I have the contrarian bug today:
1) Be polite and smile your brains out, but let the bartender flirt first. Always provide a number, never ask for one.
A gender-specific injunction. If the bartender is a heterosexual male and you are a heterosexual female, flirt away. He is not allowed to complain, and any move to do so will be seen as braggadocio.
In Downtown Los Angeles, there is a restaurant/bar that sells French Dip sandwiches, called Cole’s. Through a door at the back of Cole’s is a small bar, called The Varnish, that serves artisanal cocktails. Through a smaller door at the back of The Varnish is a closet-sized room, called Transistor, in which a bartender sits upon a piano stool and pours a single shot of 20-year-old Scotch for each patron. Through a doggie-door at the back of Transistor is a smaller closet with a four-foot ceiling, called Phosphor, where a dwarf named Hibernius will take a swig from a bottle of absinthe, demand that you tickle his exposed scrotum with a peacock feather, messily spray the absinthe into your mouth once you comply with this off-putting request, then cackle in a disturbing fashion as he devours the feather.
There is no door at the back of this room.
Medjool is renowned for its douchey clientele. But I didn’t expect to see such a prototypical specimen right up front and working the door like that.
I have to admit, I was delighted.
The eyebrows were sculpted like you would not effing believe. If Michelle Obama and the lead singer from Color Me Badd had a love child with drag queen eyebrows, and that child’s eyebrows had eyebrows, they’d be on this guy. The cologne, the scorpio necklace, the pose … all priceless.
Made my night.