Hey, Alandale. Thanks for meeting us here. Wow, this is so much harder than we thought it would be. But we both know this isn't working.
First of all, you should know that you've got so much going for you. You seem so nice and cozy, enveloped as you are in your seafoam green walls, cast in mellow lighting. But you're still giving us the cold shoulder, Alandale. We wanted a warm respite from the bitterly cold January night outside, but look at us. Our coat's draped over our lap. We're shivering. The lady at the table next to us has her hands shoved into her coat pockets and even our waitress is wearing a sweater-jacket thing over her uniform, arms folded tightly across her chest. She doesn't even introduce herself.
This all started a couple Fridays ago when we came here for the first time and had a few pints of your Blackberry Wheat. And can we just say, wowza. We knew you made your own beer, but we never dreamed it could be this good. Your handsome steel fermentation tanks were reflecting red and yellow beams like light off a disco ball. It's much how we must've looked after we first tasted the Blackberry Wheat: so in love, so full of hope. We wanted to drink in everything you had to offer, but we couldn't tear ourselves away from the Blackberry. We remember its masculine flavor, with just a hint of the earthy, sensitive berry hanging on to our lips, like a kiss from a farmhand after a day in the fields. We'd uncovered a gem. Sure, our service was as sparse as the patrons, but we thought maybe we'd caught you on an off night. We wanted to give you another chance, especially after we got our tab: Our oversize pints were less than $4 each. We were woozy with the first blush of infatuation. But you just don't follow through.
Look at those women over there, Alandale. You could have any one of them, but none are drinking your beer. It's your best quality, and without it, we wonder why they're even here. (Certainly, the waitress could have been a wingman of sorts?)
We want to like you. God knows we're not perfect, either. We never shut the cupboards all the way, we crack our knuckles, we don't always turn off the lights when we fall asleep reading. It's not you, it's us. Eh, it's kind of you. But now we're just rambling. God, this is awkward. We'd like a cigarette, but we can't have one in here, can we? Hey, that's your prerogat... Um, hello? Are you even listening to us? You're like the bartender who's reading right now. Right there, behind the bar. We know it's slow in here, but we're trying to save us, trying to make it work. But we don't feel like you want this as much as we do.
Nah, put your money away. Really, we feel bad enough already. Hold up: Pints are just $2 during happy hour? Shit. We take it all back. See you next time we want to get drunk and make out, Sweetcheeks.
Now c'mere and give us a hug.
Got a drink suggestion? E-mail [email protected].
