Doodaddy

I once went to an open house only because the place was advertised as having “secret passageways” and “hidden compartments.” Cool. I love secrets. And cloaks, daggers, code words, and the whole concept of mysterious societies.

So I jumped at the chance to visit a San Francisco speakeasy with Cry it Out Mike the other day, as part of our “get the stay-at-home-dads-out-of-the-house” series. Get this: we needed a password to get in to the bar’s secret, unmarked door — which we could only open after pressing a buzzer — just like the Prohibition-era speakeasies. Except those illegal bars were hidden from the revenuers — Bourbon and Branch seems mostly to be hidden from the tourists. On the way there — I swear to God — we passed a guy in a Beefeater costume (and a Bluetooth headset, which spoiled the effect somewhat) trying to entice tourists into a sleepy-looking place. So maybe an unmarked bar isn’t such a bad idea down there.

My first drink was a 132 proof bourbon, neat, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a little hazy on the details of the rest of the night. Mike kept trying to get a cocktail that was — well, I think his word was “manly” — but ended up with sort of froufy, frosty things. My only foray into the mixed cocktail was something called a “Blood and Sand,” which, if I remember correctly, had little pirates climbing out of it and waving their tiny little swords at me. Ohmygoodness. Yes, I took public transit, thankyouverymuch.

Mike and I seem to bar-crawl a lot, which is — believe it or not — quite out of character for me. Maybe the next man-date should be more like what you stay-at-home moms do when you get together.

Which is what, exactly? Girls’ nights out are at a… flower and garden show? Political rally? Rodeo?

Let me know, please — we’ve got to plan another man-happening soon!