If you’re nervous for your first experience drinking alone, you don’t need a talisman to bring to the bar: you need to tell a generous buddy (we’ll call him X) your Friday night plans. That way, when you arrive, the bartender looks at your I.D., recognizes your name, tells you that you have two drinks paid for (tips included) and to have an excellent night. Two free cocktails + a three day weekend + meeting up with a friend later = the formula for a beatific night.
My night began at Green St. Grill in Central Square, Cambridge, MA. The cocktail list is extensive and sequacious; each drink looks better than the previous one. While I got comfortable taking off my coat, I listened to two girls speak with an affectation so juvenile and exaggerated I had to move down a couple of seats. I learned from my fellow drinkers that seating is prime and promptly scooted until I had a corner seat with full view of the restaurant; I was ready for the night to begin.
I must admit that work was crawling that afternoon, and I had checked the drink menu of the restaurant a couple of times. I was ready for a “Moscow Mule:” Smirnoff vodka, fresh lime juice, A.J. Stephan’s ginger beer. Because X had known about the drink I was perusing, he paid for the substitution of Stoli Vodka for Smirnoff (he’s a fellow bartender of mine and knows his liquor). It was fantastic. The pucker of the lime juice combined with the spiciness of the ginger beer and finished with the smooth taste of Stoli left me with a muted but tacit approval.
It’s overwhelming when your senses experience a new feeling and your brain registers the novelty, yet it can be comforting when you’re brought back to another place. The linger of the ginger beer on my palate reminded me of a summer spent in Washington, D.C. I was with friends at a beach in Delaware, wishing we could be sailing on the open waters of the Atlantic but accepted our fate as poor interns and took the beach town of Rehoboth for all we could. The resplendent sun combined with the ginger beer and my friend’s story about malingering to skip work and hook up with a visiting friend was a warm memory for a gale filled, twenty degree night in Cambridge. Four years past that summer of freedom from responsibilities and triumphs (I had ended an unhealthy relationship), I was now faced with the possibility of losing my job to a country in economic turmoil, paying a gas bill for my apartment that was one third of my rent and trying to figure out what grad school program to apply for and when to take the GRE. For that moment, however, the “Moscow Mule” had liberated the worries imprinted on me and allowed me to revisit a memory that warmed me up as much as the vodka.
I found myself chewing the ice and feeling a bit buzzed, knew I needed food to accompany my second drink. I ordered the mussels in a coconut milk and red curry broth and a “Parisian Orchid.” Clearly, I was inspired by my first vodka drink; I’m strictly a gin and tonic girl. Maybe it was the rubicund warmth radiating my cheeks from the alcoholic buzz, but I was ready for more. The “Parisian Orchid” is a crisp and assimilated drink. Everything in it blends together so flawlessly that you can’t taste the original ingredients (Reyka Vodka, St. Germaine Elderflower liqueur, fresh lemon & pineapple juice).
Because of my corner seat, I was separated from the crowd and the bartender but for that moment, I was content.
I started woolgathering about my old bartending gig. I worked at a martini bar across the street from my apartment, and we specialized in happy hours, sorority girls and sugary constitutionals. The management was unpredictable and I hated being a exposed behind that bar, but I’m a firm believer in every situation having a deeper context (call me John Updike). The friendship I made there seemed to follow me all the way to Massachusetts that night. I was no longer a barmaid, but I was in the company of my good friend X via the Moscow Mule and Parisian Orchid.
And that was all right for me.
Filed under: Ninja
By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I am usually anxious to return to my cozy apartment and begin the rehabilitative, weekend-long process of trying to forget about all of the photocopying, collating, and spreadsheet-making of the previous week.
This Friday was no different. Watching the minute hand move at an incomprehensibly slow rate for the final two hours of the day, I wondered if the weekend (a long one, at that) would be enough time to erase the suffocating monotony of the previous five days.
