Yesterday evening a couple of condo friends and I went to a local bar one of them had told me about -it's a couple of blocks away, tucked into the ground floor of a local residential building (the zoning laws have grandfathered it in).
Fortunately, the Bears game was over, and only a crusty crock pot and some limp cheese and lettuce remained of the "buffet" that had been set out in honor of the event.
The bar is small, cozy, and reminds me somewhat of a British local. It was slowish, and the bartender was a cute guy who paid us a lot of attention. One of my friends bought the drinks, which turned out to be beers and bourbon for them and ginger ale and a Sambuca shot for me. The bartender asked us where we were from, how long we'd lived in the neighborhood. I thought he was paying me particular attention, but then again I was face-numb with Sambuca. He mentioned an ex and some kids and took a couple of cigarette breaks, so the deal-breakers were front and center. Still, not bad flirting. If that was what I was doing, numb as I was. Could have been smiling; could have been grimacing.
We all laughed and chatted and talked about where we could take German lessons. I read the French phrase tattooed in script on the bartender's forearm. I ate some chips. Good, good times.