The last time I was at Red Ginger, there was a birthday party out in the gazebo. I had forgotten my jacket and was so cold I couldn’t have fun. I remember looking across at the bar enviously, where a bunch of very rowdy men were having the time of their lives. It looked warmer over there. How little you can do when cold gets into your bones.
Anyway, I was back, this time not for a party but to meet a pricing actuary who is a recovering alcoholic and also rears pigs. None of these things are related. Fortunately. We settled at the bar I had admired from across the winter seats. “This place is warm,” I told him. He asked if I was cold.
He looked confused. I wanted to giggle.
There are small, strange stools around the circular bar, the sort dentists sit on. Nobody in their right mind sits there. Surely. Then there are long tables, big enough for groups. We took one at the end. I ordered my whisky. My friend ordered a virgin Dawa.
The place was raucous, except for a table of older men talking somberly. Two women sat nearby having an intimate conversation. They looked like they were deciding someone’s fate. A group of middle-aged chaps gathered around a bottle. Most had tattoos. “Most likely own garages,” I said. My friend looked at me. “That’s profiling.”
Further inside, a man was on a date with a woman who we could all tell wasn’t invested. At least not yet. An office group was clapping out in the gazebo. Maybe a farewell party. Those are usually dull, the speeches especially. But the bar was busy. And warm. I looked around, smiling. My friend sipped his mocktail. “Did you know 3.8 million pigs are slaughtered daily around the world?”
I thought about it. I tried to really feel empathy for pigs, but I failed.
“I liked you better when you were a drunkard,” I said.