Then I remembered: Girl Meets Bar. A solo outing at a sketchy bar? Totally my scene. And what a way to kick-off the weekend…
Where was I going? Allston, of course.
I am a fairly new resident in the Allston scene but, as far as I can tell, it is basically a run-down area largely populated by drunken, sleep-deprived, and/or hipster BU students. The “main drag” (if such a thing exists) is smattered with a mélange of ethnic take-out joints and a string of dive bars. Amidst this string of bars is Deep Ellum, a relatively new establishment on the corner of Cambridge Street and Brighton Avenue.
While I can’t say I have come close to sampling the myriad Allston bars, I feel confident in claiming that Deep Ellum is probably one of the nicer places in town. Another plus: the demographic is just a bit older—I’d say between 25-35—which eliminates the “Let’s-get-drunk-on-Bud-Light-and-destroy-stuff” mentality of the college crowd.
My adventure began around 6PM, when I hopped off the #66 bus, still in work attire, and strolled into Deep Ellum. Already the bar was nearly full. I managed to snag a stool in the middle of the bar, between a middle-aged man (downing two beers at once: impressive) and another middle-aged man reading a newspaper.
“What can I get you, darlin’?” asked the bartender, a brunette twenty-something with a nondescript accent and chartreuse cardigan.
Generally, artificial terms of endearment (“darlin’,” “hun,” “sweetheart,” etc) employed by well-meaning but largely disinterested bartenders/baristas/cashiers make my skin crawl. Don’t talk to me like I am your pet cocker spaniel! I want to yell at them. But somehow, this bartender possessed the requisite combination of genuine interest and Allston-edginess to excuse what might have otherwise set the night off on a bad foot.
With a quick glance over the drink menu (about 4x longer than the food menu), I ordered a glass of Tempranillo. I was in a red wine mood. (Truth: I am always in a red wine mood.)
While waiting for the wine, I could sense the double-fisting beer drinker’s eyes on me. I hastily pulled out my “prop” (thank you, Ruthless), the March edition of The Atlantic Monthly. (I thought carefully about this choice of magazine: not as pretentious as The New Yorker, but still a step above Newsweek.)
By the time the Tempranillo arrived (delicious—dry, yet succulent), Newspaper-man was joined by his date. While they chatted, I pulled out a piece of paper and began jotting notes, ostensibly about the architecture and décor of the building. (Another truth: I was actually eavesdropping and recording snippets of surrounding conversation.)
It was not long before I could feel Newspaper-man and his girlfriend’s eyes on me. Damn, I thought. They are onto me.
My stealth skills waning, I flagged down the bartender and requested an order of the calamari. I resumed writing, studying the drink menu with a voracious intensity and scribbling down some of the more interesting offerings, like the “Germination” (Plymouth gin, lemon, and St. Germain) and “Summer in São Paulo” (Chachaca, ginger, honey, mint, and lime… YUM).
“Excuse me, are you writing a review of this place?”
Ooof. I was forced out of my Brazilian booze reverie by Newspaper-man’s date.
“Uhhh, umm, yeahhh… yes,” I stuttered.
The couple nodded approvingly. “Do you write for a magazine?”
“Well… I sort of freelance,” I replied, attempting to conjure up an air of authority. (Yet another truth: Saying you do anything “freelance” implies everything and nothing. It is a smart way to impress people while also being vague enough to extinguish the possibility of more probing questions.)
“Oh, that’s great!” Newspaper-man’s girlfriend exclaimed. “We love this place.”
As the couple still eyed me with a degree of skepticism, I realized onus was falling upon me to provide a sampling of the erudition held only by true “freelance” food/drink critics, so I immediately began to launch off about the excellent beer selection and décor of the place.
However, after a few minutes, the topics shifted from food and drink (perhaps they began to suspect my wealth dearth of culinary insight) to Boston nightlife, popular film, and international travel. Unexpectedly, Newspaper-man and his girlfriend turned into amiable bar partners. She spoke to me about living all over the world with her diplomat father, and I told her about reading Dante and my aspirations for the future. Newspaper-man interjected with orders of more beer and jolly comments about Maine’s spectacular landscape.
