Several months ago we made plans to go to brunch with some of my wife’s old college buddies. We met at what can only be described as a “kid-friendly dive bar” (don’t look at me that way, some of you know exactly the kind of place I’m talking about). It was a lovely establishment - one might go so far as to call it “charming” - with a great brunch menu, friendly staff, and…a bloody mary bar.
The bloody mary is my go-to brunch beverage, and I suppose I can understand the appeal of having a table full of different spices and hot sauces and charcuterie to apply to building one’s own magnificent cocktail creation. …but the bloody mary bar is not for me for a variety of reasons, not least of which is the paradox of choice.
So when it came time to order our drinks, I asked our waiter “I’d like a bloody mary, please, but I’d like you to make it for me.” Not him, personally, you understand, but the trained professional getting paid to make drinks. Or Ol’ Margie Behind-the-Bar. Whoever they’ve got on hand that knows how to make the thing, who will undoubtedly do it better than I can.
He laughed and said “There are placards that tell you what everything is - don’t worry, we’ll help you if you get confused.”
Now, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt - he probably wasn’t laughing at me, perhaps he genuinely thought I was making a joke. Also, I was a waiter/bartender for several years and I would never ever mistreat the waitstaff. They’d have to do something pretty egregious - smack my grandma and I’m probably still leaving 20% - but it was at this point that my wife gave me a Look. After nearly 17 years of marriage she’s got a pretty good grasp on when I’m about to open my mouth, and this Look said “Cliff, do not open your mouth. Make your drink, eat your omelet…you can say whatever you’re thinking right now in the car ride on the way home.”
…but I mean, what’s next? Where is this headed? I order food and they point me in the direction of a pile of ingredients and a grill? With placards “in case I get confused”?
Oh, wait, that’s a thing.
So.
I made my drink.
I ate my omelet.
We had a lovely time, and when the time came to order Round Two…I got a beer.
Thankfully they didn’t make me brew the fucking thing myself.