LJ Idol: Week 3: Smile
LJ Idol: Week 3: Smile
It was getting late and I'd been walking the city all night. I just needed to get out of the house for a little while, get some time to myself, so I thought a walk was in order. I'd only planned to be out for an hour, not a long time, but when that hour was up I found myself having travelled mostly in a straight line and home was now a long way away. The night was lovely and I decided that I should take my time and enjoy it, but I had to start making at least some homeward progress. I plotted a course that would take me past several places where I knew I could find a good beer on tap and began drinking my way back home.
When I finally reached my own neighborhood again, I had one last stop, a funny little Somali bar less than two blocks from my house. Being a big white dude, it's not the sort of place that I fit in. I don't speak the language, I don't understand the culture, and honestly I have little desire to. But it's a neighborhood bar and they have decent beer on tap, so I’ll stop in from time to time on my way past and offer my patronage. Doing my part for the local economy, of course.
As I settled into a stool and relaxed on the bar, a small grinning man approached from behind the bar. He spoke, probably in English, but I wasn't sure what he said through his accent. His eyes were bright and his grin was genuine enough, so I pointed at the tap directly in front of me and gave my simple order: "Summit, please." He nodded and walked over to the glasses. Picking up a pint glass and a half-liter glass and again, he asked something, holding one in each hand. I let out a grin of my own and cheerfully pointed to the big one and he put the pint glass back.
The trouble started when he tried to pour the beer and nothing but foam came out. He filled the glass with froth and, maybe, a shot of beer and turned, sheepishly, and said, "I am sorry. It is a new keg."
It happens. Kegs get replaced and there's nothing but foam until it gets cleared, it just takes a little time. I held up a hand and waved off his continuing apologies as unnecessary. He left the glass to settle and ran off into a back room while I made myself comfortable at the bar. There was a section of newspaper within reach that I thought I might occupy my time with, but when I scanned it for any interesting articles it offered no solace, being written in Somali. Soon enough, the bartender came back. Picking up the glass of foam, he poured a little out and tried again, still getting nothing but foam from the tap. He turned to me again, "I am very sorry. I will try shaking the keg again." Before I could quite register that and offer some protest, he was off again and there was nothing I could do but chuckle.
The thing about the beginning of a fresh keg is it's a loss. It's all going to be foam and it's just something you have to embrace and pour through. In time the bartender returned, looking resolute. This time he picked up a pitcher and held it under the tap and I was reassured. We shared a comradely grin, his to let me know he was trying, mine to let him know we were still good. The pitcher again filled with little more than foam and he set it aside to settle as well. I laughed a little in my helplessness, trying to commiserate. There were problems, but he was trying and it was kind of funny to watch as this went on for ten minutes.
But then events turned.
He went back to the original pour, now settled out into mostly foam with maybe two inches of beer at the bottom of the glass. I thought he was going to dump it and try again, but not so. He tried pouring the foam off and, when he realized that he was pouring trace amounts of beer down the sink as well, he reached for a spoon. My friendly grin faltered, turning towards confusion and maybe a little bit of horror as he actually started spooning foam out of the glass and into the sink. He did the same to the pitcher and tried to pour what had settled out of the pitcher into the glass.
What he'd come up with in the end was maybe two-thirds of a glass of beer, the rest being foam, which he proudly set before me. I thought to myself, "Is he kidding?" When he told me it would be five dollars, I just blinked at him for a moment, unbelieving.
"It's ok, right? You don't mind?" I could see that he honestly didn't think there was anything wrong with serving me a half-full, scavenged beer that had been sitting out for over ten minutes. It was still just a beer, and in that he might even have been right. By the time I was finished with it, it would have been sitting for longer, but I just couldn't get past it. A good bartender won't ponce around when there's a man's beer at stake and this has to have been the single cheapest thing I'd seen in a long time. I could have gotten past the beer itself, perhaps. But there was no way in hell I could tip him for this display.
"Actually, I do mind," I said.
He looked confused, "What is the problem?"
I wouldn't be able to explain it, but I wasn't going to pay for that glass of warm foam either. "I'm sorry, we're done here." I got up and left without looking behind me, disappointed to have wasted so much time with nothing to show for it, ending the night in such beerless folly. I started walking back towards home, running the entire exchange over again in my mind. I decided that I was right to have left, it was a shitty way to run a business. Beer is cheap, just pour through the damned foam, for fuck's sake!
The bar didn't deserve my money, that was clear enough to me, but I realized then that I wasn't really depriving him of my money unless I spent it somewhere else! So a few blocks further down the street to another local bar that has never done me any wrong I went, voting with my feet and my wallet.
Sitting at the bar, enjoying a cold fresh beer and talking with some of the other patrons, I thought "I could really stick it to that guy and have two beers!"
