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.