There was, however, a slight air of bemusement accompanied by an undercurrent of sympathy that laced our conversation. “Do your coworkers ever take you out?” Newspaper-man’s girlfriend asked. “Aren’t there alumni from your college in Boston?”
This, however, is the point of Girl Meets Bar. Yes, I have friendly coworkers and acquaintances from my collegiate days. But why can’t we drink by ourselves—and have a damn good time, at that?
Nearly two hours later, I paid my bill and bid farewell to Newspaper-man and his girlfriend.
“Will we see you here again?” they asked.
“I think it’s likely,” I said with a smile. If only they knew. We shook hands, said goodnight, and I slipped out into the cold February air.
Not bad for an inaugural foray into solo bar outings and “freelance” journalism. Stay tuned for the next installment…
Filed under: Ruthless
Considering that in my last adventure alone at a bar, I found myself sitting next to a really drunk woman singing at the top of her lungs who insisted on “cheers!”-ing my water glass several times with hers as I waited nervously for a blind date (who unfortunately did not turn out to be the hot guy who approached me as I waited, asking if I was “Nora”, his date. Sigh.), I was a little reluctant to take the first step into Girl Meets Bar. But, alas, one of my New Year’s resolutions was to try to be more open, and what’s more open than going to a bar alone just for the hell of it? So in I went.
I found myself at the People’s Republik in Cambridge. Nestled between uppity Harvard Square and gritty Central Square, it’s a safe and comfortable neighborhood choice that I knew would be a good place to start this adventure—a chill crowd, cheap beer, and an easy set-up of a square bar in the middle of a room with some dart boards—perfect to scope out the scene.
Although not too much actually happened on my first time out, I did learn some great beginner’s lessons from this first adventure that I’d like to share:
Lesson #1: Allow yourself some time to warm up.
As soon as I found my seat, I did what I always do when I’m sitting awkwardly alone—I rustled through my purse. My purse is Mary-Poppins-Bag huge, so this was a lot of rustling. When I realized that no one was staring at me with the I-Spot-A-Woman-Alone judgment stare, I took a deep breath, relaxed a bit, and ordered a Red Stripe. I needed a little of that Jamaican ale to help me relax, and I pulled out my prop. Which leads me to my next lesson…
Lesson #2: Bring an interesting prop.
While eavesdropping on my neighbors, I will admit to spending most of my time pretending to read my homework–a dense article on language and gender that screamed “Don’t talk to me–I’m doing homework! In a bar!” If someone had started speaking to me, I could have told them all about the gendered norms of speech, the gender display in pitch, timber, and YAAAAWN…. next time I think I’ll bring a prop that’s a little more approachable.
Lesson #3: Choose your seat wisely.
I was lucky enough to find myself sitting next to a sea captain hanging out at the bar. Now, walking into a bar in Boston and finding a sea captain sipping a beer is like walking into a bar in Kentucky and finding a horse racing jockey sipping a Bourbon on the rocks—it’s just too perfect. Sporting a red and black flannel shirt and a long shaggy grey beard, he was straight out of Moby Dick. As I listened in on his chatter with his friends, I learned that he did indeed own a boat and was anxious for the warm weather to return so he could take it out. I also learned that he could perform wedding ceremonies on his boat if he took it at least 3 miles out to sea. Who knew sea captains could multi-task so creatively—navigator of the high seas and wedding officiant? I thought about trying to finagle a boat trip on the Charles out of this captain and his friends (now that would be a blog entry) but figured that would be too bold, so sitting silently and listening would have to do. Next time. It also turned out that it was one of his friend’s birthday, and at 56 years old, she was adamant that it would be unsafe for her to dance on the bar at her age. I listened as she carefully tried to convince the captain to partake in very a complicated-sounding upcoming gift swap, to which he replied, “I’ll be on my boat.”
