Is Bar Hop a Noun?

One goes barhopping, but then is bar hop a noun?  You know, I mean a compound noun, only where one of the two words is a verb.  This is becoming complicated, just don't dis me because bar hop is two words.  It's like "bell hop," right?  Or it would be if it is a noun.  Anyway, I ask because we have recently taken to barhopping -- an unusual new hobby for us, I concede, but more on that later.  Does going barhopping make me a bar hop?  Such a term in my mind conjures up images of twitching on one foot, perhaps more indicative of a neurological problem than of enjoying an evening out.  

But if not bar hop, then what?  Bar fly?  I think not.  I have clean hands and feet, thank you, and I do not carry a plethora of germs on me.  I have normal eyes, too.  I don’t have to process seeing in all directions at once, even after a drink or two.

One goes on a pub crawl, but I do not crawl.  I am neither a toddler nor a drunkard -- no really, I’m not.   The most I’ll admit to is a tendency to wobble a bit, and I don’t do that all that often. 

But why this fixation on what to call myself?  I’m glad you asked.  It began the evening Steve and I decided to treat ourselves to a fancy meal at Ruth’s Chris.  We wanted meat, and we wanted it right away, so we put on clean clothes and drove up the street to Fairfax Corner.  We were disappointed, though, because, even though it was only 5:30, there was already a long wait for a table.  We were looking sadly at each other when the hostess suggested we take a seat in the bar and order from there.  It was then we discovered their wonderful happy hour menu!  We didn’t take advantage of it that evening having, as I said, decided we wanted big, fat steaks, but few months later I found myself home alone on my birthday having just returned from Steve in Washington State.  (N.B. read last year’s entries if you’re really that interested as to how that came about.)    

I decided to take myself and my Kindle to Ruth’s Chris, and, in their comfortable, busy bar, treat myself to a fantastic steak sandwich and martini for a total bill of $15.  It was so tasty and so cheap, I left an enormous tip for the staff that was so nice to me.  Happy Birthday, me!  Steve and I have been back twice for their happy hour menu, and each time has been as excellent as the time before.  We decided it was time to branch out. 

We had evening tickets to the ballet and headed into DC early, at 2:00.  We walked around The American Art Museum for a couple of hours, then scoped out the happy hour at McCormack and Schmidt (mediocre food, slow, very slow service).  The next ballet included the Spy Museum and Legal Seafood  (better food, slightly better service).  [A quick aside:  a young friend posted on FB that she was bringing cookies to her department’s happy hour.  I posit that any hour with cookies is a happy hour.] 

Great or not so much, happy hour is exactly the way I like to eat.  Because your order is inexpensive and small, you can try all sorts of new things, and if you don’t care for them, just order again!  Of course, I’m in the lucky position that Steve likes almost everything, so if I don’t care for a dish, he’ll happily switch.  This is one of the main advantages of being married. 

Last Friday, we wanted to go to Bonefish Grill because Steve loved their happy hour in Hanford.  Alas, the local one has happy hour only Monday through Thursday.  Bummer!  We settled for a small family restaurant, but that was regular food from a regular menu, nothing to write home about.  A quick google search has now assured us of Friday night happy hours along with our big city ballet happy hours for a good long time to come.

This solves the dinner problem, but not the problem of nomenclature.  Not a bar hop, not a bar fly, not a pub crawler.  Now the delight I take in happy hour is more like my delight in the movement of ballet.  The rotation of the small plates is akin to the divertissement in the Nutcracker.  Cocktail specialties are more like dizzying solos.  Plus our little ritual is, to my mind, bound inextricably with our ballet tickets, so just hand over that tutu:  here’s one dance I can do.  Call me the bar ballerina.