Teakwoods was a great bar. Sports were on, food was served late, and drinks were cheap. It was close to Tempe but light-years away from scenester hell. And it had a floor littered with shells from all the free peanuts. (I can't find evidence that the one I frequented about twice a month for years is still around — but the chain's got a Web site, www.teakwoodstavern.com.)
One night, I was there with a friend when a guy from the booth behind her waved me down. I politely shrugged him off. Then he got weird and stared — for a long time. My intuition flared. I looked straight at him and said, "Hey. Not. Interested." As soon as I broke eye contact, I felt the ping of a peanut bounce off my forehead.
I got up and locked onto the first waiter I saw. I felt like an idiot when I said, "Let me talk to a manager. That guy threw a peanut at my head."
Needless to say, the waiter wasn't scandalized.
"Bring the check. We are never fucking coming back again" was my only defense.
On my way out, peanut-thrower walked toward me. As he passed, he smacked his shoulder into mine, the way dudes do when they're ready to throw down.
He wanted to kill me — and worse. The sicko. And Teakwoods would not help me.
I took it personally.
I cried all the way home and it was two years before I set foot in Teakwoods again for a social situation I couldn't avoid. For the record, my one drink tasted like crap.
I've never been back.