Distillations: Tater tots and margarita tots and everything tots at Benders

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[dropcap]“P[/dropcap]hil” claims that he invented the margarita at Benders.

“A couple of years ago,” he said, “Tom and I” (he points to “Tom”) came in here for drinks after work. Tom ordered some hipster beer, and I ordered a margarita. And the bartender looked at me like I was crazy. ‘Really?’ she said. And I said, ‘yes, really.’ And she made me … she made me probably the worst margarita I ever had. It was almost entirely tequila, with just a splash of everything else. And she looked at me, as I was trying to drink it, and asked me ‘is it any good?’ And I said, ‘ah, sure.’”

Yet somehow, he came back for more. And since then, Benders has seriously upped is margarita game, confidently pouring very serviceable concoctions into Mason jars and handing them out like candy. “You can’t do it every time,” Phil said, “but once in a while, it’s perfect.”

I have no idea if any of this is true, except that the margaritas are indeed serviceable and poured into mason jars. Only that Phil makes the claim.

We’re a large group tonight, only most of whom I know. We’ve come together because, fuck it, it’s Tuesday and we need to unwind in a way that reclaims our humanity in a dehumanizing world. The bartender had not expected so large a crowd, and so is struggling to keep up with our mass margarita order as a few of our number scout the place for tables big enough to hold us. Masses of people in search of their humanity are inconvenient.

Benders can accommodate. One of the last great Mission bars for whom freaks and weirdos are ordinary customers, it’s a big building filled with colorful art that is as often as reminiscent of the Mission’s historic murals as it is quirky commercial posters. It has a back patio, and a rack for hanging bicycles that is routinely used through the night; I noticed that there was a bike hanging from the ceiling, along with a sign noting it would be given away in a raffle later this month. Each shot of Fernet would get you a ticket.

“That … seems like some kind of cruel trick,” I said.

“Really?” said the bartender, busy pouring. “Why?”

“Well, first because you have to drink fernet,” I said.

“I like it,” The bartender said.

“Ah, well …” I began.

“This is a Fernet town,” a middle-aged woman sitting at the bar told me. It wasn’t a friendly reminder.

Dammit. This is not going well …

“There are other reasons, though,” Hannah said, throwing me a lifeline.

“Right!” I said. “Giving a vehicle away to people who drink heavily is like banks giving away free guns. It just seems like you’re setting up something terrible up to happen.”

Hannah laughed, and so my dignity was salvaged as we took our drinks and migrated to a corner with three open tables. For some reason there was a “Happy 40th Birthday!” sign hanging from the wall, so we agreed that this is why we’re celebrating, and a few toasts are made to the magic of this milestone year, and a few people gave speeches.

[dropcap]“F[/dropcap]orty feels like I’ve really come into my own,” said Hannah, who is 25. “I feel like I’m 25 again.” And I suddenly realized that the sign had divided us between those for whom it was a joke about being old, and those for whom it was a joke about being young. No one else seemed to have had the same revelation, though, so I kept it to myself. Maybe everyone else was, too. Pointing it out seemed like an invitation for something terrible to happen.

The only person not joining in the fun was “Rick,” who had his work laptop out and was furiously typing away. Rick is project managing something on a tight deadline, and even though his boss had told him to put it away and relax tonight, Rick’s boss’ boss was counting on this, and Rick wasn’t going to let her down. He ordered a box of tater tots from the Bender’s kitchen (which technically isn’t the bar, but a space they sublet out and have hit the jackpot with), and the rest of us began stealing them from him, under the pretext that so long as he had his computer out and was working, he wasn’t really here anyway. He agreed this is fair, or at least how the world works.

“Everything is better in tot form,” Hannah said. “Everything.”

“I dunno,” Adrian said. “Children?”

“Sure,” I responded. “Toddler Tots.”

We all stopped, in momentary awe of the idea before us.

We don’t know what it is yet, but we know it’s going to be big. Huge. What could go wrong?

Phil and Tom were talking about the perilous world of email signatures (Phil tries to end all his emails with “cheers,” but if it’s followed by a period, then it means he’s mad at you). Too many of Rick’s tots were disappearing too fast, so I got up and ordered a set of boxes for our tables, along with some fried pickles. Later, Phil would order mac and cheese. The food really is first-rate; unlike the bar, they take credit cards; and the woman in a t-shirt and high socks who brought our orders out was an absolute genius at dividing them up into separate containers to make sure every table had its own selection of food and nobody needed to be left out while items were passed around. We starting applauding every time she came by with a new payload.

It was, we all agreed, an excellent 40th birthday party. It was good to have been invited. A moment later, Rick put his laptop away. I started to cheer, thinking he was finally joining us, but stopped short when I saw the look on his face. One of his colleagues got up and sat next to him. Something had happened.

He hadn’t stopped working because he was finished; he’d stopped working because the manager he was putting the long hours in for had just upbraided him for not being on the ball and detail-oriented enough, and he just couldn’t take it anymore.

The injustice of this was obvious to us — hadn’t the guy taken his work, after hours, to a bar, and sacrificed dozens of tater tots, just to keep on top of things? Do you really send an email to someone you know is working after hours saying that they need to be doing more?

But it wasn’t just the unfairness of it; Rick wasn’t angry, he was upset with himself for letting her down. He was devastated. In her demand that he work harder, she’d shut down his ability to work at all. Which is so often the way we treat people.

And I thought to myself, on this 40th birthday party, that the thing I miss most about being younger was the certainty that I could tell people how angry and upset I was, tell them the harsh and uncomfortable truths that were loaded in my mind, ready to be fired. This, I thought, was a good thing to do. The world needed to hear this.

As I have grown older, I have learned that, far more often, harsh truths are neither useful nor true — just harsh. Sending them into the world is like giving vehicles away as a reward for heavy drinking, and over time I’ve learned that however fun it may be in the moment, it just doesn’t seem like it’s worth the risk. Too many crashes. The only things I have to say that the world needs to hear are true and beautiful, or true and kind.

And I kind of hate it. Righteous indignation is so, soooo, delicious. But I’ve learned to do better. Mostly.

Rick will be fine. It’s actually better that this happened to him here, surrounded by friends and witnesses, than it would have been if he’d gone home and was working alone, where nobody would have seen. Instead he recovers, and drinks, and listens as “Michelle” explains that she and her best friend want to move to a small town and open a rural venue, but that she has to find a lover who will go with her first, because her friend’s married and being alone with the two of them is just miserable.

“There’s no way I’m living in a small community without someone already designated to fill my bed,” she said.

The world is harsh. We all need a source of kindness. Even at 40.

Read more from Benjamin Wachs here.