Steve Rogers was not a beer snob. He drank Budweiser because his father had, and his grandfather before him. During World War II, the cans came in olive drab, and Steve actually had one that a grandparent had kept as a souvenir. That's right: patriotic, geeky nostalgia ran in the family.
He was drinking from a bottle at the bar, waiting for the others to show. Though he'd liked Dany, it was nice to have an evening out with the fellas, especially after the awkwardness that was a second calendar photo in as many months. (He didn't get it. Really didn't, in spite of the fact that he owned a mirror; in his head, Steve would always be the skinny kid that had been picked-upon in school. He wasn't pinup material. He was awkward and gawky, right?)
Maybe he shouldn't have started early. Steve was a big guy, but it was going to be a long night and he probably ought to have been pacing himself on the beer.
When he caught sight of Tony, Steve lifted a hand to say 'hey' and draw attention. His motor skills as he slid from the stool were still good, and he dodged his way through tables with relative ease. "Thanks for suggesting this," Steve said once he was within earshot.