Lou's Official Decree on Why Your Bartender Is a Stranger Who Knows Your Name (And Why That Is Worse Than Not Knowing It)
I am issuing this ruling today because somebody has to, and the people who should have done it twenty years ago are still out there tipping twenty-two percent on a twelve-dollar soda water. This is about thc drinks vs alcohol, yes, but first it is about the con. The long, cheerful, suspiciously friendly con that happens every Friday night at every bar in this country, and everyone just goes along with it because the man behind the counter remembered your name.
He does not know you. I need you to understand that. He does not know you.
The Friendly Bartender Transaction, Explained by Someone Who Has Had Enough of It
You walk in. He looks up. He says your name. Maybe he is already reaching for your usual. You feel seen. You feel known. You feel like you have a place in this world, a stool with your name on it, a man who gets you.
That feeling costs fourteen dollars. Per round. And it is billed to you on a receipt that also charges you for ice.
Ice. That is frozen weather. Weather is free. I am being invoiced for the sky.
The bartender learned your name because it is his job to learn your name. That is not friendship. That is training. You know who else learns your name on day one and uses it constantly? Your car salesman. Your timeshare guy. The man outside the restaurant in Vegas handing you a laminated menu. These people are professionals. The bartender is a professional. There is nothing wrong with being a professional. But you are not friends, and the sooner you accept that, the better decisions you will make with your wallet.
He is performing friendship. You are paying for the performance. The markup on that performance is, conservatively, eleven dollars over what the drink actually costs to make, plus a tip on top of the performance, because apparently we also pay gratuity on theater now.
The Specific Horrors, Itemized
Let me walk you through what you are actually buying when you sit at that bar.
- • The drink itself: maybe three dollars in materials, if it is a good night.
- • The bartender's cheerful demeanor: you are funding that. It is a line item.
- • The ambiance, which is somebody's playlist and some Edison bulbs that cost forty cents each at the hardware store: also you.
- • The tiny cocktail napkin that disintegrates the moment it touches moisture, which is immediately, because it is touching a drink: still you.
- • The moment where he slides the drink across the bar with a little flourish and you feel like you are in a movie: that flourish has a price. You are paying for the flourish.
And then you tip. On the total. Which includes all of the above. You tip on the ice. You are tipping a man for putting weather in your glass and handing it to you like a gift.
I have sat with this. I have done the math. The math is ugly.
He Does Not Know What You Are Going Through
Here is the part that really gets me. People go to bars to talk. To feel less alone. To sit somewhere and have someone listen. And the bartender nods, because nodding is also in the job description, right between "remember their name" and "push the top-shelf upsell." He is nodding and shaking a tin and half-listening and keeping one eye on the other end of the bar because there are twelve other people who also think he is their friend.
You are not special to him. You are a stool. A revenue-generating stool with feelings and a tab.
And look, I am not saying the man is bad. I am not even saying I do not like him. Some of my favorite conversations have happened across a bar rail. But I knew what was happening. I was not confused about the nature of the relationship. You should not be confused either. Confusion is what leads to fourteen-dollar drinks and a bar tab that looks like a car payment.
The Alternative, Which Does Not Pretend to Know You
You want to know what does not pretend to know you? A can. A can is honest. The price is on the label. Nobody slides it across with a flourish. Nobody uses your name. Nobody is performing anything. It is a drink in a can and it costs what it costs and that is the whole transaction.
Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned is eight milligrams of THC, real cocktail flavor, bitters and orange and oak, everything the classic has and nothing it does not. No bartender included. No performance surcharge. No ice billed separately. The ice is your problem and your ice is free because you got it from your freezer, which runs on electricity you are already paying for, which is at least a cost you understand.
We are talking about thc drinks vs alcohol here, and here is what the comparison actually looks like: one side has a stranger who knows your name and charges you for the privilege of that knowledge, and the other side has a can that tells you exactly what is in it, exactly what it costs, and does not expect a tip.
Eight milligrams. Fast onset because it is nano-emulsified, which means it hits like a cocktail and not like an edible you forgot about. Clean offset. No hangover. No receipt with ice on it.
If the old fashioned is not your move, maybe you are a Mary's M Train Double Espresso Martini person, or a Jane's Fancy Shmancy Pomegranate Cosmopolitan person. If you cannot decide, the Variety Pack exists and it gives you all four, none of whom will use your name or charge you for weather.
The Ruling
The bartender is not your friend. He is a professional doing a job, and the job includes making you feel like he is your friend, and the feeling is the product, and the product is expensive, and you keep buying it.
I am not telling you to never go to a bar again. I go to bars. I have opinions about bars that would take another thousand words to fully express, and I will express them whether you ask or not. But go with your eyes open. Know what you are paying for. Know that the name thing is a technique and the nod is a technique and the flourish is a technique and the tiny napkin is an insult masquerading as a courtesy.
Or: keep a couple cans in the fridge. Sit somewhere you actually want to sit. Talk to people who actually know you. The can does not know your name and that is, it turns out, a feature.
It is in the fridge right now, if you want to try the experiment yourself.
Herb still tips thirty percent and tells me it is "the right thing to do." The bartender has known his name for eleven years. Herb thinks they are close. The bartender moved to a different city in 2021. Herb has not noticed.
Some people cannot be helped. But you can be.
Herb & Lou's Canned Laughter contains 8mg hemp-derived THC per can. For adults 21+ only. Available where legal. Not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any condition. Please drink responsibly and know the laws in your state.
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