Or, the night he ordered me a bay breeze in a biker bar.
“Please come see them play,” our friend coaxed. Her husband was the keyboardist in Rolling Thunder, a band that occasionally played locally.
We had seen them play from time to time at one of our favorite hangouts, Pirate’s Well on Alternate A1A in Palm Beach Gardens. This was different. “They’re playing at the Enforcers Motorcycle Club,” she said.
“A biker bar?” I asked.
“They’re so nice,” she replied. “They’re all former military and law enforcement.”
Mr. R. and I discussed the possibility. We liked the band a lot. We also wanted to support our friends. The idea of going to a biker bar seemed like an adventure.
Which is why, on that particular Saturday night, we found ourselves driving through absolutely the wrong part of town headed toward the venue. It was the kind of neighborhood where you feel the need to lock your doors and make sure not to make eye contact with anyone. Shady characters hung out on front porches and street corners.
That is, until we were a couple of blocks away from the club and the loiterers mysteriously disappeared. There were bikers in full regalia, all black leather, cut-off sleeves, tattoos, and chains, hanging out on the sidewalk in front of the club, a nondescript building with few windows and surrounded by chain-link fencing topped off with razor wire. The men directed us to park in the vacant lot across the street.
As we pulled in, more very scary looking bikers greeted us in a warm and welcoming manner. They were, it turns out, probationary members of the Enforcers, and their duties were to make sure that we entered and left the club safely, and to keep an eye on our car while we were inside. Well, now.
Some of the men on the sidewalk opened the chain-link gate to admit us to the club and they welcomed us graciously. This was a lesson learned in judging a book by its cover.
Once inside, we saw that the band was already playing and we were greeted by several of our friends who had also joined the adventure.
We found a table and Mr. R. asked what I’d like to drink. Not being a beer girl, I ordered my go-to cocktail–a bay breeze, that fruity pink mixture of vodka, cranberry, and pineapple. He gave me a ‘deer in the headlights’ look but went to the bar and ordered anyway.
Picture, if you will, in case you don’t know him, Mr. R., who is 6’4″ and about 300 pounds as he walked up to the bar to order his beer and my bay breeze. I watched the equally burly bartender lean across the bar and shout, “A what?!”
Mr. R. returned to our table after a few moments with our drinks. Turns out he’d had to explain to the bartender how to make my cocktail.
The band was in great form and we had a blast. Mr. R. even went back to the bar for a second round. This time they made me a sea breeze rather than a bay breeze, substituting grapefruit juice for pineapple. I hate it when they do that. I drank it however, because I appreciate Mr. R. way too much to send him back to the bar to complain.
You just know a man loves you when he orders you a bay breeze in a biker bar.