Here's my attempt. Note the shameless use of previous reviewer John B. I suspect his account was hacked.
The United NationsStaff: Sam Malone, Shaq
Activity: Free Wi-fi, streaming TV/sports
Entertainers: AC/DC, Eric Clapton, Ziggy Marley
Food: Pizza
Beer: Murphy's Irish Stout, Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse
Ommegang Hennepin, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale
Red Stripe Lager, Deschutes Seasonals
Drinks: Margaritas, full Bloody Mary bar, Irish Coffee
Saved my draft. There’s beer, music, and pizza here too, apparently.
So I wake up on Saturday morning, with plenty of time to spare before the draft for my fantasy football league, and only slightly hung over from the previous night’s festivities. I had made sure to pace myself, despite the antics of my new roommates Matt and Dave, as you don’t want to be staring down your 8th round pick with blurry vision and compromised faculties (which is how I’d let Jim scoop Houshmandzadeh during the 2003-4 season, curse him). I’d left the bar fairly early, while my erstwhile cohabitants were about to consume a final round of Irish Car Bombs before striking out for some mystical Panda-themed circus-discotheque that served flaming long island iced teas or some such. I’d heard them stomp through the apartment early this morning, foraging like drunken baboons for whatever might pass as food; I merely mumbled an obscenity, rolled over, and continued to sleep the sleep of the righteous (thank God for earplugs).
At any rate, when I awoke, I’d found the living room in an unholy shambles, with Dave passed out on top of the TV unit. Matt had apparently slept in the kitchen, his head resting on one of the refrigerator shelves. Both reeked of tequila and shellfish. Undaunted, I showered and repaired to my bedroom with my laptop and cheat sheets, with still a good 20 minutes before draft time.
The internet was out. Again.
Scrambling, I tossed sheets, laptop and wallet into a backpack, and dashed out of the building into the street. The bright mid-morning sun assaulted my eyes momentarily, and I realized that I was, in fact, slightly more hung over than I had originally thought. Being relatively new to the area, having only just moved in the previous weekend, I had no idea where to find the nearest Wi-fi hotspot. I knew there was a Starbucks two blocks away, but due to my throbbing head and churning stomach, both exacerbated by a steadily rising panic, I found myself disoriented, stumbling down a street I’d not yet explored.
Fortunately, I soon found myself outside the door of a local watering hole that proudly displayed a cheerful “Wi-Fi here!” sticker. Bursting through the door, I was greeted by a bearded giant who, in a barely intelligible baritone, asked to see some ID, and, once produced, affably grinned and bade me enter with one of his gargantuan limbs.
I dashed to the nearest table with my laptop, scattering my notes across the hardwood floors, which smelled vaguely of some citrus-infused oil that gave the boards a healthy luster. Perhaps sensing my distress, the barman looked over from his station, and asked if I needed a hand with anything, calling me by name. Momentarily stunned, I could only mumble my thanks and a request for some ice water. He grinned and nodded, and began filling a glass.
I settled in, and managed to make the opening gun of the draft without further incident. At some point, I’d asked for coffee, and the beverage placed before me stunned me upon my first sip, for it contained a fair amount of whisky. By the time I’d drunk half of the strong and aromatic brew, the final vestiges of last night’s abuses were cleared from my head, and I proceeded to dominate the late rounds of the draft, grabbing virtually every sleeper on my list.
As I began packing up my things to leave, I began to notice my surroundings a bit more: the unmistakable aroma of wood fires and pizza baking, a polished bar with several taps bearing names of beers I’d never heard of, flat screen monitors showing TV shows and a soccer match between two anonymous European teams. A placard on the wall boasted of live music later that night by some outfit that sounded like an electrician’s union, while another poster, emblazoned in red, gold, and green lettering, proclaimed a daily happy hour promotion on the establishment’s rooftop, sponsored by “Red Stripe” and featuring a dreadlocked musician by the name of Marley.
As I left, I overheard one patron somewhat tipsily commiserating with another over the quality of the Bloody Mary’s the two were drinking, just as a guitarist made his way from the back regions of the bar to the front room with his instrument in hand, his arrival enthusiastically greeted by a now substantial throng. He smiled, waved his hand, and began playing, the gentle strains of his guitar rising then falling like wind across water. He seemed quite proficient, and so I lingered at the threshold only momentarily before striking out again into the sunlight.
I returned to the apartment to find Matt still in the fridge. Dave was nowhere to be found, although his undergarments were still draped across the TV unit, just as he had been a few hours before.
I may need to find a new place to live soon.
Topic: Create Your Own Pub Experience: Draft Thread (Read 587445 times)