My man and I decided to drop in to the local Friday's restaurant for some nosh and drinks one Sunday. The bartender - a lanky, young kid - came over to take our drink order, obviously distracted by his bro who was killing time in front of the game on t.v.
He slipped a couple napkins haphazardly on the table while calling a response over his shoulder then gingerly asked what we'd like. D ordered his usual tall beer and I decided to try the new blackberry margarita being advertised.
After a bit, he came back over to drop off our drinks and get our order. While D began selecting a couple appetizers, I noticed that my drink wasn't correct.
"Oh, hon, I don't like salt. Can you remake that?"
"Oh?" He seemed thoroughly confused for a moment. "Okay, sure. Sorry about that."
As he went to grab the glass, my brain was still calculating the discrepancies. "Wait...that looks green. Didn't I order the blackberry?" I looked to D to make sure I'd actually said my order out loud. I'm never all that sure that communication between my brain and my vocal mechanism is working properly.
He nodded in confirmation.
The bartender pushed the drink back towards me. "No, you ordered a regular margarita."
"No I didn't. I said 'your new blackberry margarita'." I pushed the small glass back towards him.
He waved as if dismissing the concern. "No bother," he proclaimed gleefully. "It's a quick fix, all I have to do is pour some blackberry syrup in it. I'll be right back."
That made me visibly cringe, but I decided to take the safer approach. "And, take off the salt. So you might need to remake it." Hint hint, dude. You're gonna have to use a new glass.
"Oh, no. It'll be fine." He called as he walked off towards his bar cum chemistry set.
Lovely, I thought and raised my eyebrows at D. He just shook his head and turned his attention back to the game.
Sooner than expected, a cloudy kinda pink, kinda sickly green drink appeared in front of me. I turned it around in my hands wondering just what this dude was thinking.
"See? No problem." He beamed at me and patiently waited for me to try it. Joy.
I squared my shoulders and braved a sip. Immediately, I was overcome with a shudder that went from my mouth down to my knees. An automatic, guttural sound of disgust poured from my lips.
D chuckled, garnering a quick WTF look from yours truly.
"What? Is the syrup too much?" The barkinder asked.
No, dude. It is NOT too much. That's not the friggin' problem. "Um, no. You can't make a regular margarita, cake the rim and the surface with flake salt, then pour thick, sugary syrup in it." I tried to reign in my attitude, but in retrospect I realize that it most likely wasn't working. "You're going to have to remake it."
"So, it is too much."
"What? No. It's not the syrup. It's the everything." I pushed the glass at him once more, completely grossed out by the fruit-flavored salty lime juice I'd been served. "Can you just make a new blackberry margarita for me, please?"
"So, you don't like the blackberry?"
The wheels of my mind stopped abruptly, causing my mouth to hang slightly open. I felt my intellect seep from me like an out-of-body experience, seeing it peer down at me with pity from somewhere high above.
Struck dumb and staring in some twisted Mexican standoff, I briefly wondered which one of us would regain our wits quicker, subconsciously aware that it would be me. And although not 100% positive, I vaguely remember D re-ordering the drink for me to which our bartender finally seemed to understand.