Poor Sports

Because the restaurant I wanted to go to last night decided to close early during this week, I tried a sports bar on the same road. In fact, I tried two sports bars, less than a block apart, on the same road.

The first thing I noticed about Christy's was that the patrons don't give a darn about parking in an orderly fashion. The second thing I noticed was that it's a bar. With few tables. With nobody there but black men smoking. Okay, I'd gotten that far without being killed, so why not order dinner? Because the woman who cooks didn't come in to work, that's why. "Have you eaten here before?" the bartender politely asks, as if he gets 6'3" white customers all the time. "No," I replied. "Well you should, it's really good," he replies. Yeah, thanks, but that doesn't help me now.

Okay, on to plan C: Playoffs. Again, it was a bar with few tables. Both white and black men were smoking at the bar. Country music played on the jukebox. There was only one TV. (I guess, since nothing else exists but University of Tennessee and Tennessee Titans football games, who needs more than one TV?) However, they did serve food, and there was one table with enough light to let me read my book, and, after about five minutes, I could focus on the book rather than the green, laser dots swirling around the place.

I don't know about your experiences with sports bars, but I'm accustomed to Spectators in Albuquerque and one (which seemed like a franchise) in another city. You walk in, and the first thing you notice (after your eyes adjust to the darkness) is lots of tables and lots of TV's, all tuned to different versions of ESPN. Then a hostess greets you, seats you, and gives you multi-page menus with lots of calorie- and cholesterol-laden food. Then you drink and eat to your heart's discontent.

When I walk into a bar, I expect alcohol. When I walk into a sports bar, I expect TV's, food, and alcohol. Maybe they do it differently in The Noog.