A Royal Mix-Up at Queen Vic

“Ryan!” I leaned over the bar and motioned him close. “Closer!” I hissed, darting my eyes around us.

“What’s up?” he whispered back, a bottle of Jack and a shot glass between us.

“I’m meeting a guy here! And… I don’t know who he is!” I was drunk and bordering on unintelligible, but a veteran bartender and now, bar owner, he understood.

“Don’t worry, I got this, C,” he said with a wink and stepped away to pour shots for the guys down the bar.

My new friends Not a Lucky Girl and Shoes and I were camped out at Queen Vic, the popular new British pub on H Street and our new stomping ground. Owner Ryan quickly befriended us (or we befriended him?); it was love at first vodka-splash-of-cranberry.

Mr. T and I had been texting all evening, a planned meeting having turned into a “we’re too drunk to figure this out” attempt. Finally, I had said, “H Street. Queen Vic. Get here.” He had hopped in a taxi and judging from his most recent text – gotten there. I had no clue for whom I was looking.

Several months ago, he reached out to me on Twitter, replying to my plea for information on a Foreign Service exam study group. He invited me to his, but I could never make it. We’ve emailed since then, and the week we got our scores, we decided to meet to “celebrate or weep over a pint glass,” as he put it. I had no idea what his expectations were, but with all our talk of travel, intrigue and Foreign Service, I had built him up to be a regular International Man of Mystery. I also really hoped he was cute.

Ryan pulled out his cell phone and yelled across the bar, “Is there a Mr. T here? I’m looking for Mr. T!” He got no response. A minute later he popped up from behind the bar and took me on a mission to find him.

We were seated at the entrance level bar. It’s our bar of choice at Queen Vic, but the restaurant space, like most on H Street, surprises you with its size. We walked upstairs where he repeated his phone routine at that bar and on the packed patio. When we got no response, he shrugged apologetically at me.

Less than two minutes after I sat back down with my friends, a man in his early 30s of average build and with a less than average face, approached us. “Hey,” he said hesitantly. “I’m Mr. T.” He was less my international mystery man and more a domestic dud.

I tried not to be disappointed. Really tried. But I was totally disappointed.

Not a Lucky Girl saved me, shaking his hand and introducing our group. She made friendly conversation with him until I gathered myself and joined. He was… a dude. Kind of older than I expected, less funny than I had gathered from his emails and sort of average all around. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ryan giving me a thumbs-up, and I grimaced in response.

We chatted for 30 minutes or so. I asked him how he had decided to join the Foreign Service, and he said it was a lifelong dream. I asked what his current day job is, and I forgot the answer a moment later. I joked about our texts that night, said I couldn’t believe we were finally meeting in person.

“Definitely!” he said. “I’ve been really excited to meet you.”

My phone buzzed as I searched for an adequate response. “Hey, I’m here, sitting at the bar on the lower level. Where are you?” it read, from Mr. T. I looked up at T quizzically.

“I just got your text… right now…” I said, confused.

“Oh, you know, um, sometimes my phone… it just yeah, delivers texts late, you know how it is.”

“Yeah…” I slowly said. Something felt off, but I was sure it was the vodka.

“So what are you drinking? You’ve been finished with that one for a while.”

“Cranberry vodka, thanks” I said, and as he turned to the bar, I quickly texted Mr. T.

“I’m already talking to you,” I said.

My phone buzzed with a response as T handed me my drink. “Nope. I’m sitting and drinking a beer, yellow shirt.”

I looked up. Black shirt. Drinking gin.

“I just always thought it’d be so cool to like live abroad and stuff with the, um, Foreign Work,” T was saying. I ignored him and turned around.

On the other side of Shoes sat a fit guy with light curly brown hair, wearing a yellow shirt, in his mid-20s. He had a beer and cellphone in hand and half a laugh on his face. He looked up as I turned around, and our eyes met.

“Hi,” we said at once. I had just met The Real Mr. T.