I generally tried to maintain just enough contact with Allie so that she wouldn't start gossiping about ME behind my back, as she did about those at Brady's whom she judged as believing they were better than she. Well, Allie, if "better" means not addicted to painkillers, lies and bad-news boyfriends, then, yes, I guess most of us were indeed better. But we didn't want to set her off, delicate as she was, and always ready to launch into the next desperate and unbelievable story at any moment.
Not that any one person or thing could actually set Allie off. You just never knew when the tirade would begin. She would appear out of nowhere, arms around your patrons, and spill entirely Too Much Information on the helplessly captive audience. Usually she was trying to work the sympathy card, sadly relaying how hopeless and desperate her life was, just to work the good tips. But when she invaded another waitress's (or even mine, as bartender) section to unload her personal baggage on the poor unsuspecting diners, we weren't really sure what her strategy was.
We just knew that she was awfully close to insane, but could push that aside and expertly rattle off dinner and wine specials like she was born to wait tables. (Actually, this was her life's calling since she was a naive and fresh-faced 16-year old). Then she would throw in an awkward snippet of Allie drama, and customers and waitresses alike would cringe. At the end of the night, when we'd head over to Charters for a drink, we had to unload the night's "Allies" onto each other -- each one embarrassing us more than the last, especially when she turns on that awful half-Boston, half-uneducated accent:
"She grabbed that poor man's hand, placed it on her stomach, and said 'I didn't get fat like this by passing up on the frickin' FAB-u-LOUS deserts here.'You gotta try 'em!'" Gina told us last week.
"Gross!!!" we'd all agree, in unison.
"What about when she said to that judge, "Helloooooo Counseloh - is this your beautiful wife -- or maybe it's youhr mistress?"
And there were always a few "Hows would youzzz like some coffees" and "How youzz doin' tonight?" Those were par for the course - just a regular night of dealing with Allie.
She would often size up our customers for their buying power, and then slyly (not really) pull us aside, if it were our customer, and say, in her famous Irish Whisper, "You've got a MILLIONAIRE there!" or "Don't bother being sweet to him; he's a CHEAP bastahd." Most of the girls would tell her to get lost at this point. That's just what she would do, but she would remember to punch into the system later just to check what the millionaire or the cheap bastard actually did tip us.
And how she knew each one of our I.D. numbers was a mystery to us. Either, she had an in with Jason, or was actually a lot more clever than anyone gives her credit for. Whatever the case, we didn't like that someone like Allie had access to all of information. Once she actually changed another waitress's order, and then swooped in with the correct dinner, which she just so happened to have hot and ready, when the customer started to get angry about the mistake. Then she said to him, in front of the other waitress, "Next time youuz come in, you just ask for me, and I'll take good care of ya," with a wink and a pat on the back.
We could never actually prove that she messed with the computer. And she of course denied any wrongdoing. But things like this over the past few months, have not endeared Allie to me in the least.
And Jason can't be unaware of all her antics, but he sure acts like it. Maybe there's more to Jason and Allie than anyone really knows, too. That could also explain Allie's obsession with Leslie's rumored affair with him. And that would explain why Allie cornered Leslie last week and asked point-blank, in "Allie dialect" :"I hear you're F---ing Jason. Is it true?"
Friday, December 11, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Meet Allie
"I asked Leslie if she was f---ing Jason," was the first thing that assaulted my ears as I walked into work last weekend. Allie couldn't resist the gossip. Or the drama. I wasn't surprised she was the one to ask Leslie. In some ways, you had to respect the courage. In others you had to cringe because it was Allie.
Allie is what they call a full-timer. Someone who became a permanent waitress at the fresh young age of 16, right after she dropped out of school, and just a year before she got pregnant, married her boyfriend, and resigned herself to a full-time life of waiting tables. Some decisions were her own. Other things that happened were the result of some unfortunate fate. Her boyfriend turned out to be a deadbeat who stole her tips from her as she was sleeping, and then snuck out to buy drugs, and slept the days away, "caring" for their child, while she worked doubles to make ends meet.
