The third time the waiter came back to our table, wearing the apologetic grimace that seemed to have been tattooed across his face just before we arrived, we should have known that there was no more scotch. At least, that there was no more of the scotch we wanted. Our motivation for coming to Players’ Retreat (or “PR’s,” but explain that possessive to me) was printed on the back of their beer menu- a whole page dedicated to whiskeys, whiskys, Bourbons, and scotches. A whole page for P, scotch connoisseur and abstract math extraordinaire, since it was her birthday. She sat contentedly in her corner booth, surrounded by a gaggle of graduate students from the math department, swilling scotch of choice after scotch of choice from the tiny, tinkling glass. We were not so lucky.
I’m not sure if it’s the overwhelming popularity or unpopularity of fine scotch, but it seemed like PR’s only had about a third of their scotch menu available. Our waiter walked back to our table again and again, that same grimace plastered on his face, the same bad news in his mouth, and each time, there was that delicate dance of apology, absolution and re-(re-re-)negotiation. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Finally, he broke down, perhaps from fatigue, and recommended us several scotches that he knew they actually had available. Here, I use “us” loosely; I was having a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. From a bottle. There are so few things in this world which, quite simply, cannot be messed up. This pale ale is one of them, and a personal favorite for when I find myself in situations altogether too complicated, hectic, or dubious for fanciful drinking. Here’s to the pale ale.
In any case, the scotch finally came out, and our table had the pleasure of feeling, however wrongly, that we were under the immense scrutiny of nearly every other patron in the establishment. Such are the dangers of sitting in front of the big-screen TV. Behind us, the Tar Heels where taking an immense beating at the hands of a clearly superior Virginia Tech team, and I reaffirmed myself as a fair-weather fan. “When does basketball season start?” I thought to myself. Turns out, it already has. A fair-weather fan indeed.
My non-watching of the Heels’ systematic breakdown was regularly interrupted by the same apologetic waiter who finally found us a scotch in stock. As I had pulled a chair into an aisle, we enjoyed many a curious dance, the steps to which typically involved me sliding my chair back into a corner nook and praying that the large platter of food balanced above my head didn’t come tumbling down. Flying colors, all around.
In all earnestness, though, the waiter was really patient and helpful and the wait staff there seems to be pretty top-notch. It’s not much for big groups, as the seating is somewhat limited, particularly on game day, and the atmosphere is that of a typical dive bar. From past experience, I can also say that the bartenders, in all their grizzled grumpiness, know what they’re doing. On any given night, there are patrons from three or four different generations, and the prevalence of older men might explain the enormous (albeit somewhat deceptive) scotch menu. Not that scotch is exclusively a boys’ club drink; just ask P. And while you’re at it, get the lady a cigar and some cufflinks.
Players’ Retreat
105 Oberlin Road Raleigh, NC 27605
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