5.1% on draught in a poorly washed pint glass
As Milena, the sexy and lithe Bulgarian barmaid with the teased hair, fetched us some pints of Magic Hat #9, I told my friend how I’ve stumbled upon a very easy way to ingratiate oneself with foreign babes. Although, actually, this seems to work with all foreigners–cab drivers, street meat vendors, happy ending masseuses, et al–which is quite swell in a melting pot such as NYC.
I figure it works because America is perceived as a cut-off, jingoistic, egotistical place that only cares about the goings-on inside its borders. That may be true, or it may simply be that the most interesting stuff in this world happens inside our borders, but we won’t debate politics here. All that matters is that perception is reality in the game of seduction.
So here’s the secret, all you got to do to impress a foreign women in New York:
Mention the most famous soccer player in her nation’s history.
It’s as simple as that.
You say, that’s silly, why should that work? If you’re an American woman, you think, “If I was in, say, Germany and some Aryan gent sprinted up to me, thinking I’ll drop my panties simply because he is mildly conversant on Lebron or Kobe or Eli Manning, he’d have another thing coming to him.” And, you’re absolutely right. You wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. But that’s because America has thousands if not millions of interesting things about it. Thousands of celebrities that represent our homeland. Thousands of celebrities that we don’t even need to give a shit about. But, other countries don’t. Other countries have nothing going on and usually only one or two great celebrities in the nation’s history. Only one or two great celebrities that every native must love.
Thus many travelers to America, many emigrants, feel an inferiority complex about their place in America, thinking that us locals know nothing about their culture. Thinking that we believe all Latinos are Mexicans, Asians are all the same, and nothing goes on in Africa except zebra-hunting and AIDS contractions.
Hence, just the most minor knowledge of a person’s country and culture is enough to blow them the fuck away. And knowing a much revered soccer player from their land is often that tipping point. Luckily, I know most countries’ great futballers. Not cause I’m some sleaze that memorized these names in order to bed heavily-accented women, like some nerd memorizing pi to fifteen-hundred digits to impress at a Mensa convention. I know simply because I’m a soccer fan with a remarkable memorable for the arcane.
Try it out next time you encounter a foreign woman. You don’t even need to be smooth about inserting the fact into conversation. You can really just yell across the room: “Miiiiiiiiiiiiiilena!”
And when she turns her head with a what-the-fuck-is-this-drunk-a-hole’s-problem look on her face, you just say, pronouncing it correctly and slightly accented: “Hristo Stoichkov.”
She will sprint toward you, shoving you in the shoulders like Elaine used to do to Jerry–”Get. Out!”–a stunned and intrigued look on her face.
“You know who Hristo Stoichov is?!”
But of course.
And play it off coolly. “What, doesn’t everybody know who Hristo Stoichov is?” you will say, fully aware of the answer. She will tell you that, of course, not, no other Americans know who Hristo Stoichov is, and not only that, but most idiots assume she’s Russian. Don’t you Yanks know there’s more than four countries in Europe?
Well, I do. You got Romania (Gheorghe Hagi!) and Northern Ireland (George Best!), Ireland itself (Roy Keane!) and you can even go to Africa and hit up Liberia (George Weah!) or South America and Colombia (Carlos Valderama, though every rube remembers him) and the list is endless.
It’s such a simple way to impress*. And you don’t even need to know anything about the player. Just his name. Shit, I only kinda remember the hot-headed Stoichkov from the 1994 World Cup, but aside from that, I really can’t tell you anything about him. Not his stats or his club teams or even what he’s up to nowadays. Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is the name and you will forever win a place in her heart. At least for the rest of the night. Now you got your in, and it’s on you to do the rest of the work.
As for the Magic Hat #9, the one craft beer that has somehow become inexplicably ubiquitous, I hadn’t had it in quite a while, though it is halfway decent. Pretty much just a fruit beer (apricot)/pale ale hybrid. I don’t think real craft beer fans could ever love this one, and certainly never buy a six-pack of it, but it’s another decent gateway beer to some real quality stuff, and it’s always a welcome draught option over mediocre macros.
*Admittedly, this strategy isn’t full proof and all-encompassing. It doesn’t exactly work for Italian, German, French, and Dutch women, though it probably wouldn’t hurt to casually throw the names Baggio, Klinsmann, Cantona and Cruyff into conversation. Likewise, in the rare country that doesn’t regard soccer with great esteem, you might need to know a world-class cricketer, rugby scrummer, or, I don’t know…curler.