But that was decades ago. And Allie was now a hardened forty-year-old, who looked about 15 years older. Her latest boyfriend (whom she sometimes referred to as her husband - we weren't quite sure which he was -- or maybe she had both.) was a professional workingman's compensation angler. He would work somewhere just long enough to get just hurt enough so that he could sue for disability. He was decent at this trick, but also liked to supplement his income with a few odd scams here and there. His most famous one was having Allie call her waitress friends and ask them to deposit checks in their bank accounts, and give Allie the cash, claiming she and Brad didn't have their own bank accounts.
Besides questionable financial habits, Allie and her boyfriend also had a fondness for prescription pain killers. So much so, that when Allie heard that Gina , another waitress, had called in sick because she slipped a disk, Allie went to visit her the next day and beg for a couple pills because she, too, had slipped a disk, and didn't have the insurance to go to a doctor to get treated.
Gina was so surprised to see Allie, and was caught so off guard, that she did give her a couple pills. That was all the encouragement Allie needed, because for the next week, she must have called Gina four more times to ask for more. Gina cut her off after the first visit, and finally stopped answering her phone altogether. Apparently, Allie was still getting her stash from some other connection, because one night last month, she was so doped up while working, that two waitresses had to hold her up, dab her forehead with cold compresses, and do all her work for her, hoping that Jason wouldn't notice she was spending an awful lot of time in the back room.
Yes, even though Allie drove them all crazy, the camaraderie of the women at Brady's overcomes the judgement and disgust that we all often have for Allie. We know she's had a tough life -- and it started with those first mistakes in her teenage years. Since then, she has had one more child of her own, and married into being a mother of 3 more. She tells stories about them -- each one sadder and more heart-tugging than the next. One's missing at war in Iraq, one ran away, the other is getting kicked out of high school. Oh, and add to those miserable details the fact that she has had 3 different kinds of cancer, is now married to (or girlfriend of) a disabled man ("He's not THAT disabled" she never hesitates to share with us), and living with her "in-laws," and one can't help but feel terrible for Allie.
But wait. She fooled me with all of these sob stories when I was one weekend into my first month at Brady's. Since then I have come to know that the "soldier in Iraq" is a mechanic on an Army Base in South Carolina; the "run-away" is in boarding school in Connecticut, and the one flunking out of high school is actually a normal, well-adjusted teenager (as normal as one can be as a by-product of Allie). And no, she has never had cancer of any sort.
And now I don't believe her when she tells me she is 5 months pregnant; is leaving her husband after the holidays; or is depressed because her mother-in-law passed away last night in her arms. Because, she will then turn around, tell Rodrigo, the very proper waiter, as she grabs him from behind, that she loves his "Italian ass" and that she is so horny because she hasn't had "any ass" whatsoever in 9 months. Allie, in a nutshell.
So when it was she telling me that she had confronted Leslie about the rumored affair with Jason, I didn't know what to say. Really, I try not to talk to her at all, as I do not want to be associated with that kind of crazy. But she was dying to talk, so, making sure that Chris, the bar back was there to overhear the whole thing, so that later, when she changes her story, he can corroborate, I did what every other waitress (or patron) tries so hard to avoid -- I engaged her in conversation. Must be the bartender in me.
Allie is what they call a full-timer. Someone who became a permanent waitress at the fresh young age of 16, right after she dropped out of school, and just a year before she got pregnant, married her boyfriend, and resigned herself to a full-time life of waiting tables. Some decisions were her own. Other things that happened were the result of some unfortunate fate. Her boyfriend turned out to be a deadbeat who stole her tips from her as she was sleeping, and then snuck out to buy drugs, and slept the days away, "caring" for their child, while she worked doubles to make ends meet.
But that was decades ago. And Allie was now a hardened forty-year-old, who looked about 15 years older. Her latest boyfriend (whom she sometimes referred to as her husband - we weren't quite sure which he was -- or maybe she had both.) was a professional workingman's compensation angler. He would work somewhere just long enough to get just hurt enough so that he could sue for disability. He was decent at this trick, but also liked to supplement his income with a few odd scams here and there. His most famous one was having Allie call her waitress friends and ask them to deposit checks in their bank accounts, and give Allie the cash, claiming she and Brad didn't have their own bank accounts.
