Drink Up, Autocorrect

A "damn you, autocorrect" moment between Woody and me

We can offer you sanctuary, or we can offer you sangria. Either way, It's $5. If anyone has a good recipe for sanctuary, let me know.

Angstgiving

My mother said it would just be the four of us. Usually on Thanksgiving, Leah and I end up at Leah’s parents’ house. Or we end up staying home and Leah makes turkey meatballs and mashes every type of root vegetable she can locate at Wegmans. This year, I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with my parents for the first time in about ten years.

I asked Leah if she was interested in joining me. “Who’s going to be there?” she asked tentatively. Leah did not like holidays, and she did not like people, which meant she only attended events where Vicodin was on the menu. My parents served wine, port and whiskey which she deemed acceptable substitutes.

Creating holiday traditions with Leah is like trying to convince a seven-year-old boy to take a bath. Okay, I have no idea what it is like to convince a kid to bathe. But I do know what it is like to try to talk my girlfriend into doing something festive that she thinks is fundamentally stupid. But with some pushy coaxing, she finally tries whatever activity I want, like carving a pumpkin or decorating a Christmas tree, and in the end she loves it. The next year we start all over again with her grumpy refusal to partake in celebrations without a kick in the ass.

On Thanksgiving day this year, an hour or two into wine-inspired conversation with my parents, the doorbell rang.

“Well, that’s a lot of ice cream for five of us,” my mom said, taking their friend Jim’s grocery bag. On cue, the phone rang. Judy had decided to come early with her husband and two young boys to have dinner at my parents instead of at her in-laws. The turkey was taking too long and the boys were getting hungry. Just the four of us was morphing into just the nine of us. I refilled Leah’s wine glass.

A few minutes later, I was sipping wine in the kitchen with my sister as her kids ran around. “I loved your memoir essays,” she said to me. “Thanks for sending them. I like your creative take on things, especially that rum incident when you were fourteen. You know, everyone remembers things differently. And you were drunk.”

My mom chimed in. “And you get to use creative license and make up stuff, since it’s your memoir.”

I was pleasantly surprised that they supported my “creative take” when it included things they had said and done, but their support also made me uneasy, because, well, I thought the memory was fact when I wrote it. I prodded my sister to share her version of the evening.

Judy recalled that she did not say she was going to tell my parents I was drunk on the night she picked me up at the roller skating rink. She claimed she never told them, that she said to me that night in the car as I threw up into a Styrofoam cup, “I’m not going to tell them, you are.”

I asked my mother how she found out. “Your sister had us paged at the movie theater,” she said. “We came home and she asked us to wait until morning to confront you. She was very protective over you.”

My sister? Protective? “I thought you wanted to see me get in trouble,” I said to Judy. “You were so competitive.”

“I was not competitive,” Judy said.

“Yes, you were,” I said.

“No, YOU were.”

“But you told me how competitive you felt in high school.”

“No, you told me YOU were competitive,” she said. “I never felt competitive. That’s so funny you remember it that way,”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said. I turned to my mother who was stirring the gravy and asked if she had ungrounded me early because she was worried about my mental health, which was what I had assumed because I was so miserable after I got caught.

She said no, that she and my father did talk to me that night while I was drunk, a conversation I have no recollection of, and in the heat of the moment they grounded me for a month “because that’s the kind of thing you do when you’re mad." They recognized later that two weeks would be sufficient and reasonable for the offense.

“What about the rum cake?” I asked my mom. Suffering from a tortuous hangover and the dry heaves, I had to serve rum cake at the church rectory the day after my drunken escapade. “Did you call the cook and tell her to make rum cake?”

That, my mother laughed, was divine intervention.

Can I see your i.d., please?

Most people respond with annoyance when you ask to see their i.d., unless they are over the age of 50. At that age, they get excited and think you are complementing them, though it’s obvious that they are old enough to drink and you just didn’t want to make them feel bad by only asking for their daughter’s – oops, girlfriend’s – i.d. The closer someone is to age 21, the more likely they are to be miffed that you want them to produce i.d.

The young ones roll their eyes and say, “Oh my god, don’t I look 21? Gheesh. I just turned 22.” What they will understand a decade-and-a-half from now is that at age 39, I can’t tell the difference anymore between an eighteen-year-old and a twenty-eight-year-old. They all look like teenagers, too young to be drinking. And when they reach age 39, they’ll be bumming that no one asks for their i.d. anymore.

The grad students fumble through their wallets and produce beat-up European or Iranian or Albanian or Egyptian drivers’ licenses. I apologize, but tell them in New York, I can legally only accept a passport if someone is not from the U.S. or Canada.

“But look at this,” a young man who looks like a teenager says to me. He hands me a driver’s license from a far-away country where they don’t have letters, but instead write with symbol things. Might as well be Greek to me. Maybe it is Greek. The date proclaims that he is 24 years old.

The man also hands me a document with the title, “International Identification Card.” Scotch tape attaches his picture in the top right-hand corner. “X bar accepts it,” he says. X bar also serves underage drinkers on a regular basis.

