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…