Besides questionable financial habits, Allie and her boyfriend also had a fondness for prescription pain killers. So much so, that when Allie heard that Gina , another waitress, had called in sick because she slipped a disk, Allie went to visit her the next day and beg for a couple pills because she, too, had slipped a disk, and didn't have the insurance to go to a doctor to get treated.
Gina was so surprised to see Allie, and was caught so off guard, that she did give her a couple pills. That was all the encouragement Allie needed, because for the next week, she must have called Gina four more times to ask for more. Gina cut her off after the first visit, and finally stopped answering her phone altogether. Apparently, Allie was still getting her stash from some other connection, because one night last month, she was so doped up while working, that two waitresses had to hold her up, dab her forehead with cold compresses, and do all her work for her, hoping that Jason wouldn't notice she was spending an awful lot of time in the back room.
Yes, even though Allie drove them all crazy, the camaraderie of the women at Brady's overcomes the judgement and disgust that we all often have for Allie. We know she's had a tough life -- and it started with those first mistakes in her teenage years. Since then, she has had one more child of her own, and married into being a mother of 3 more. She tells stories about them -- each one sadder and more heart-tugging than the next. One's missing at war in Iraq, one ran away, the other is getting kicked out of high school. Oh, and add to those miserable details the fact that she has had 3 different kinds of cancer, is now married to (or girlfriend of) a disabled man ("He's not THAT disabled" she never hesitates to share with us), and living with her "in-laws," and one can't help but feel terrible for Allie.
But wait. She fooled me with all of these sob stories when I was one weekend into my first month at Brady's. Since then I have come to know that the "soldier in Iraq" is a mechanic on an Army Base in South Carolina; the "run-away" is in boarding school in Connecticut, and the one flunking out of high school is actually a normal, well-adjusted teenager (as normal as one can be as a by-product of Allie). And no, she has never had cancer of any sort.
And now I don't believe her when she tells me she is 5 months pregnant; is leaving her husband after the holidays; or is depressed because her mother-in-law passed away last night in her arms. Because, she will then turn around, tell Rodrigo, the very proper waiter, as she grabs him from behind, that she loves his "Italian ass" and that she is so horny because she hasn't had "any ass" whatsoever in 9 months. Allie, in a nutshell.
So when it was she telling me that she had confronted Leslie about the rumored affair with Jason, I didn't know what to say. Really, I try not to talk to her at all, as I do not want to be associated with that kind of crazy. But she was dying to talk, so, making sure that Chris, the bar back was there to overhear the whole thing, so that later, when she changes her story, he can corroborate, I did what every other waitress (or patron) tries so hard to avoid -- I engaged her in conversation. Must be the bartender in me.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Banana Nights
Leslie wasn't in on Saturday. And, as expected, the banana did not appear. The banana had come to represent the existence of their extramarital affair with each other -- Jason's extra mojo builder to get him over the late-night-hump so he would be able to keep up with someone half his age, once the stragglers were kicked out and Brady's was finally closed for the night.
On Banana Nights, the entire staff, ex-Leslie, would cash out and head next door to Charters, a dive bar that served cheap drinks and was open much later than Jason liked to keep Brady's open. Most of waitresses made this a weekend tradition -- the only requirement being that they made at least ten times more than they were planning to spend at Charters. (For most, that threshold was $150, but the number would go down, relative to the amount of frustrations and obnoxious patrons they dealt with at Brady's. And yes, the place is that cheap, where the girls could gossip for an hour or two, have 2 or 3 drinks, and still manage to drop only $15 each with tip included.)
And on these Banana Nights, when the girls would wrap up for the night and escort each other past Brady's to their cars, they would always notice Jason's office lights still on. Jason was not one to stick around, working the numbers or ordering inventory into the wee hours of the night, like some restaurant owners did. In his perfect world, Brady's would be closed up and he would be home every night by 10:30. He seemed bothered anytime he was forced to stay open to cater to any late arrivers, especially those that ended up nursing their glass of wine past 11:00.
