Flavor Of The Week: A Pour Affair

I  got caught cheating on a Sunday.

It was one of those sunny June days in Brooklyn, that ebbing time of T-shirts and jeans before the humidity hits, when you can still walk comfortably down the street without drowning in your own sweat. We’d staked out a Smith Street bar with front window walls that opened outward onto the sidewalk, giving our seats that breezy, front-porch feeling. Our first beers were nearing their ends when she appeared out of the passing crowds on the sidewalk. She saw us before we saw her—which is how it always happens when you get caught.

“Hey guys,” she said calmly. “Enjoying yourselves?”

Her face betrayed no surprise at seeing us, no anger. But that didn’t stop me from blurting out: “I’m cheating on you.”

She laughed and said she understood. That it happened all the time. And it must. But still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t the tiniest bit awkward. To violate a relationship is never a cordial affair. Even a relationship that takes place once a week over a thick hunk of mahogany.

She was my Sunday afternoon bartender, the one who had been pouring me Guinness and Six Point Sweet Action all fall, winter and spring. I don’t remember the exact date when she first served me, or even when we began to talk, but I do know that in a city of millions, the company of a familiar, reliable face on the other side of the bar makes a casual beer infinitely more enjoyable. So that’s why, even though there are dozens of places within a mile of my apartment to grab a beer, I stayed loyal to my one true bar.

When my fiancée (then girlfriend) Julie first found out that I’d made a bartender friend at a bar down the street, she didn’t react negatively because it wasn’t strange for me to do so. When we lived in San Francisco, I had a couple of bartenders who I’d often visit just around the corner from my apartment. But I didn’t initially reveal that my bartender was a woman.

Why didn’t I say anything? Because even though I had no illicit intentions, I knew that Julie, like most people, would be suspicious. When Julie first told me how much she loved her new boss at her old job, how they’d chuckle over afternoon lattés and that he reminded her of me, I got nervous—until she added, “Well, more like a gay you.” Which are words that every boyfriend loves to hear.

But my bartender was straight, and she was good-looking, so I didn’t mention that my new bartender was a girl—for no reason other than I didn’t feel like enduring that conversation. But a few weeks later, I let the dreaded “she” pronoun drop and a curious look came over Julie’s face.

“Is she pretty?” Julie asked in one of those oh-so-dangerous, you-better-be-careful-how-you-handle-this ways. I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure,” I said before quickly adding, “Not that it matters.”

A skeptical look shot back at me. “It doesn’t, does it?”

“Of course not,” I said confidently. “She’s a good bartender. That’s way harder to find than a pretty girl.”

This seemed to assuage Julie. Then she later joined me and met my bartender and accepted the fact that I visited another woman. Though every time my bartender came up in conversation with friends, Julie had no problem calling her “Jeff’s very pretty bartender friend,” a subtle jab she always landed with a smile.

So on Sundays (and the occasional Friday), I’d stop into my favorite bar on Atlantic Avenue, usually with a newspaper or a book, my dog strolling behind me. I’d have a beer, maybe two, and a chat with my bartender. Sometimes we spoke briefly about a song playing or a movie one of us had seen, sometimes more extensively about future plans or the places we’d lived. Nothing too serious, but still, in a city as big as New York, small relationships provide a calming clarity in the mass of strangers pushing all around you. 

Relationships with bartenders are a nuanced affair. On the one hand, nothing more is required than attentive service and a nice tip. Between the pour and the last sip, there is ample time to be filled with quiet or a head in a book or a good story or a heartfelt question. It depends on the patron, the bartender and the mood of the day.

But even in the friendliest of relations, there’s always a small divide between the role of bartender and that of friend. Not to say that you aren’t friendly with your bartender or that they can’t one day become your friend, but as long as the sole interaction of your relationship exists at that long wooden bar separating tap from stool, you are not true friends.

And thank God for that. I have friends. They require attention and explanations. They require accountability. They require me to remember things. If I don’t show up on a Saturday to meet a friend, I’ll be get a text message, phone call, email—if not all three. Where were you? Why didn’t you meet me? Aren’t we friends? It takes work to satisfy my friends.

When I miss a Sunday at the bar, my bartender sees me the next week. She’s not offended I didn’t tell her I was in California; she’s interested in hearing how the trip went. It’s one of the reasons I love my relationship with my bartender. We interact for an hour, maybe two, and then we part. That’s it. Hey, how are you? Good to see you. What are you reading? Do anything interesting this week? See you next Sunday.

There’s a casual elegance to this movement that is an anomaly in these days of hyper-connectivity and instant access. It’s not just that I prefer to see my bartender only on those days, but I don’t even have the outlet to see her any other day. We meet when we meet because it’s the only way we could ever meet. No IMs, no emails, no text messages.

That’s why seeing my bartender on Smith Street caught me off guard. There she stood, petting my dog, making casual small talk, Julie smiling politely—I think—as I half-jokingly apologized for my infidelity. While I wanted to believe Julie didn’t care that I had this regular relationship that she wasn’t a part of, I still didn’t entirely believe that she didn’t entirely care.

My bartender waved it away as no big deal. And she was right. It wasn’t a big deal because I was one of a hundred Sunday patrons who bellies up to the bar for a chat, watches a few innings before heading off to God knows where.

When my bartender disappeared down Smith, Julie asked what the bartender’s name was, and I told her. She then asked if I thought the bartender knew my name. It was a good question. We’d never formally introduced ourselves. I just came in consistently enough until, one day, she poured me a Guinness without me saying anything.

I figured she’d seen it on a credit card or heard some occasional companion say my name, just as I had heard her name spoken by someone else. I said she probably knew it.

“But she might not,” Julie said. “Don’t you think it’s weird that you can see her on the street and be friendly, and you aren’t even sure she knows your name?”

I couldn’t tell if Julie was just pointing out a quirk or trying to diminish my relationship with my bartender, but either way I pushed back. “Not at all,” I said with the utmost confidence, “Names aren’t necessary. She’s my bartender.”

Julie thought this odd, as she does with most of my idiosyncrasies. But I insisted it was true. What did it matter whether or not she knew my name? There are plenty of people in my neighborhood who I see and say hi to whose names I don’t know. The guy who walks the dog we call “the mop” who circles our neighborhood. The sanitation worker who sweeps up the trash on the Promenade and waves at everyone passing by. The man who runs the bookstore down in Dumbo and lives on my street. These people make up my world, and I don’t know their names. But they’re a part of my New York, and I’m a part of theirs.

So the next Sunday afternoon I strolled into my bar and plopped down on a stool with my dog settling down at my feet as I spread a newspaper out before me. I said hello to my bartender, ordered a Guinness and began to read. After a few minutes, we started chatting and I apologized again for my infidelity. She accepted my apology in mock seriousness. We began to talk about what else had happened in our week. That’s when she dropped the bomb on me.

She’d gotten her work visa approved and, at the beginning of July, she was moving to London.

And, of course, the first thing I shouted, with total indignation, was, “You’re leaving me?”