The night began in confusion. There were reports that The Pourhouse was in Bootlegger’s former location, because the latter had moved to a different venue. I knew this was preposterous because I happen to be a subscriber of Bootlegger’s email updates (how else would I find out about Jersey Shore cast appearances?) and had heard of no such thing. No one listened to me, so I sat back and chuckled to myself as the cabs rolled up to what was clearly the same Bootlegger’s. As punishment for everyone’s insolence, I refused to pay for my share of the cab. Also, I didn’t have any cash.
This made entering the establishment difficult because they are not as technologically advanced as Shout House and did not allow me to pay the cover with my credit card. Apparently, I was not the only one that was annoyed by this because the girl clutching the cash box just glared at me and pointed to a ridiculously long line at the ATM. Good start.
Upon entering the main room I immediately inquired of my friends how much their bottles of Bud Lite cost. $5. Shit. This is one of those expensive bars. I went to the bar to ask how much domestic taps were because my alcoholic tendencies have taught me that if they were the same price I would actually be getting more for my money because tap glasses are totally bigger than bottles. They were indeed the same price. I am a genius.
We walked around to explore the space, which was very confusing. After 5 minutes I had no idea how to get back to the entrance. While we were meandering, I started to notice the clientele. One of my friends summed it up best: to a young, skinny blonde girl “Hi. I’m 30 years old and have a receding hairline but I’m loaded so can I buy you a drink?” People watching was fun.
It was about this time that we were standing next to a wall book case. This would ordinarily be nothing special, except the book case opened to reveal a secret passage into a hidden bar. Holy shit let the drunken maze shenanigans begin. I wasn’t sure I liked this hidden bar, though. There was a corner booth occupied by two gray haired, elderly gentleman. On both of their arms were clearly 16 year old call girls. And by “on their arms” I mean “asses in their hands.” I know it’s a prohibition themed bar, but that was a little too authentic…
After seeing this, I decided I needed to be more drunk and these $5 beers just weren’t doing it. My booze-brain told me that if drinks were this expensive, I might as well go all out and get good and liquored up. So I started ordering long islands. This is where things get fuzzy. I vaguely recall seeing a huge game of Jenga, another secret room with beer pong and maybe bean bags? I frequently got lost because this place is hard enough to navigate sober and impossible when you’re 4 beers and 3 long island’s in. It was like Hogwarts, everything was moving around just to fuck with me.
I don’t know at what point I started dancing, but it happened. This is rare for me, I usually hang on the sides of the dance floor and laugh at all the drunk people trying to be sexy. This time I was the drunk person trying to be sexy. It was hilarious I’m sure. I danced with anything that moved. Thankfully I had good guy friends with me that would pull me away from the creepers. I recall eye-fucking the guitar player of the live band they had. Sadly, to no avail. I can’t be sure, but I think we were one of the last groups there at bar close. Success.
I was convinced to order Toppers for everyone on the cab ride home. I consented, and again refused to pay for the cab (the long islands had depleted my cash). I don’t actually know how long it took for the pizza to be delivered, but my call log says I called them 3 times after ordering. Sorry, Toppers. I remember doing the math on how much to tip the driver was incredibly hard, I think I may have asked him to help me add. I must have been down with the driver for awhile, because when I came back people were starting to pass out or had already left. Feeling my pizza was being under appreciated, I finagled a ride home with the one sober guy and took my pizza and delicious Toppers Sticks home with me. I woke up on my couch, a piece of pizza in hand and a half eaten one on my stomach at 6 in the morning. Don’t judge me, like that’s never happened to you.
So all in all, here’s what I remember about The Pourhouse: crazy confusing layout, socially awkward balding men, expensive but strong drinks, possible prostitution front, sexy guitar player, not at Bootlegger’s.