And finally, Lesson #4: Wear your glasses.
Even if you don’t like them. I heard a lot on this adventure, but I didn’t see too much.
As I walked out of the bar 46 minutes later, I was proud of myself—I enjoyed a good beer, learned some important Girl Meets Bar do’s and don’ts, and (happily) didn’t learn a thing about language and gender.
Bring on the next adventure.
Filed under: Val
On a snowy Tuesday when I wanted nothing to do with work and even less to do with people, I decided it was time to start drinking alone.
The Irish in me craved a fish sandwich and a Guinness, and the bored 20-something in me wanted to try a new place. I headed to the Druid in Inman Square, an Irish pub down the street from my apartment that I’ve heard a lot about but somehow never managed to frequent in my three years in the area.
When I got to the Druid just before 7:00pm, two guys stood outside smoking cigarettes and I could see through the window that the bar was full of men older than me. Immediately turned off, I decided to check out Bukowski’s Tavern down the street. Even bleaker. Four men sat at the bar, no one was in the dining area. I made my way back to the Druid and ducked in.
Immediately I was greeted by a young bartender with an Irish brogue. He asked if I was there for dinner or drinks. Both, I said. And how many people?
Just me.
That wasn’t so hard after all.
There was one empty table in the place and one seat at the bar in between two guys. He asked if I minded sitting at the bar to save the table for groups. Not at all.
Thanks, dear.
Normally I would find this slightly condescending, but in the Irish brogue it seemed genuine and sweet. I sandwiched myself between a guy texting on his Blackberry and a group of locals yucking it up after work.
I brushed the leg of the guy on his Blackberry as I went to sit down and apologized. He told me he’d let it slip this time. I prayed silently that I wasn’t about to sit next to a hardcore flirter. Luckily that I was all I heard from the texter.
I ordered my Guinness and read a few Time articles while I listened in on the conversations around me. The two middle-aged guys at the end of the bar clearly worked in the restaurant industry and were bitching about how trivia night at their bar sucks because it’s a bunch of grad students who drink little and tip less. I wanted to interject that I thought the whole idea of trivia night was an excuse to drink fairly heavily on a week night, but I decided to stay quiet. For my first solo outing I thought it was safest to stay an observer. The best part of their conversation came when they started talking about local coffee shops. When they brought up Diesel Cafe in Davis Square, a cafe known as much for its lesbian population as its coffee, I thought things were going to get hairy. Much to my surprise the guys were behaved, and simply said that for a dirty, crunchy, alfalfa-sprouts cafe, they served good coffee. I think they meant this as a compliment.
The guy to my right who I brushed while I sat down had a female friend join him, and as soon as she sat down he answered his Blackberry and had an unnecessarily loud conversation with the person on the other end. I immediately thought a.) I hope this guy isn’t on a first date because he’s not going to get any ass at this rate, and b.) I hope if my dad ever opens the Irish pub he always talks about, it will be in a town small enough that there’s no cell phone reception.
Over the course of an hour and a half I drank two Guinness, ate a killer fish sandwich with thick handcut fries, and watched the Celtics play a close first half against the 76ers. When I asked for my check, the other Irish bartender asked how the first bartender knew my name. I had told him earlier in the evening when he started my tab, and he must’ve remembered because I have a common Irish last name. This other bartender asked if I was related to a guy Michael with the same last name. As far as I know I’m not, but I like when any establishment tries to make connections between patrons. It’s a sense of community you normally only get in a small town in New Hampshire–or Ireland.
As I tried to sign my tab, the pen wouldn’t write. The young Irishman came up from behind me and passed me a pen. I think one perk of drinking alone is better service.
Maybe it was the two Guinness or maybe it was the way the snow glittered in the streetlight, but I was smiling the whole walk home.
