I Like the Bartender
It’s basically a recipe for disaster, but I have never met a bartender (well, a male bartender) I didn’t like. Young or old, disarmingly cute or weathered by experience. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m always drawn to them. Get on their good side, and you’re potentially rewarded with comped drinks, high fives, and good stories. Get on their bad side, and don’t hold your breath waiting for that $8 light beer.
So in the luxury of this mostly anonymous blog post, I can reveal that I am in bartender-love with a recent discovery. The bar is a typical college scene where the scent of Red Bell and Jager lingers on the Lacoste polos, black tube dresses, and cargo shorts long after you leave. A place where they play “I’m On a Boat” as if it were actual music. A place where you make as many regrets as memories. The bartender in question wears suspenders and black-framed glasses (forcefully ironic), opens beers with his eye, growls like a pirate, and once poured vodka in my between-drinks-glass-of-water.
The last time I frequented the bar in question, said dreamboat-in-suspenders pulled me onto the bar to do a drunken dance to “Beat It”. It was not my first bar-top dance, but I think it might be my last. That’s not to say I’ve given up on my bartender, or on bartenders in general, but at 23, I think I’ve sort of made the long-overdue discovery that any remotely good-looking bartender who growls at you and does crotch-thrusting dances while pouring your shots is probably looking for tips more than he’s looking for your number.
The truth is, I can’t help it. Maybe it’s that privileged position behind the bar or the fact that one beer in and even that greasy-looking bar-back becomes magically attractive. Or maybe I still haven’t learned to handle my liquor.