On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page

He wasn’t a bartender; he was a mixologist. How it was that I couldn’t see the difference was baffling to him. As he explained, there’s a science behind mixology, whereas pouring a couple beers for drunkards involved no science whatsoever. Silly me.

“So a martini could count as mixology?” I asked; although I really didn’t care at all.

“Of course not. It doesn’t take real talent to make a martini, it’s already been done a thousand times before,” explained the mixologist in a very condescending tone.

“Well it must have involved science at one point, right?”

“No. Do you even know what’s in a martini?”

“I do, thanks; I drink them quite frequently,” I said. I started thinking that agreeing to go on a date with someone I met at a bar who was insulting the bartender (not to his face) and his technique when we initially met, was not a good idea. Why can I never be full of good ideas? Because I was dropped on my head when I was two years old, that’s why.

“OK,” he said, “we’re going to introduce you to some real drinks. You should know what you’re missing out on.” It was was then that he took my beer away (you never take away a woman’s IPA!), and proceeded to order every “fancy” drink on the menu that were all these concoctions of herbs and fresh fruit and liquors and liqueurs and this and that. He may have been impressed with himself, but I was not. After ordering about seven or eight drinks for me to “try,” he then took it upon himself to give tips to the fellow mixologist behind the bar.

“That’s a great technique, man, but have you tried it this way? Like move your wrist a bit more when you shake.” It was more than obvious that the mixologist, although being kind I’m sure, so as not to jeopardize a tip from this know-it-all quack, just nodded, smiled and feigned interest in learning new “tips” from Dr. Mixologist next to me.

Admittedly, we were at a bar, or rather an establishment, known for its drinks, but still there was no sense in showing off. If you want to impress a woman on a first date, or me anyway, recite The Great Gatsby in its entirety by heart, then we can discuss how to make a gal swoon. I played his game, tasted the drinks, and even let him mildly ridicule my “unsophisticated palate.” Why? Because he was a joke and there was no sense in arguing with him. I also knew he was going to find himself the subject of a Dating Hijinks, so it didn’t matter to me at that point.

We were definitely on the same page, when we decided to call it a night. The mixologist, asked the other mixologist, then one who was actually working, for the tab, and when it arrived, he slid it over to me.

“Excuse me?” I asked. “Am I paying for this date?”

“I’ll pay for my drink, but you did drink all the other ones.”

“Tasting and drinking are two very different things. Besides, you wanted me to try them. You ordered them. There’s no way I’d ever order something purple with the word “fluff” in the name,” I explained.

“I was just trying to expand your drink taste — it needed some work. I shouldn’t have to pay because you don’t know anything about mixology.” And he actually said this in a tone that was so appalling, I seriously debated punching him in the head; but as we all know, I’m not allowed to do anything bad until August since my night in the clinker. Damn that night in the clinker!

We both put down our credit cards, and before the asshole could say anything, I piped up and told the mixologist behind the bar that the check was going to be spilt 50/50. The idiot next to me didn’t argue and I ceased all eye contact after that. When we parted ways a few minutes later, we didn’t even say goodbye. Seriously? He’s better because he’s a fucking “mixologist?” If we’re going to play that game, I’m better for wearing green. It doesn’t make any sense and it’s just downright stupid — although, on a personal note, I do look stunning in green.