He has been known to flick lights, noisily remove the cash register drawer, mop up floors around such patrons and explosively turn the music up deafeningly loud for half an instant, and then turn it off -- all in hopes that the late-night revelers would abandon their drinks and head out. Sometimes he would even offer up Charters next door - though he would never be caught dead in there himself.
This is how badly Jason hated being at Brady's too late. If he could meet these hopeful women at the door, that would have come in for the too-late-night-cap, he would, and say quite gruffly, "We're closed." They didn't want to eat, they would say. Just have a quick drink. Then he would stare, not say anything, until they changed their minds and left for friendlier places. As they left, he would pleasantly call after them, "Come back next week at 9...!"
He was so mad at me one night for letting some late-night women come in for their "quick drink" that he lectured me on what to do next time for the entire time they were there, explaining to me," If I wanted to listen to male bashing [which is what they were doing, and it was quite funny] I would just go home and talk to Sarah." Yikes. I bet Leslie doesn't male-bash...
And then the waitresses would notice Leslie's car still in the parking lot, too - and it was quite clear what they both were doing together at 1 in the morning, while their respective spouses waited at home for them to return from a "busy night" at Brady's.
But something happened to suddenly halt the affair for more than 6 months. Leslie left one day, mid-shift, throwing around allegations of sexual harassment on her way out the door to whomever would listen. (We're women -- we all listened!) But we weren't sure whether Leslie was telling the truth, or if she was feeling like a scorned woman and was lashing out to punish Jason for staying with his wife.
The week before Leslie's husband had come into Brady's with a few colleagues. Jason, it was reported, was acting like a jealous boyfriend the whole time, and kept sending for Leslie to see him in his office for made-up "emergencies" like scheduling conflicts and new drink menus. And then, before Leslie's husband ended his business dinner, he quietly stepped into Jason's office himself, closed the door, and spoke to him "man-to-man," Leslie told us.
No one was able to corroborate her story, since Leslie was the only waitress on the floor that night, handling both the bar and the dining room. Something probably happened, but the extent of the drama and intrigue is unknown. What we did all find out is that Leslie is a delusional, crazy, ego-maniac. And Jason isn't too much better for getting wrapped up in her drama-filled life. But from all accounts, he did seem to like her plenty.
And then suddenly, the same weekend that Jaques, Jason's star chef was gone, Leslie was back. Jason had plenty of things to worry about -- but Saturday night, a banana was not one of them. He must have given her the night off so he only had to deal with one crisis at a time. We thought.
On Banana Nights, the entire staff, ex-Leslie, would cash out and head next door to Charters, a dive bar that served cheap drinks and was open much later than Jason liked to keep Brady's open. Most of waitresses made this a weekend tradition -- the only requirement being that they made at least ten times more than they were planning to spend at Charters. (For most, that threshold was $150, but the number would go down, relative to the amount of frustrations and obnoxious patrons they dealt with at Brady's. And yes, the place is that cheap, where the girls could gossip for an hour or two, have 2 or 3 drinks, and still manage to drop only $15 each with tip included.)
And on these Banana Nights, when the girls would wrap up for the night and escort each other past Brady's to their cars, they would always notice Jason's office lights still on. Jason was not one to stick around, working the numbers or ordering inventory into the wee hours of the night, like some restaurant owners did. In his perfect world, Brady's would be closed up and he would be home every night by 10:30. He seemed bothered anytime he was forced to stay open to cater to any late arrivers, especially those that ended up nursing their glass of wine past 11:00.
He has been known to flick lights, noisily remove the cash register drawer, mop up floors around such patrons and explosively turn the music up deafeningly loud for half an instant, and then turn it off -- all in hopes that the late-night revelers would abandon their drinks and head out. Sometimes he would even offer up Charters next door - though he would never be caught dead in there himself.
This is how badly Jason hated being at Brady's too late. If he could meet these hopeful women at the door, that would have come in for the too-late-night-cap, he would, and say quite gruffly, "We're closed." They didn't want to eat, they would say. Just have a quick drink. Then he would stare, not say anything, until they changed their minds and left for friendlier places. As they left, he would pleasantly call after them, "Come back next week at 9...!"
