FANCY PANTS-ING WITH BAR HAVOC

I don’t know how it’s possible to forget what an amazing city we live in, but I feel like I take it for granted all the time. Day after day spent in my own little section of the city, day in and day out of the same work shifts with the same turkey club and fries for dinner, the same twisted tea on ice in comfortable sports bars with friendly faces becomes routine and it all just… blends into life.

I forget to open my eyes and appreciate what else is out there;

Boston has some of the best restaurants and nightlife, and tonight I was craving something different.

I always enjoy leaving Allston for brief periods of time. I used to get dressed up and all excited to maybe meet someone my age, talk to someone who isn’t in college anymore, perhaps run into someone who prefers gin martinis over jager bombs. But then I remember… I don’t particularly like gin martinis. I like jager bombs.

I feel frumpy when I dress up, and my head is always held a bit higher when I’m in an old pair of jeans and flip flops.

I leave my bar scene and I do meet people my age; bankers, investors, guys with collared shirts with the top button unbuttoned and rogue chest hair popping out of all the wrong places.

It was with all this in mind that I happily sipped a gin martini at Bistro du Midi on Boylston Street this past Saturday night. My friend Marie and had put on our fancy pants and headed to a few spots in downtown crossing, and I was currently being taught a few things about gin. Predominantly, that I did actually like it. A brilliant mix of Plymouth gin, luxardo, lemon juice, maraschino cherry liquor and crème de violette sat happy and hazy puprle in my martini glass, and it was all I could do not to take it all down at once.

I could barely keep my fancy pants on.

Stealing a glace around Bistro du Midi I felt a bit out of place like always, my loud laugh set against wonderfully set table tops and immaculate décor, dim yellowed lighting and hushed conversation. I wondered if I would be bothering anyone until I met our bartender Tommy. A friend and former coworker of my friend Marie,

Tommy was easily one of the funniest people I have ever met in my life.

Marie and I were shrieking with laugher instantly, trying not to slosh our gin all over the place.

Besides a few older diners quietly seated at tables, the only other people at the bar with us were two men with whom we slowly fell into conversation. Early thirties, neatly trimmed facial scruff, collared shirts, top buttons unbuttoned, whiskey drinks on the rocks, coy smiles set and ready. My friend went to smoke a cigarette and all of a sudden I had company.

I ignored the awkwardness of the “a bit too long, please don’t hold my hand right now” handshake

and prepared myself for the token bar side questions. I’m 28. Yes, really. I’m from Rhode Island. No, this isn’t my only tattoo. I’m a bartender and a writer. Yes, I’m single. I guess. What do you do? Interesting. Another gin martini, please and thank you, Tommy. Marie and I could have stayed all night but after fending off the collars we were a bit tired. I smiled as they walked out the door. I’ll have more gin, but those guys, no thanks.

Nice, but not my style. I know what I like.

I leaned over and nudged Marie: “Turkey club and fries with a twisted tea back home before bed?” Sometimes you just need a little routine….