It was New Year’s Eve. I was in a tiny bar in Mexico, sitting at a cozy table by the fireplace, eating dinner, drinking margaritas and laughing with some good friends. Right across from us, the main bar was full of 19-year-old kids drinking and flirting and getting ready to get a little crazy. So we had dinner and a show.
There was one girl in particular you couldn’t help but notice. She was the birthday girl. I knew this because every 10 minutes she’d announce it to the whole bar. Loudly. Then she’d ask who was going to buy her a shot of tequila.
A guy at the end of the bar heard her and had a shot sent over. He seemed like a nice kid— he was a little chubby, a little awkward, a little eager to please, but you could tell that overall he was a pretty good guy. And man, he had googly eyes for the birthday girl in a major way.
After the bartender delivered her drink, he got up from his bar stool and walked over to her. He looked at her, smiling, expectantly. She looked at him…and told him he had shitty taste in booze. “This is rotgut.” she said. “I only drink good tequila.”