Complex Numbers

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There is, I think, no relationship in the world quite like the relationship between a bartender and a drinker.

This evening, I met my friend Pat at a local pseudo-Mexican restaurant that boasts a bar with a spectacular tequila selection. I was early, so I sat at the bar.

This particular bar has a Tequila Club card - a green card (heh) with 20 different tequilas on it, ranging from well dreck up through the golden reposados and anejos that make life worth living. Every new tequila earns you a punch on the card; when you've gotten all 20 punches every tequila from then until eternity is $1 off.

Tonight, I had the bartender punch my #11 tequila, which turned out to be a smooth, ticklish reposado whose name escapes me but which I can easily determine on my next visit. I'm perfectly content to drink fine tequila straight, but I also like margaritas - on the rocks, salted rim. While I waited, I watched the bartender struggle with the creation of two frozen margaritas. They were, in my professional opinion, too sludgy to drink, and he knew it.

"The solution," I said (as the guy on the barstool, I claim the right to wax philosophical about all matters relating to alcohol), "is to outlaw frozen margaritas. They're an abomination."

The bartender, a tall guy who looked like he was trying to work his way through grad school - philosophy or English, I figured - looked at me and nodded, grinning a grim grin. "Now that," he said, "is an excellent idea."

It wasn't three minutes (by the clock on the TV, which was playing some basketball game or other) before the waitress came back with the abominations. "They said these were undrinkable."

Another server came to the rescue. "I'll make 'em," she offered. The philosophy major (or so I assume) breathed a sigh of relief.

"I mean," I went on, seeing as he was just watching at this point, "they're so cold you can't even appreciate the tequila."

"Well, they ordered Cuervo gold," he noted.

I nodded sagely. "In that case, frozen may be appropriate. But the ice just numbs the taste buds in general, and all you taste is ice."

The girl making the replacement margaritas - a much more liquid attempt than the philosopher's - asserted that this happens all the time, that they lose a lot of money by having to chuck bad frozen margaritas. "Outlaw 'em," I said. "If they want abominations, give 'em wine spritzers."

Everyone in earshot chuckled, and the bartender asked me if I wanted another real margarita.

I sighed, exaggerating my disappointment at my circumstances. "No, I'm meeting someone for dinner, thanks." But somehow, we got a table as soon as he showed up, and the service was prompt, and the food was excellent.

And damn, that was a good margarita.