If writing this column has taught me anything thus far, it’s that even good bars have bad days. Last Call is not written anonymously, but I look like a typical thirtysomething woman who types on her phone frequently and won’t stand out. Having a slight cloak of invisibility provides a solid advantage on gauging the kind of experience a patron may expect when he or she slides onto that bar stool.

West 7th corridor newcomer Bar 2909 occupies the space on the opposite corner from Fred’s Texas Café. It’s a straight and open lot, with two bar areas to order drinks. On my initial visit, it was the first beautiful weather day of 2017. Therefore, every human in the tri-county area was scoping out patio space to work on their tan with a drink in their hand. It was fairly busy at 2:30pm, but my guest and I found a seat at the smaller, empty bar toward the front.

Maybe I’ve read too many books by FBI profilers discussing body language lately (three, don’t judge), but it is obvious that our bartender wanted no part of slinging drinks when we sat in front of her. Initial clues included angrily crossed arms and muttering under her breath at the bar back. But when she said, “What do you want?” to take our order, it prompted such shock I had to stifle a roar of laughter. I legitimately studied her face thinking she might have known my guests and me, but I don’t think she had any bias. 

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