There are two kinds of people in the world: those who are good at small talk and those who are not. As a bartender, I’ve seen my share of both and I have some thoughts on the subject, but I wanted to see what the so-called experts had to say. A little Googling brought me to the geniuses at About.com, that vast repository of useless information owned by The New York Times. Their tips include:
- Make eye contact and smile. This makes you approachable.
- Use an opening line such as, “What are you drinking?”
- Pay the person a sincere compliment. True flattery will get you everywhere.
- Try to find a common ground between you.
- Discuss events in the news, places to eat, music or movies you both like. Avoid politics, religion, or other heavy topics.
They also advise that you “forget the old clichéd, ‘Do you come here often?’ line.
It all sounded suspect to me, but I gave it a shot anyway.
My first gambit was in an old but cozy tavern in Kipp’s Bay, on Second Avenue. I turned to the guy on the bar stool next to me, a husky fellow with beefy forearms and a two-day growth of beard, and asked, “So what are you drinking”
“What are you taking a survey?” he snarled. “I’m drinking a beer. What does it look like I’m drinking?”
Not exactly a friendly response, so I resorted to the next tip on the About.com list, the one about flattery getting you everywhere.
“That’s a very attractive hoodie you’re wearing,” I said.
“What are you some kind of fag? Since when did this place turn into a gay bar? Hey, Phil,” he said, calling to the bartender, “what’s with this guy?”
I quickly beat a path to the door and hurried up Second Avenue to a swankier place with lots of chrome, leather club chairs, and moody lighting.
As per About.com, I made eye contact with the male and female patrons and smiled, hoping to appear “approachable.” It didn’t work. They avoided my gaze as if I was mentally disturbed, a dangerous lunatic, or both.
I sat there alone for quite a while before I tried to make small talk by “discussing events in the news.” The woman next to me, a professional type sipping a glowing-green Appletini, seemed pleasant enough, so when I caught her gaze in the mirror behind the bottles, I said, “Isn’t that oil spill in the gulf just awful?”
“Oh, Christ!” she groaned, clearly disgusted. “That’s all I hear about! I can’t get away from it! The poor oily birds. The poor fishermen. The poor environment. How sorry the BP executives are. You’d think there was nothing else going on in the world. You’d think nobody else had problems. What about surviving the recession? I just lost my job. Do you see me on CNN crying about it? Do you see me interviewed by some reporter in a windbreaker with nice hair? Does anybody care about my problems? No, they don’t. But it’s 24 hours of oil-spill coverage and I’m sick of it!” And with that she packed up her things in an enormous handbag and left.
The next bar I entered I vowed to find “common ground” with the patrons who all seemed like regulars. But how do you find common ground with strangers? It’s hard enough for me to find “common ground” with the people I know and love.
By this time it was well into Happy Hour and I hoped the crowd would be more congenial. They were discussing the Lakers loss to the Boston Celtics.
A sports fan, I had seen the game. This looked like common ground to me, so I plunged right in. “Here’s to a great series,” I said, my glass aloft offering a toast in which nobody joined me. I’ve never felt more foolish.
My suspicions confirmed about the spurious About.com advice, I gave up and found a bar stool in the back, away from the noise of the crowd, and sat there quietly, enjoying a chilled Guinness, glad that I no longer had to try to make small talk with strangers.
I spent about fifteen very pleasant minutes minding my own business, watching the news crawl on the flat screen televisions, alone with my thoughts, when a very pretty woman, early thirties with dark hair and doe eyes, sidled up next to me and ordered a pint of Guinness. She saw that I was also drinking Guinness and smiled. “So,” she said. “Do you come here often?” And then we talked for a very long time.
Illustration copyright (c) 2010 by Richard Torregrossa; www.richardtorregrossa.com
These days it’s nearly impossible to find a good martini. And it’s all James Bond’s fault. He popularized the vodka martini and gin became as unhip as a handlebar mustache.
