“You are such a Manhattan Snob!”
I’ve heard it before, many times. Perhaps it’s the fact that any city I seem to go to, anywhere in the world, doesn’t measure up to New York. Or perhaps it has something to do with the fact that, when invited by friends to Brooklyn or Queens, I respond with a haughty “I don’t do boroughs.”
So I admit it – I’m a Manhattan Snob. I think New York is better than other cities, I think Manhattan is better than other boroughs, and I’m even at the point of thinking my neighborhood is better than others on the island. It happened gradually over the decade I’ve been living in the city, but I remember one defining moment – perhaps the exact moment it all began.
I had only been living in New York for about a year, when my friend SpanishFly and I decided to take a weekend trip to Washington DC. Friday night we headed out on the town, and walked into a typical gay bar in Dupont Circle.
“I’ll get the first round,” I announced, and headed for the bar.
It was not particularly crowded, but the service was... slow. When the bartender finally got to me, I requested SpanishFly’s usual: a Stoli martini straight up with olives, and a Mandarin and soda for myself.
The trouble started immediately. “OK, what now?” the bartender asked.
I repeated the order, more slowly. “A Stoli Martini straight up with olives, and an Absolut Mandarin and Soda.”
“OK – a vodka martini?”
“Yes. Stoli. Straight up. With olives.”
Badtender couldn’t find the shaker. Then, he couldn’t find the strainer. Then, he couldn’t find the Stoli. I stared in disbelief. Finally, after five minutes of fumbling around, he poured the mixture of Stoli and way too much vermouth into a martini glass. Then he turned back to me. “And a what else?”
I’m sure my tone of voice resembled a teacher addressing a four year old, but I didn’t care. “Man-da-rinnnn. And Sooooooo-da.”
He poured the drink, and set it in front of me, next to the martini. Neither had a garnish. I took a deep breath, ready to request the olives for the fourth time. But before I said anything, Badtender looked at the drinks, looked at me, looked back at the drinks, and amazingly reached for the tray of olives. He dropped three into the martini. Then he looked at my Mandarin and soda... and dropped three olives into that drink as well.
I didn’t even have the energy to express my disgust at his putting olives in an orange flavored drink. All I could think was: “This would never happen in Manhattan.”
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