He was so mad at me one night for letting some late-night women come in for their "quick drink" that he lectured me on what to do next time for the entire time they were there, explaining to me," If I wanted to listen to male bashing [which is what they were doing, and it was quite funny] I would just go home and talk to Sarah." Yikes. I bet Leslie doesn't male-bash...
And then the waitresses would notice Leslie's car still in the parking lot, too - and it was quite clear what they both were doing together at 1 in the morning, while their respective spouses waited at home for them to return from a "busy night" at Brady's.
But something happened to suddenly halt the affair for more than 6 months. Leslie left one day, mid-shift, throwing around allegations of sexual harassment on her way out the door to whomever would listen. (We're women -- we all listened!) But we weren't sure whether Leslie was telling the truth, or if she was feeling like a scorned woman and was lashing out to punish Jason for staying with his wife.
The week before Leslie's husband had come into Brady's with a few colleagues. Jason, it was reported, was acting like a jealous boyfriend the whole time, and kept sending for Leslie to see him in his office for made-up "emergencies" like scheduling conflicts and new drink menus. And then, before Leslie's husband ended his business dinner, he quietly stepped into Jason's office himself, closed the door, and spoke to him "man-to-man," Leslie told us.
No one was able to corroborate her story, since Leslie was the only waitress on the floor that night, handling both the bar and the dining room. Something probably happened, but the extent of the drama and intrigue is unknown. What we did all find out is that Leslie is a delusional, crazy, ego-maniac. And Jason isn't too much better for getting wrapped up in her drama-filled life. But from all accounts, he did seem to like her plenty.
And then suddenly, the same weekend that Jaques, Jason's star chef was gone, Leslie was back. Jason had plenty of things to worry about -- but Saturday night, a banana was not one of them. He must have given her the night off so he only had to deal with one crisis at a time. We thought.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Mystery and Drama -- On the Inside
Wow, do I wish I had more time before heading back into the insanity that is work these days. And no, I don't mean the Insanity with a capital "I" that I have started subjecting myself to on a daily basis. Now that P90X is just a fond (yeah, right) distant memory, a crazy, jacked, (dare-I-say "hot") former track and field star named Shawn T (well, actually he goes by Sean but I like the way Shaawwwwwn sounds so much better.) has been kicking my ass into cardio shape.
He promises 1 year of results in just 60 days of exercise. The way my attention span falters, I figured it was a sure thing. You are not sure if you watching a Saturday Night Live skit when he says things like "You see this leg?" with his slightly-flamboyant mannerisms and less than masculine voice. "You are gonna pick this leg up. Oh, yeah, look at me pickin' this leg up, ya'll!" But hey, he's cute, sweaty and if I can get abs even close to the hot chicks that run suicides and mountain climbers behind him in the basketball court, then I am more than thrilled to have signed up.
No, the insanity of which I am speaking is the predicted sure demise of a once-great bar and restaurant. Well, maybe that's an overstatement - an exaggeration of sorts. But things, they are a changin'.
Last night, for instance, after walking into work after only being gone for 5 short days (love those 2-day work weeks! Especially on Sundays when the work "week" is over...), I learn that the award-winning, much-beloved chef is no longer running Brady's. Hmm, odd - wasn't I just dancing with him at the Club next door not 5 nights ago, blowing off after-work steam, and NOT TALKING about how it was his last night? Hmmph. I guess he didn't want to ruin the celebratory mood or our late-night buzzes, happy to finally enjoy them after a crazy night of relentless service. We were enjoying being the ones to say "Blah blah blah, in a tall glass, with crushed - not cubed - ice, 4 olives, cryogenically cold, and really strong". (Oh, right - that was snobby, bum-hip, elbow-patched navy blue blazer... not US).
