Quite Good

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I’m strongly considering opening a bar. Why, you ask? Why not, I say.

The main reason is because I’m very experienced at going to bars. I have so many years of Tina’s Bar Investigations (TBI) under my belt, I know what makes a good bar. And what doesn’t.

I can hear you already. You are saying: Tina, do you realise you might have to go to work every day? Tina, you can’t drink all the profits. Tina, is this one of those “it seemed like a good idea at the time” ideas?

The answer to all those questions is yes. And no.

When I say I want to open a bar, I really mean I want to provide a venue for all frisbee players and musical theatre people to attend. I also want the under employed sections of those crowds to work there. OK, when I say work there I mean run the place. My job is just tada.

I also want to be able to sing and play my guitar in a bar. It is much more convenient if I own it. Also no one can say no.

How can you argue with this compelling business case? Let’s take last Friday night for example. The spinning wheel said I should have a third crack at going to the piano bar at Bungalow 8, at Darling Harbour. For your information, all the other times I tried to go, I got distracted by shiny things. Or people. Or both.

Also, I needed to use up my Commonwealth Bank awards points because what a surprise, a bank is fucking us over.

So I found a hotel with an Executive Club. Who doesn’t love free drinks and canapes?

The Amora Jamison Executive Club. Not a bad view.

I had pre’s, as the kids apparently call it now, at the hotel, then wandered down to Bungalow 8. Deserted. But it was a few hours before the piano bar started. I had time for some TBI. I asked the spinning wheel if I should go left or right. It said left. I ended up in a laneway off Kent Street. At the end of a dark alley I found a mysterious looking place called Papa Gede’s. It billed itself as a New Orleans-style cocktail bar. I couldn’t get in the door quick enough. Or stop from texting Caleb from New Orleans three seconds after I sat down.

I gave Riley the bartender (also known as RoboCop – he really does look like him) the usual cosmo test. He didn’t have cranberry juice but made it with grapefruit. It was excellent. I let him talk me into a daiquiri next. Also quite good. Meanwhile I met Mickey D the owner, who is from one of my hometowns – Springwood. Hilarious guy.

Mickey D with the glass and Riley facing us.

Then there was Christian the Italian with a brother called Alessandro. I’m not even making that up. Cameron was also a delight. And Nikita was there quietly keeping the boys in line.

If I could ask CG, my name for ChatGPT, exactly how to staff my bar, she would supply a set of mugshots of these people. I know it’s not rocket science but apparently it is. And Mickey D is one of the few people who has worked it out.

He has taken the BLS (Be Less Shit) concept and applied it to a bar. Crazy idea. Hire people who are friendly and nice, can make great drinks and still talk to people at the same time. People who make you want to stay instead of going to the thing you actually came to Sydney for.

At about 11pm some blokes that reminded me of retired rugby players came in. At that time I…(drum roll… new acronym ahead)

LTWTL. Lost The Will To Live.

It was a sign to go back to the piano bar. And I ‘m really glad I did. A girl called Sarah V was playing her first gig there. The crowd was sparse but she was excellent. She tolerated me singing along with all her songs, in parts, from the dance floor. It was a blast. And third time lucky – I’d finally made it.

Once the music ended I considered going back to the hotel but I’m not a quitter. I headed to Establishment, where I have had some fun nights in recent months.

Arrived to see six police officers standing out the front on the footpath with their arms crossed. Three in uniform. Three in plain clothes. All with earpieces.

I sauntered up to one of them, hoping it was a dream and I was still in Spain with the hot rozzers.