“If it helps,” the man tells me, “all of my American friends have i.d.’s.” He points to a table filled with young faces in the rear of the bar. “It helps them,” I say, but I tell him as much as I’d like to give him a drink, I still can’t serve him.

He pulls out a college i.d. Then a business card that states his role in the chemistry department at the college. "I'm sorry," I say.

It’s not that I didn’t believe him. In fact, I’m pretty sure he was over 21. But I wasn’t 100% positive, and one slip-up at the wrong time could cost us our liquor license. In a college town, you can’t be too careful about serving underage drinkers. Liquor authority goons lurk in the shadows and set up sting operations when you least expect it.

The lesson? Get old: Recede your hairline, get some wrinkles, add grey hair to your demeanor. Or, if aging quickly is not an option, bring your passport.

Eesah the Lounge Dog

Eesah the Lounge Dog says he loves the music at Felicia's Atomic Lounge on Fridays, especially when there is a fiddle and he can howl along.

Bar Faux Pas

As bartenders, we do not always get to see the best side of people. We try not to react badly, but we have our moments. A few weeks ago during a crazy Friday happy hour, boss Leah and preggers Danielle both started hollering at men who waved their money, "What, do I look like a stripper?!" Most of the time we say nothing to you, but you can be sure that we bitch about you to each other in the kitchen.

One of my favorite San Francisco bartenders, Cielo Gold, recently wrote a blog on customer etiquette. If you don't want to have a cartoon caricature of you and your antics taped onto our ice machine so we can laugh at you behind your back, read and learn:

http://cielogold.blogspot.com/2009/04/major-bar-faux-pas.html

Snakes in a Bar

I wish I had thought of getting my camera out sooner. But when you arrive at work to find two panicked men lying on their stomachs under a bench outside your bar, holding on to about 12 inches of red boa constrictor, you don't typically think about taking pictures. The other 42 inches of snake - the end with the head - had crawled inside a hole in the building. Fast forward: Nick eventually found his snake in our dark, frightening basement where it was peacefully eating bugs, and plotting to eat all of us (and the dog) one by one. Cocktails, anyone?

Hard Cider SCOBY Update

Remember the Kombucha/SCOBY mother that cocktail chef Leah created when she was trying to distill apple cider? Hippie bartender Melissa was excited to receive one of its babies:But this cider fermentation story, alas, does not have a happy ending. The original mother grew and grew and grew until got too hungry to be contained to its two gallon jar:
Beware fermenting Kombucha and hard cider in the same room. We'll miss you, Leah.

Bar Incident: Credit Card Clogs Toilet

Credit Card Fiasco Ends in Staff Spending Spree
by Amelia Sauter, Feliciated Press

ITHACA -- Plumbing specialist Ken Sanderson responded to a distress call at 508 West State Street in Ithaca last Thursday, January 29 at 7:51pm. Upon arriving, he found Felicia’s Atomic Lounge owner Leah Houghtaling plunging the women’s toilet without success. “Something unnaturally huge must be in there,” she reported to the official. “Or maybe a cell phone.” Sanderson, principal of Sanderson Heating & Plumbing & Refrigeration & LaRouche Fan Club & Youngevity Vitamin Supplements, attempted to snake the drain. Under pressure, the two finally removed the toilet from the floor which caused Sanderson to exclaim, “Now there’s your problem!” Houghtaling reached into the pipe and pulled out a dripping credit card upon which was imprinted the name “Amy Gonzales.” The crisis was averted and no arrests were made. Staff recovered from the incident by embarking on a spending spree with Amy’s card which only ended when the card was maxed out. “I really love my new ’57 Stratocaster,” supervisor Earl “Guy” Lorshbaugh IV stated. The credit card was thoroughly disinfected by a hazmat team before shopping. Amy Gonzales could not be reached for comment.

Bar Incident: Five Manhattans

An Open Letter to the Guy Who Got Shut Off Last Night:

You were wondering why we refused to continue to serve you last night after you finished your fifth manhattan during your hour and a half marathon at our lounge. While we were most impressed with your consumption abilities, 'tis a lot of booze. Five manhattans. That's like 12 shots of bourbon. 12 ounces. A cup and a half. In an hour and a half. Followed by a few sneaky shots after we shut you off. You rascal, you. Felicia bows before your liver of steel.

Fondly,
Felicia

Bar Incident: The Chipotle "Accident"

An Open Letter to the Guy Who Steals Drinks:

We have seen you chug other people's cocktails - even strangers' drinks - when they are not looking. Last week, did you think that full-to-the-brim martini was sitting abandoned on the bar by accident? Tempting you to sneak the whole thing? Inviting you to slug it down? We made it just for you, with our chipotle-infused tequila. The look on your face as your mouth burst into flames was simply classic. We notice that you aren't stealing drinks anymore...

