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Nov. 7th, 2009 09:29 pm
Take Manhattan--please!
Because everyone loves the terminological questions:
One of the women out with us tonight is an event planner, so I asked her for an English equivalent to Stehtisch. (Yes, I know LEO et al. suggest "bistro table" and "bar table", but I couldn't accept that these were the only alternatives.) She told us that if you're calling a catering firm or similar you ask for "highboys". So there ya go.
She took us to an amateur drag show fundraiser (four words that should fill anyone with terror) at Hydrate. There were actually some parts that weren't godawful, but I pretty much had my fill of gay white male privilege by the third number. The lowest point, however, took place an hour before the shemales had even taken the stage, when I tried to redeem one of my drink coupons. I asked for a manhattan. The guy told me,
"We don't have the sweet composite that goes into one here."
"I'm sorry, what? The sweetness comes from the sweet vermouth and the cherry juice."
I explained this again. He consulted his screen once more, filled a lowball glass with ice, and dumped in about a tablespoon of maraschino cherry juice from the garnish tray. Then he poured in a shot of vodka.
"Excuse me, what are you doing with the vodka? I wanted a manhattan!"
"Isn't it made with vodka?"
"It's a BOURBON drink."
Kittens, y'all know I'm no newcomer to the bar scene. I realise full well that it's biceps rather than bartending skills that land you behind the counter at a queer pub. Consequently I've pared down my list of requests to those that pretty much even the blondest boys can handle (although, as we've seen, not the lipstickiest lesbians). This has got to be the first time I've actually ordered from someone too incompetent to make a manhattan with directions ten inches from his face.
Suddenly it's all too clear why I haven't darkened their door in ten years. When I mused about giving the other pretty boy a try,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu advised me that he couldn't be bothered to turn his attention away from his own friends long enough to pour a drink. In desperation, I wended my way to the front bar.
"Can you make me I manhattan?"
He paused. "If you don't know what goes in one, just tell me up front," I warned him.
He did after all, and while it wasn't great, it was at least acceptable. Still, what the fucking fuck? I guess all I can say, vodka boy, is I hope your boss is getting great head.
One of the women out with us tonight is an event planner, so I asked her for an English equivalent to Stehtisch. (Yes, I know LEO et al. suggest "bistro table" and "bar table", but I couldn't accept that these were the only alternatives.) She told us that if you're calling a catering firm or similar you ask for "highboys". So there ya go.
She took us to an amateur drag show fundraiser (four words that should fill anyone with terror) at Hydrate. There were actually some parts that weren't godawful, but I pretty much had my fill of gay white male privilege by the third number. The lowest point, however, took place an hour before the shemales had even taken the stage, when I tried to redeem one of my drink coupons. I asked for a manhattan. The guy told me,
"We don't have the sweet composite that goes into one here."
"I'm sorry, what? The sweetness comes from the sweet vermouth and the cherry juice."
I explained this again. He consulted his screen once more, filled a lowball glass with ice, and dumped in about a tablespoon of maraschino cherry juice from the garnish tray. Then he poured in a shot of vodka.
"Excuse me, what are you doing with the vodka? I wanted a manhattan!"
"Isn't it made with vodka?"
"It's a BOURBON drink."
Kittens, y'all know I'm no newcomer to the bar scene. I realise full well that it's biceps rather than bartending skills that land you behind the counter at a queer pub. Consequently I've pared down my list of requests to those that pretty much even the blondest boys can handle (although, as we've seen, not the lipstickiest lesbians). This has got to be the first time I've actually ordered from someone too incompetent to make a manhattan with directions ten inches from his face.
Suddenly it's all too clear why I haven't darkened their door in ten years. When I mused about giving the other pretty boy a try,
monshu advised me that he couldn't be bothered to turn his attention away from his own friends long enough to pour a drink. In desperation, I wended my way to the front bar."Can you make me I manhattan?"
He paused. "If you don't know what goes in one, just tell me up front," I warned him.
He did after all, and while it wasn't great, it was at least acceptable. Still, what the fucking fuck? I guess all I can say, vodka boy, is I hope your boss is getting great head.
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