I enter Mangroves in Tampa's SoHo district and snag the last open stool at the main bar. It's shortly after 10 p.m. on a Friday, and gym-obsessed guys dressed in snug shirts and expensive jeans rule the scene. Sharp-looking fellows wearing sleek, matching black outfits man the bars. An attractive blond woman, also in all black, works the booths and tables that surround the bar — as well as the covered patio that overlooks South Howard. It's a good-sized crowd, but it seems like there are a disproportionately high number of servers on hand.
"Where's everyone at?" asks a regular when he approaches the bar.
"Hopefully on their way," responds bartender Dave while pouring the guy a drink.
Most of the customers opt for cocktails, and after quickly polishing off my beer I decide to do the same, ordering a Jameson and soda.
"Would you like a lime?" Dave asks.
"Nah."
I stare down at my drink and stir it with the thin black straw before taking a sip. It has been a while since I imbibed whiskey, and the famed Irish blend hits the spot — quickly alleviating my beastly hangover. The previous night I'd covered The Dresden Dolls show at Tampa Theatre and then drank at The Hub 'til damn near closing time.
Unlike The Hub, Mangroves is well lit, and I can clearly see every vibrant face in the room. Everyone appears geared for good times, making my blank expression probably appear sullen in comparison. The Jameson and soda goes down fast, and I order another. I figure, "Why not get loaded? I'm a short walk from home."
"Is the restroom over there?" I ask Dave.
"Yeah," he says. "Around the corner, just stay to the right."
"That's right," I respond. "Been a while since I've been here."
And it has. Even though I've lived within stumbling distance of Mangroves for the past year, this is my first visit here in a decade. Back in the late '90s, I had a couple of buddies who worked at the then newly opened Ciccio & Tony's, and I used to meet them after closing time to drink our way up and down Howard with our fake IDs. We'd usually visit the old Hydeway and then Mangroves. My memories of the latter are vague, but I recall the place looking the same. I remember drinking raspberry kamikazes and chewing on fried calamari.
I return to my stool feeling only slightly bad about stiffing the restroom attendant and notice the crowd at Mangroves has suddenly swelled. Gaggles of sexily clad young women fill the place with their comely giggling. I fix my gaze on a boxing match shown on one of the flat-screens strategically positioned above the bar. The TV I'm watching happens to be just over the service station frequented by the hot blond waitress. Every time she passes by, it looks as if I'm gawking at her. Or does it? Does she think I'm watching her? For some reason, this concerns me.
The bartenders at Mangroves are attentive and friendly, even with the counter now packed two and three deep. My third Jameson arrives, and I go to the patio for a smoke — knowing my stool will be history by the time I return.
"Guys give such shitty lines," says a fine, smart-looking brunette with meticulously placed blond highlights that probably cost her (or a benefactor) more than I spend in a year on haircuts. She's holding court at an outside table, surrounded by four dudes.
"If a guy wants to talk to a girl he should just ask her opinion on something," she continues.
"So, like what do you think about Britney Spears acting like a crazy bitch?" responds one of the cretins at her table. She offers a polite laugh that barely masks her contempt. I snuff out my smoke, gulp down the remainder of my drink and leave the empty glass on the two-top where I'd been sitting solo.
Back inside I'm surprised to find a lone unoccupied stool near the one I abandoned. I take a seat and flag down a bartender. "Tab, please, run it on my card," I say, "and one more Jameson."
Why not? It's Friday. I just got paid, and it's a short walk home.
The fourth and final whiskey of the evening provides that magnificent, buzzed-but-still-feeling-sharp high that ranks as one of the greatest feelings attainable through legal means.
"Do you sell cigarettes?" asks a sweet-voiced girl over my right shoulder.
"Sorry," says the bartender. "We should."
I look and see an adorable face, that rare hottie who doesn't appear jaded by the harsh reality that men of all ages have been lusting after her since she was around 15 years old.
"Would you like a cigarette?" I ask her while fumbling through my sport coat pocket for my pack.
"Yes," she says, "thank you."
I spot a hulking boyfriend looming behind her and mutter a weak "you're welcome" before turning back around to finish that fourth Jameson. A couple minutes later I feel a slight tap on my shoulder.
"Thanks again for the cigarette," she says while following her man out the door.
I nod and offer a shy smile — kind of amazed that at this point in my life a swank bar such as Mangroves still makes me feel like an outsider and that beautiful girls still make me feel like an awkward teenager.
Mangroves, 208 S. Howard Ave, Tampa. 813-250-9802.
This article appears in Jan 16-22, 2008.