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Introducing a new recurring print feature, Pour Your Heart Out, in which local bartenders anonymously submit short accounts of patrons behaving badly. Work at a D.C. bar or a bar within a restaurant? Submit your horror stories to Lhayes@washingtoncitypaper.com.
During a dance party at the bar I work at, one very lost, very confused patron went down in history and managed to inspire the name of a shot.
A younger guy frantically approaches the bar giving me a face that’s either “baby’s first gay bar” or “oh god, the drugs are working,” and since I can’t tell which, I approach with caution. With no greeting or cash in hand, he loudly demands, “Two Tylers, please,” and I take pause.
Brand new to bartending and assuming that this is a club drink, I take the order and ask my veteran coworker what the ingredients are, but she lets me know that a Tyler isn’t actually a drink. I ask him to clarify and tell me how he’d like his beverage, and he stomps off, agitated.
Not five minutes later he returns, again, desperate for “Two Tylers, please.” I ask him to clarify again, and he starts rattling off names: “Tyler! Adams! Madison! Monroe!” Yup, former presidents of the United States. Christ.
I shake my head, move to the next patron, and he runs off into the crowd. We’re safe behind the bar for 10 minutes. But he rears his precious head again while I’m describing his erratic behavior to a friend. Our hero, for a third time, demanding those “Two Tylers.”
I tell him to scram, and he does—directly over to coat check where I later find out he’s been causing similar levels of confusion between bar visits, demanding to get his nonexistent coat back with a week-old claim ticket from the wrong bar.
I never saw “Two Tylers” again, but I hope he’s out there living his best party-monster life! As for his legacy, a Tyler shot is made up of Blueberry Stoli, lemon soda, and a splash of cranberry. Accept no substitutes—it isn’t truly a Tyler unless it’s served in a pair.