The bar had a grandiose name. Also, imposing wooden doors, like those you’d imagine in front of a sturdy barn.
No windows, either, just brick face for a colonial feel. But inside was a different story. Inside, it was just a lame low-rent bar devoted to pitchers of beer and chicken wings. The type where the bartenders barely could muster the energy and attention that proper barkeeping requires: the detail, the gravitas, the knowledge. But they were young and cute. And they were super-friendly and super-flirty, and they said “super” all the time. David asked one of them if she stocked Hendrick’s. She appraised him with unexpected seriousness, and said, “Yes, yes we do.” And then she took up the task of making his $14 martini, straight up. Since this rarely happened here, she asked David what he thought. She asked as though she really wanted to know. Then she ruined everything by mentioning a boyfriend, so David turned away to face a schoolmate from decades earlier.
When it comes to marriage, the grass isn’t always greener.