Bar Fight Suggests It's Time To Go To Bed
I had not seen my friend Jay in months. Consumed with the guilt of not staying in touch, I dragged G out to Jay's pseudo post birthday get together. I had traded my flip flops for uncomfortable but flashy heels - so our commute was problematic. Especially when it came to climbing the stairs to the roof. But we made it! There we were standing on the edge of a roof covered in water, wine sipping French people who replied in French when we spoke in English and some people in bathing suits, who apparently had gotten the memo about the hot tubs. Jay greeted us warmly. Unable to make new friends, we left in half an hour.
We took a fast cab to Brooklyn and ended up at PJ Hanley's - the friendly, naighboughood bahr. I pulled the straps of my shoes down and relaxed with a tall glass of Stella. G dug into the jalapenos in the nachos mix, saying 'I know I am going to get nightmares, but I do not care." Conversations carried across closely situated tables. Everybody was loud and merry. I heard college stories from the table on the right and almost fell into the gossip story on my left 'He didn't want a girlfriend? How come?'
We asked for the check and G gave the waiter his bank debit card. Within a minute of this perfectly normal bar behavior, another perfectly normal bar event broke out: A fight! Some rugby player pushed another. Someone broke a glass. Another lifted a plastic chair. In the middle of it all stood our waiter, pretending to be a bouncer with his flimsy chest. Of course, he got punched. The half drunk crowd cheered the punchers as they jumped out of the bar's garden wall and chased some guy down the street 'to get him before he gets far."
As smart people sitting in a bar would do, we just stared and watched the whole thing unfold, wondering if the bank card was ever going to come back. After some in-depth searching behind the bar's dark corners, the little Citi card emerged. We left, convincing ourselves that we had fun and wondering what the people on the roof were doing.
We took a fast cab to Brooklyn and ended up at PJ Hanley's - the friendly, naighboughood bahr. I pulled the straps of my shoes down and relaxed with a tall glass of Stella. G dug into the jalapenos in the nachos mix, saying 'I know I am going to get nightmares, but I do not care." Conversations carried across closely situated tables. Everybody was loud and merry. I heard college stories from the table on the right and almost fell into the gossip story on my left 'He didn't want a girlfriend? How come?'
We asked for the check and G gave the waiter his bank debit card. Within a minute of this perfectly normal bar behavior, another perfectly normal bar event broke out: A fight! Some rugby player pushed another. Someone broke a glass. Another lifted a plastic chair. In the middle of it all stood our waiter, pretending to be a bouncer with his flimsy chest. Of course, he got punched. The half drunk crowd cheered the punchers as they jumped out of the bar's garden wall and chased some guy down the street 'to get him before he gets far."
As smart people sitting in a bar would do, we just stared and watched the whole thing unfold, wondering if the bank card was ever going to come back. After some in-depth searching behind the bar's dark corners, the little Citi card emerged. We left, convincing ourselves that we had fun and wondering what the people on the roof were doing.
posted by Mimi Media @ 10:09 PM
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