There are certain rules that must be obeyed when drinking in a classic blue-collar bar like Pete’s Place in the Beach Park neighborhood of South Tampa. Break one, and you’ll be humiliated. Sal learned this lesson the hard way last Thursday when he and I visited the place for the first time. My friend did save face, though, by later making good on the kind of pub challenge rarely met.

The bartender had the same name as the establishment. Pete is a burly guy with a beer keg of a gut. He wore a maroon T-shirt, black ball cap turned backward and wide goatee that covered half his ample jaw. Pete looked to be in his late 20s. His voice boomed. Every movement he made was outsized. Pete lit up the room like a roman candle, creating the ideal upbeat atmosphere for a night of laidback, no-frills imbibing.

He did bust Sal’s balls, though. Good naturedly, but busted ’em nonetheless.

We had just finished the first of what would be many rounds. Pete reached over the counter, grabbed my empty beer bottle and dropped it in the trash. Sal handed the bartender his presumably empty beer bottle. Pete hoisted it up, right in front of his face, and then angled it to better catch the light. He examined the bottle like he was an FDA inspector; gave it a shake. By this time, Pete had an audience. About a half ounce of suds sloshed around at the bottom. Pete smiled and then bellowed, loud enough for all to hear, “You know, we don’t offer refunds.”

“What?” Sal snapped.

The other patrons laughed. I probably laughed the loudest.

“Two cans of Bud this round,” I told Pete, “put ’em both on my tab.”

“Cans?” he said, “I like drinking beer out of cans, too. They stay colder.”

“You get a larger pull,” I said, “flows better.”

“Yeah, you can just tip it back and gulp it down — beer wasn’t made for sipping,” Pete said, as he puckered his lips and mimed someone sipping. He resembled a drink-deprived orangutan. When Pete returned, he pointed at the “King of Beers” spiel on the cans and said the next beer was free if either one of us could memorize it. Sal had his revenge. I saw a wicked spark flash across his dark, demonic eyes.

Pete proceeded to waltz over to the other side of the bar and do his panties routine. It was very popular on Thursday night. Pete would grab a cotton thong and wear it like a surgical mask with the woo-hoo cover over his nose and the straps tucked behind his ears. There wasn’t really much else to the act, but it earned rave reviews.

“You gotta admit, it’s a great sight gag,” I said to Sal, who was still on his second beer. By this point, I had already gone through several Buds and a shot of Canadian Mist, which I sipped on the side.

Pete caught me observing his panties routine and felt an urge to rationalize his behavior. “Don’t worry, they’re clean,” he said. “Never even been worn once. See, I have a construction business and I print the name on them and give these out as advertisement.”

“Smart marketing,” I said. “By the way, are you the Pete that owns this place?”

“He’s my dad,” Pete said dryly. “Cheap motherfucker.”

Even Sal chuckled at that one. The big, jovial bartender then poured three shots of Jager right in front of me. I figured he was going to do one with Sal and I. Nope. He slammed them back to back to back and then squirted some soda in his mouth backyard-hose style. The grizzled regulars cheered.

“Hey Pete,” I said. “I thought one of those shots was for me.”

Without missing a beat, Pete poured two more shots of Jager and we knocked ’em back. “Next round we’ll do that Canadian Mist stuff you drink.”

He returned within five minutes, held the bottle up and read the label. “Blended Canadian whiskey,” he said. “Sounds fancy.” Pete poured us a round and we pounded ’em. It was turning into one of those nights.

“Pete,” Sal said, holding up his empty beer can. “I’m ready for another one.”

Pete turned his back and I could see Sal’s lips moving.

“You know,” I said. “These kind of people aren’t going to be impressed that you were able to memorize that.”

“It’s a free beer,” Sal retorted.

“That’s right,” I said. “Show him your stuff.”

Pete read as Sal recited: “Budweiser. King of Beers. Brewed by our original all natural process using the choicest hops, rice and best barley malt.”

“Damn. You got it,” Pete said. He then looked at me and asked if I could spell “Budweiser.” Luckily, I remembered the “e” comes before the “i.”

“Round on the house for these guys,” Pete announced.

“Hey Pete,” slurred one of the regulars. “Do I get a free beer if I can spell ‘Bud Light’?”

Pete’s Place, 4145 Henderson Blvd., Tampa, 813-282-9039.

This article appears in Sep 17-23, 2008.