go to high school with.
You: are in some shitty town on business and couldn’t find any other place to get a drink. But, seriously, Chili’s margaritas are fucking delicious.
FANCY RESTAURANT BAR
She: is the kind of gal that sits alone nursing a $15 Manhattan (heavy on the sweet vermouth) waiting for some rich and aging pathetic loser to offer to buy her dinner. Or, she’s a high-priced hooker.
You: are the kind of rich and pathetic loser that can only obtain female companionship by offering to buy a steak for them. Or, sex from them.
She: is either a legitimate “guy’s girl” that truly has a passion sports (10% chance), a girl that likes watching the big game and knows she looks cute in a tight football or basketball jersey (40%), or thinks it pretty savvy to go looking for dick at a bar with a 90/10 male/female ratio despite the fact that the former is intently watching the game while sloppy on beer and covered in wing sauce.
You: are the kind of guy that doesn’t subscribe to the “bros before hos” credo and will, at the drop of the hat, quit watching a game you supposedly passionately care about to flirt with a marginal girl who doesn’t even know who Lebron is, raising your friends’ ire.
She: is the kind of girl that will assume you’re rich and come talk to you if you wear a blazer and get bottle service.
You: are the kind of fool that gets bottle service and can only ejaculate via irrumation.
She: doesn’t like to wear underpants and can only seduce men who never get a chance to hear her speak.
You: are a bad conversationalist, ugly, dumb, maybe wealthy, don’t like your ear drums, enjoy dance floor frottage, possess drugs.
She: is semi-annoying but fun, thin and in shape, and likes doing shots until she is slurring.
You: are a successful beer blogger that will put up with a semi-annoying little pop tart because she is fit and fun and you know she has no interest in getting married, having kids, and moving back to Poughkeepsie any time soon.
CRAFT BEER BAR
She: is either the bartender or not in such a geek hangout.
You: are drinking alone with other beer geeks.
Such as where I had Brooklyn’s newest release, their glorious Intensified Coffee Stout. Wow. By far the most aromatically coffee brew I’ve ever had. As the bartender slowly drew it into a snifter, the entire bar began to smell like a little mom & pop cup ‘o’ Joe joint. I knew I was in for a great treat. And the taste was even more phenomenal. Not an overly complex beer, just simple and splendid ingredients–Stumptown Guatemalan Full City Roast Coffee Beans and chocolate malts–flawlessly put together.
At the bar, I started to again ponder something I’ve wondered for a while: are coffee beers caffeinated? So, when I got home I decided to send a slightly tipsy e-mail straight to the source, Brooklyn’s always affable brewmaster Garrett Oliver who quickly wrote me back:
“Though we have not had it tested, our calculations are that the beer contains, per volume, about one-third the caffeine of brewed coffee. We based this on the volumes, our technique, and the coffee we use. It’ll certainly give a little boost to your day!”
Indeed it did, especially for a beer, coffee, and caffeine fiend like myself.
Currently only on limited draught, I truly hope this becomes a regular release. Up there with Black Ops and Brewmasters Reserve Extra Brune as my favorite beer they’ve ever made.
*Though I certainly wouldn’t mind a flapping Zelda Fitzgerald type in my life.
**U2’s “One” that is. Although a wedding first dance to Metallica’s “One” would actually be pretty awesome. That song still rocks so hard.