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We walked into the bar, and it immediately felt wrong—there was no vibe, just the cold, lifeless hum of poorly chosen pop music blasting over the speakers. The bartender, who had an unmistakable air of indifference, barely glanced up when we approached. I ordered a whiskey neat, and without a word, he poured it into a glass with no care at all, the ice cubes clinking like they were about to fall out. I could tell it was low-shelf stuff by the taste, but I didn't want to make a scene, so I just took it. My friend ordered a margarita, hoping for something refreshing, but when it arrived, it looked more like a glass of sour mix with a splash of tequila. She asked for a new one, but the bartender just shrugged, handed her the same drink, and muttered something about "the house special."
The place was full of people, but it wasn’t crowded in a fun way—it was crowded in a "we're all stuck here and no one knows why" kind of way. The tables were sticky, the floors uneven, and the chairs wobbled as soon as you sat down. We found a spot in the back, but it took us almost ten minutes to get settled because the server was too busy gossiping with another patron at the bar to even acknowledge us. Once we were finally comfortable, the music cranked up another notch, and the noise from the other patrons started to drown out whatever conversation we were trying to have. Every time someone brushed past, the table rocked like it was going to topple over. It became impossible to hear each other talk, so we gave up on trying to have a normal conversation.
The next round of drinks was even worse. I asked for a vodka soda, and the bartender poured a half-glass of vodka, then topped it off with a splash of soda water, leaving me to drink straight alcohol for most of the glass. I tried to get his attention to ask for more soda, but he just ignored me while chatting with the guy beside him, who was clearly already hammered. To make matters worse, the guy next to us spilled his entire drink on the floor, and the bartender didn’t even clean it up—he just stared at it for a while before continuing to serve people, leaving the mess to sit there. My friend went to use the bathroom, and when she came back, she looked disgusted. "It was like walking into a crime scene," she said. Apparently, the bathroom had flooded, and there was no one to fix it.
At this point, the whole place felt like it was falling apart. The bartender was pouring drinks with no accuracy or care, and there was a general sense that no one in charge was actually doing their job.
As we got into the car, we all agreed on the same thing: we’d rather drink at home than step foot in that place again.
