Any barfly worth his salt-lined shot glass knows the value of having friends on the other side of the bar. Sometimes it’s a close buddy; other times it’s just someone who recognizes you as a regular, and has enough kindness in his or her heart to ease the strain that drinking puts on your wallet. The latter relationship typically begins with the topic that I covered in December—being friendly with your bartenders and servers. If you’re lucky, it can become a valuable assist in your weekly games of “Let’s make everything blurry.”I have had many such associations and friendships over the years, with varying results.
- In the summer before my senior year of college, my boy Chris and I were regulars at a Duquesne University bar called Pizza Milano’s. We became friends with two of the bartenders there, who regularly did right by us with the tab. And this, more than likely, is what led to each of them being fired by the summer’s end. Oops.
- A friend and I went to a place in the South Side one Wednesday night in 2002 to play some pool and drink some beer. But we quickly became more interested in the goddess tending bar—“HHM” [due to the fact that she’s still working there today, I’m doing some strict censorship here to keep from snitching]. Some small talk soon proved that she was as down-to-earth and intelligent as she was beautiful (it sounds mushy, true; but I know better than to get on her bad side). She rapidly became a good friend of mine, and remains one to this day. And her generosity when it came to hooking us up was legendary. It was always fun to walk in with someone who was not initiated to the ways of HHM. First, if my drinking companion was a guy, I’d chuckle at his jaw yo-yoing when he first laid eyes on her (yeah, she’s fine). Then, I’d order a round of beers and a round of shots, never even reaching for my wallet; HHM would serve all of them with a smile and a quick word, and then hurry off to another customer. When the person with me finally realized that no money had changed hands, a look of “this changes everything I’ve ever known” would come across his or her face. Sometimes, when she felt like she was being watched by management or other customers, HHM would take a $20 and come back with a $10, a $5, and five $1s. I’d propose to her if I felt I was in any way worthy of being married to her.
“J.,” another friend, has worked at several bars and clubs in the area over the past six years. The last time that some of us tried to count them, the total came to about 7 or 8. And it’s very possible that we were forgetting one or two others. And at each place that he has slung drinks across a counter, we have experienced a special discount rate. Last year, we had a birthday party for T.C. at the club where J. was working at the time. We’ve estimated that the number of people on our tab was in the low 20s; and, that over $800 of alcohol was put down (and this is by no means an exaggeration; in addition to the numerous rounds of shots, each of us was ordering our drinks two at a time, due to the packed conditions at the bar). When he handed the bill to T.C.’s wife at closing time, though, the grand total was $200. J.’s popularity has since landed him a job managing a pub in town; this means he’s not behind the bar though, and his days as a hookup artist are over. A little success is a dangerous thing.- Ashhad introduced me to a bartender at a place in my neighborhood last summer. “C.” is cut from HHM’s mold: down-to-earth, fun to talk with, and more than happy to hook you up if he knows you. I doubt he looks as good as she does in a tank top and short-shorts, but I won’t hold that against him. There’s nothing like ordering a couple of rounds of drinks and shots for yourself, your wingman, and two cute girls at a pseudo-swanky bar, and knowing that your credit card’s not going to take 1/10th the hit that it normally would.
- A few years ago, a friend of mine began bartending at a big country-western nightclub in the city. I’ve only been in there once, but he managed to hit me with two or three rounds of shots and a multitude of beers without asking for a cent. I was brain dead by the time I walked out, which is pretty much a prerequisite for being in a country-western nightclub.
My all-time favorite hookup was at a club that has been one of the most popular in the city over the past 4 years. At its height, I had no less than five hookups in this one establishment: (1.) The girl working the door was a friend’s ex, and she never made me or anyone in my party pay the cover charge; (2.) Sean, Nick’s cousin who took a beer beating at Brewski Fest, was working there as a barback; (3.) his girlfriend, who went to high school with T.C.’s wife, was a bartender; (4.) I was introduced to “J-Dizzy,” a cool chick that bartended at the club, by Haze, who had met her at some point during his own adventures; (5.) and along with J-Dizzy’s friendship came that of her boyfriend, who was almost always hanging out at her bar, and who always insisted on feeding us shots of Patron, etc. Walking through this club was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like a rock star. I have still spent quite a bit of money there over the years, but I’d probably be living under a bridge right now if I hadn’t had the ferocious hookup circumstances.
No comments:
Post a Comment