Bar Stories

So. Last Thursday, in the way early evening, damn it gets dark so fast these days, I met one of the gals at Employees Only. I'll call her CeeCee. She's a showstopper. Curvaceous, alabaster skin, a fountain of thick, brown-auburn hair, red lips, animated hands. A superb raconteur. Months earlier, I met her through Surfer Girl, who joined us at the our preferred, curved end of the bar. Dushan, the bartender-extraordinaire, worked his alchemy.

I had walked over from a late afternoon business meeting at Pastis, where I had one of the best hamburgers in my life: big, salty-savory-seared on the outside, good and juicy on the inside. Perfection. A burger so good, you don't notice the fries, or frites, on the side.

My full belly grounded the almost ceaseless procession of filled-to-the-brim flutes of Prosecco.

CeeCee regaled us with this shape-edged story. She was at The Spotted Pig, seated at the bar with girlfriend, one of the rainy evenings last week, the end of one of those days when all New Yorkers are in pissy, bite-me moods.

Her friend got up to hit the head, and a couple standing too close edged in on the empty seat, although it was covered by her friend's jacket, the usual marker that indicates "taken."

Not this time. The female member of the couple insisted on making a grab. And CeeCee would have none of it.

"Sorry. That seat is taken."

The woman got testy, insisting that she sit. "I'm pregnant!"

(Apologies right now to all my girlfriends who recently announced their second trimesters.)

"My friend is just in the loo," CeeCee responded. "And will be returning."

Apparently, the woman began to shriek. The bartender, whom CeeCee knows, looked up and over to her.

She said, "Now you're too close to me. And you're yelling. I am going to close my eyes, and after the count of five, you will be gone."

It was a command.

CeeCee closed her eyes. She held up her hand, five fingers splayed, and then, folding down one finger at a time, starting with the pinkie, "Five, four, three, two, one."

She opened her eyes. And the woman was till there, too close. "You're still here."

Surfer Girl and I listened, eyes wide. I started to laugh.

The woman's other half, a man, came up, and appeared millimeters from chest-butting CeeCee. The bartender intervened, "Sir?"

CeeCee's friend returned to the bar. As the couple bristled before the bartender, CeeCee whispered that the shrieking woman was pregnant. And her friend, without pausing, said loudly, "Pregnant? I thought she was fat." Ouch.

The couple stormed out. 

That was a good one. In the midst of our ensuing chatter, CeeCee and Surfer Girl mentioned that Dushan and his partner just had their book published.

"Really?"

When we three called him over, he heard the following sentences:

"She's a book publisher."

"Yes, I was a book publisher."

"She writes about us."

"Sure. I could write about your book and post it."

Dushan smiled, turned, and presented me with a copy of You Didn't Hear It From Us: Two Bartenders Serve Woman the Truth About Men, Making an Impression, and Getting What You Want. I asked him to sign it, natch.

We returned to our various stories. Surfer Girl had been out all the previous night, in a silver Rolls Royce Phantom, taken to the re-opening of The Russian Tea Room (!). Of course Liz Taylor Jr. was there, enabling the shenanigans.

CeeCee received a call. And Argentine gentleman, a paramour, would drive by. He did, and she would vanish, dancing through the rest of the night.

CeeCee's friend from The Spotted Pig story had arrived, model-tall and British-charming, she spilled various contents from her bag. Surfer Girl and she planned to head off to some other party.

Dushan made me a final cocktail, buttressing it with a couple of tall glasses of water. Something I call a Campari-hari (like the Mata Hari in his book). I sipped half, as the gals closed our "tab," a paltry sum given the number of drinks.

My phone rang, and when I looked at the number, I smiled. Tennis Pro. Tingle. I took the call outside. A minute later, Surfer Girl handed me my jacket, bag, umbrella, and air-kissed me goodbye.

I walked the mile or so home, laughing with Tennis Pro, right up to my front door.

What of Dushan's book? I breezed my way through it the next day, on the subway, later finishing it off before I nodded off to sleep.

It's fast and funny. Parts ring true, others don't. I think it aims for folks who mostly seek one-night stands. And it feels as though it skews to a younger audience. Still it's clever, in a pop-psych way: Be present, accept that you are desirable, learn to flirt, take care of yourself first and foremost, and remember that men want sex. What we women do should be our choice.

Nothing earth-shattering, but a sweet reminder, and worth the read.

Once thing I will take away. whenever I am in Employees Only, or any other seasoned bar for that matter, I will watch the bartenders with renewed interest, and try to see what they see, from the other side.

Comments

[Blinding-owls-with-science]

Enjoyed the regaling of CeeCee's bar adventures. Miss those lovely New York verbal exchanges...