Fondly,
Felicia

Bar Incident: The angry European guy

About that European guy who had a fit in the lounge last night while the Horse Flies were playing, Felicia did not see that one coming. Maybe he was angry before he arrived, or maybe he just felt small, since he was on the puny side and carrying a shih tzu. He had ordered a flatbread and then told the bartender, "you bring me pizza in alley." Leah was sitting next to him at the bar and she said, "there is no table service in the alley tonight." He proceeded to explode like someone set off a fire cracker in his groin. He yelled, cursed, jumped up and down, waved his arms around, screamed, attempted to suck hapless bystanders in as his allies, and according to Jennie Stearns, he even insulted Leah's knees. One of his friends emailed Felicia today with an apology, "If I hadn't had to pee so much [and stepped away before the incident], I might have been able to put the kibosh on my pal's situation." Sorry you had a bad day, Mr. Angry European Guy. Felicia still loves you, but only from far, far away. Feel better soon, and be kind to your shih tzu.

Bar Incident: The girl with the weird hair

Part I: Red Stripe's Story

It was nice and quiet in the Hussman Cooler. And cold. I like the cold. It's how I remember things being my whole life. I liked that I was surrounded by my peers, really close but not touching. Orderly. Predictable. That was my life. Hangin' out with my peeps, just chillin'.

And then the woman with the blue streaks in her hair reached in, pulled me out of the cooler and popped my top off. It was simultaneously shocking and a release. That's when it happened. She handed me to that b*tch with the weird hair. That girl's sweaty, angry fist wrapped around my middle too tightly. Her hand was hot, demanding. The girl slammed me down on the bar to root around in her pockets. I looked around the bar desperately, but there seemed no escape. Could someone else pick me up? Maybe I could topple myself over? I tried to rock side-to-side but I couldn't move. I was paralyzed.

Suddenly the girl's hand was gripping me painfully again. As she raised me up to her lips, her foul-mouthed, negative-nancy, spoiled brat lips, I knew my fate was sealed. It was over, and my last precious moments of existence would be in the stomach of the b*tchy girl with the weird hair.

Part II: The Bar Stool's Story

I saw it all happen but I didn't care. I'm a carefree, spin-any-way-the-wind-blows kind of guy. You should see the shit that happens in this bar. Like the time the guy sitting on me was feeling up the guy next to him while his girlfriend was in the bathroom. Or the woman who got drunk and fell off of me, then tried to drive home and ended up in a ditch. It's a bar for god's sake. Things aren't always pretty. The girl with the weird hair? That was nothing. Sure, she didn't say please, or thank you for that matter, and she threw her tip down like it was a chore, but whatever. You gotta relax and let these things go.

Me? I'm here to serve. Sit on me, prop your heels on the rungs, spin a little, move me to the other side of the room if you want. I'm easy. That girl was just another drop in the slop bucket. Haha! Get it? Slop bucket. A little bar humor there. I am so funny.

You got to be easy-going to survive in a bar night after night, putting up with all the crazy regulars. Frankly, I like the company. The more the merrier. We all have to let loose sometimes, you know? And what better place than at a bar? If you can't be yourself here, then what's the point? Lighten up, that's what I say. Don't worry so much. Life is too damn short.

Bar Incident: Sirens and Mojitos

Felicia had her first visit from the flashing lights last night on her busiest night of the year to date. The red, white and blue lights artfully reflected off of the silver walls, creating an air of anticipation and mystery. If Felicia wasn't outside greeting the brave men in uniforms, she would have taken some nice photos of the reflections for you. No, it was not the police coming to arrest Leah who slapped a patron after one too many rude demands for drinks, money waving, etc. Nor was the newly painted men's room on fire after a mischievous patron snuck an indoor cigarette and carelessly tossed the butt into the paper towel-filled trashcan (from the few men who DO wash their hands). The story goes that a patron came upon the unfortunate circumstance of "falling ill" in the bar. What kind of illness? Though Felicia is sensitive and highly intuitive, she is not psychic and does not want to hazard a guess. Hopefully the individual involved will visit us and let us know that she is feeling better. Felicia did learn a few things from the experience that she would like to share with you:

1) a gurney/stretcher does in fact fit through that narrow space between the bar stools and the middle bar.

2) when going out for an evening on the town, you should make sure the people you are with know your last name (and your first name, for that matter).

3) if you are prone to "falling ill," you should pin your full name and address inside your tshirt before you go out. Or use a sharpy and those scratchy iron-on labels like your mom stuck in all your clothes when you went to summer camp.

4) the Ithaca police and Bangs ambulance dudes are really nice. Thanks, guys!

Felicia could go on, but out of respect for the privacy and potential embarrassment of the person who had the pleasure of riding all tucked in and cozy to the hospital with three handsome hunks attending to her needs, Felicia will pause and let you humbly ponder your own embarrassing bar moments.

And now here is the mojito recipe that Felicia promised you:

Mojito

1 ½ ounces rum
about 15 medium-sized mint leaves
½ lime cut into wedges
1 teaspoon sugar
club soda

Muddle rum, mint, limes and sugar in a pint glass (Felicia likes big drinks) until they are thoroughly mashed. Fill with ice; top with club soda. Toss into another glass and back again to gently mix.