By Natalya Jones
By County Grind
By Liz Tracy
By Chris Joseph
By Liz Tracy
By Matt Preira
By Jesse Scheckner
By Michael E. Miller
"What, you grew up in a cabin?" quipped Other Alex, a tall recent FAU grad with a Florida-shaped tattoo on his arm. "I guess I could see you with a beard at 7."
"Yeah, man, that's exactly what I did. I'm a feral child."
"Oh! Humorous college-kid banter! Please incorporate me into your conversation!" I didn't say that, but thought it loudly as I too ordered a mango-flavored beer, at Filiz's recommendation.
Will, who wore a Marlins ball cap and squinted when he talked, was happy to humor me by helping me analyze the scene and answering my ridiculous questions.
I noted that he and his friends weren't quite the flannel-shirted, rifle-toting crowd I anticipated when I walked in. "This bar — the unaptly titled Lodge — is apparently filled with gun-hating liberals," I complained sardonically.
"Liberals? Get 'em out of here," he whispered. "But seriously, what were you expecting, a bunch of good ol' boys?"
"Yes. Instead, I got one guy doing his taxes and an assload of college kids."
"Taxes, shit! I still haven't done mine," Will said. "I'm not looking forward to giving the government all my money."
Beer and Bros: When I walked back down to Filiz's side of the bar, boyfriend T.J. was eating sweet potato fries.
"I could smoke this fry," he told me. "You can quote me on that." He smacked down the fry and offered me one. I snatched it up, claimed it as my dinner, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Man, for bar fries, these fries weren't anything to sniff at.
"You know what I hate," Filiz said out of the blue. "Using 'bro' as a greeting. It's so frattish. Over Easter, he told me to text someone back 'bro' as a response to 'hi.' "
"Look, it's a greeting: 'Bro.' 'Bro.' " T.J. explained.
"They're clearly trying to utter as few syllables as possible," I observed.
"Come to think of it, this is kind of a Broback Mountain kind of place," T.J. mused.
"No. No, it's not that kind of place," Lilli said.
"No, not Brokeback Mountain," T.J. said. "I just mean... 'cause it's cabin-y."
I stared at him. "What's the exact definition of 'Broback'?" It sounded way kinkier to me than some cowboy love story.
He pulled out his iPhone and began scrolling.
"They're called broisms," he told me. "There are lots of them. Bromance... Abrocrombie and Fitch... ambrodextrous..."
"Wait, what the hell is ambrodextrous?" Florida-tattoo Alex asked.
"It's apparently a bro who can throw a shaka with both his right and left hands," T.J. read the definition from his iPhone.
The gang collectively blinked.
"That's stupid," Filiz blurted. "How do girls feel about broisms?"
"Hey, girl, I'm ambrodextrous," feral-child Alex said in a faux-flirty voice.
"I'd be like, 'Door. Now,' if someone said that to me," Filiz said, gesturing toward the heavy Lodge door.
"There's gotta be some girls who like broisms," T.J. reasoned.
"No." I said.
"I mean, someone for everyone, right?" he said.
Well, maybe not someone for everyone, but there's definitely some bar for everyone. And hell, maybe yours is a lodge-themed place in Boca where you can listen to fratty banter and consume an inabropriate amount of beer — all without a hunter, gun, or stuffed deer head in sight.