Intrepid scout Mychal has so much love in his heart for a bartender at Atlantic Grill that he decided to wax poetic. To express this undying adoration, Mychal has penned an ode in the key of, yes, Hunter S. Thompson. It's kind of moving, kind of weird. Enjoy.
by Mychal Stanley
Wandering through the sterile prefabrication of commercial construction can be a terrifying experience. One might feel adrift from their very soul, as if robbed of all moral mooring. In such a circumstance, any warm, welcoming place can be like a bastion of hope in a corrupt world.
Atlantic Grill, situated in the environs of Atlantic Station, is one of those fine places. A place that can feel like home for a little while, partly because it is heads and shoulders above other bars of its ilk, but also because perhaps nothing on this Earth is as precious as the right bar in the wrong place.
And what is a bar without a bartender? This bar's got Stan, who embodies the pure essence of what a bartender should be to the red-eyed masses. I don't think there's been a better name for a bartender. He has stories. He has drinks that no one else could make. How about a beverage that tastes exactly like Hawaiian Punch but is all killer and no filler? Perhaps a tipple that tastes exactly like what grapefruit juice should taste like, but inspires within me a new lease on life, as if the sun was rising underneath my eyelids.
Thank you, Stan. Thank you, Atlantic Grill. You make the bleary eyed wanderers among us proud. You serve the waiters and the busboys, the dazed filmgoers who need a drink after enduring the latest mind-numbing blockbuster. You stay open later than almost anything else in that part of town, so I know I'm always welcome. When I need it. When I don't need it (which is especially when I need it). You make me feel like there's something to this world that is worth salvaging. Good enough.