I laughed into my glass, knowing I would never be able to quite explain just what I found so amusing.
It was getting late and I'd been walking the city all night. I just needed to get out of the house for a little while, get some time to myself, so I thought a walk was in order. I'd only planned to be out for an hour, not a long time, but when that hour was up I found myself having travelled mostly in a straight line and home was now a long way away. The night was lovely and I decided that I should take my time and enjoy it, but I had to start making at least some homeward progress. I plotted a course that would take me past several places where I knew I could find a good beer on tap and began drinking my way back home.
When I finally reached my own neighborhood again, I had one last stop, a funny little Somali bar less than two blocks from my house. Being a big white dude, it's not the sort of place that I fit in. I don't speak the language, I don't understand the culture, and honestly I have little desire to. But it's a neighborhood bar and they have decent beer on tap, so I’ll stop in from time to time on my way past and offer my patronage. Doing my part for the local economy, of course.
As I settled into a stool and relaxed on the bar, a small grinning man approached from behind the bar. He spoke, probably in English, but I wasn't sure what he said through his accent. His eyes were bright and his grin was genuine enough, so I pointed at the tap directly in front of me and gave my simple order: "Summit, please." He nodded and walked over to the glasses. Picking up a pint glass and a half-liter glass and again, he asked something, holding one in each hand. I let out a grin of my own and cheerfully pointed to the big one and he put the pint glass back.
The trouble started when he tried to pour the beer and nothing but foam came out. He filled the glass with froth and, maybe, a shot of beer and turned, sheepishly, and said, "I am sorry. It is a new keg."
It happens. Kegs get replaced and there's nothing but foam until it gets cleared, it just takes a little time. I held up a hand and waved off his continuing apologies as unnecessary. He left the glass to settle and ran off into a back room while I made myself comfortable at the bar. There was a section of newspaper within reach that I thought I might occupy my time with, but when I scanned it for any interesting articles it offered no solace, being written in Somali. Soon enough, the bartender came back. Picking up the glass of foam, he poured a little out and tried again, still getting nothing but foam from the tap. He turned to me again, "I am very sorry. I will try shaking the keg again." Before I could quite register that and offer some protest, he was off again and there was nothing I could do but chuckle.
The thing about the beginning of a fresh keg is it's a loss. It's all going to be foam and it's just something you have to embrace and pour through. In time the bartender returned, looking resolute. This time he picked up a pitcher and held it under the tap and I was reassured. We shared a comradely grin, his to let me know he was trying, mine to let him know we were still good. The pitcher again filled with little more than foam and he set it aside to settle as well. I laughed a little in my helplessness, trying to commiserate. There were problems, but he was trying and it was kind of funny to watch as this went on for ten minutes.
But then events turned.
He went back to the original pour, now settled out into mostly foam with maybe two inches of beer at the bottom of the glass. I thought he was going to dump it and try again, but not so. He tried pouring the foam off and, when he realized that he was pouring trace amounts of beer down the sink as well, he reached for a spoon. My friendly grin faltered, turning towards confusion and maybe a little bit of horror as he actually started spooning foam out of the glass and into the sink. He did the same to the pitcher and tried to pour what had settled out of the pitcher into the glass.
What he'd come up with in the end was maybe two-thirds of a glass of beer, the rest being foam, which he proudly set before me. I thought to myself, "Is he kidding?" When he told me it would be five dollars, I just blinked at him for a moment, unbelieving.
"It's ok, right? You don't mind?" I could see that he honestly didn't think there was anything wrong with serving me a half-full, scavenged beer that had been sitting out for over ten minutes. It was still just a beer, and in that he might even have been right. By the time I was finished with it, it would have been sitting for longer, but I just couldn't get past it. A good bartender won't ponce around when there's a man's beer at stake and this has to have been the single cheapest thing I'd seen in a long time. I could have gotten past the beer itself, perhaps. But there was no way in hell I could tip him for this display.
"Actually, I do mind," I said.
He looked confused, "What is the problem?"
I wouldn't be able to explain it, but I wasn't going to pay for that glass of warm foam either. "I'm sorry, we're done here." I got up and left without looking behind me, disappointed to have wasted so much time with nothing to show for it, ending the night in such beerless folly. I started walking back towards home, running the entire exchange over again in my mind. I decided that I was right to have left, it was a shitty way to run a business. Beer is cheap, just pour through the damned foam, for fuck's sake!
The bar didn't deserve my money, that was clear enough to me, but I realized then that I wasn't really depriving him of my money unless I spent it somewhere else! So a few blocks further down the street to another local bar that has never done me any wrong I went, voting with my feet and my wallet.
Sitting at the bar, enjoying a cold fresh beer and talking with some of the other patrons, I thought "I could really stick it to that guy and have two beers!"
I laughed into my glass, knowing I would never be able to quite explain just what I found so amusing.