Anyway, Chef Jacques was gone. But the lines were still forming, people still clamoring to get seats at the bar before the people ahead of them who lingered just a second too long at the hostess stand did. (Oh, and these seat-stealers always come prepared to defend their brazenness to those whose seats they "stole". "It's a free country" they say. I always hate that reasoning. And it's always met with "Well, we were ahead of you." Another equally compelling defense. And then it always moves along to "As long as you buy us a drink, we'll LET you have our seats." I try to mediate, wanting everyone to sit, to enjoy, to tip... So I interject when I should, stay quiet when I can, and use my bartender ESP to solve everything, like "Hey, these people are leaving soon; you can have their seats - they're a better angle to the TV and basketball scores anyway," I manage with a side-nod and a wide-eye connection to the offended party. Usually works.)
But, back to the missing chef. It doesn't really affect my night, because bar-sitters come first for the atmosphere (okay, "Bartender"), second for the drinks, and a distant third for the chef's reputation. As long as one and two on their priority list are covered, I am sure they will overlook the fact that the sous-chef has quietly assumed the top duties. And yes, the kitchen is open, so it is really their fault for not noticing themselves that the celebrity is no longer back there concocting their orders with his notorious flair.
No matter, really, because their backs are to the kitchen; their attention being paid to the Celtics, the bartender, and sometimes even their date. So crisis averted. LAST NIGHT.
But will tonight be different, I wonder. Will the word spread as it does in the close-knit fine-dining environment, enough by tonight that people will actually ask, interested in the imagined (or not) drama that surrounded this surprising exit??
Or will tonight simply be a retrodden version of LAST night? Where people worry more about the obnoxious drunk in the corner, who called the classy bartender "the girl with the pipes" who he would want on his side if there were ever a fight in the bar (wishful thinking on his part on both counts); or that Chris, the Bar Back is so dejected over the sudden break-up of his still-in-college sweetheart that he wanted to punch the guy because he referred to him as the "kid" he would "forget about", not wanting him on his side in the fight.
Or maybe the mysterious "banana" will reappear again tonight (which can only mean that Jason the owner is trying to increase his late-night stamina later before he goes to visit his rumored ex-mistress, whom he recently hired back to the restaurant.) The Banana was back last night, a silent and sudden fixture on his office desk, that hadn't been there for over 6 months -- the same amount of time as Leslie's hiatus from Brady's. And, as a coincidence, wife Sarah was absent. Had she taken off with Jacques to make a fresh start in this gossip-riddled, tawdry food industry?
Time will tell. Tonight the bartender will be just as interested in the interworkings of the staff and management as she will be in the blind dates, drunken shenanigans and embarrassing moments usually reserved for just the patrons. Can't wait to go in: T minus 2 hours!
He promises 1 year of results in just 60 days of exercise. The way my attention span falters, I figured it was a sure thing. You are not sure if you watching a Saturday Night Live skit when he says things like "You see this leg?" with his slightly-flamboyant mannerisms and less than masculine voice. "You are gonna pick this leg up. Oh, yeah, look at me pickin' this leg up, ya'll!" But hey, he's cute, sweaty and if I can get abs even close to the hot chicks that run suicides and mountain climbers behind him in the basketball court, then I am more than thrilled to have signed up.
No, the insanity of which I am speaking is the predicted sure demise of a once-great bar and restaurant. Well, maybe that's an overstatement - an exaggeration of sorts. But things, they are a changin'.
Last night, for instance, after walking into work after only being gone for 5 short days (love those 2-day work weeks! Especially on Sundays when the work "week" is over...), I learn that the award-winning, much-beloved chef is no longer running Brady's. Hmm, odd - wasn't I just dancing with him at the Club next door not 5 nights ago, blowing off after-work steam, and NOT TALKING about how it was his last night? Hmmph. I guess he didn't want to ruin the celebratory mood or our late-night buzzes, happy to finally enjoy them after a crazy night of relentless service. We were enjoying being the ones to say "Blah blah blah, in a tall glass, with crushed - not cubed - ice, 4 olives, cryogenically cold, and really strong". (Oh, right - that was snobby, bum-hip, elbow-patched navy blue blazer... not US).
Anyway, Chef Jacques was gone. But the lines were still forming, people still clamoring to get seats at the bar before the people ahead of them who lingered just a second too long at the hostess stand did. (Oh, and these seat-stealers always come prepared to defend their brazenness to those whose seats they "stole". "It's a free country" they say. I always hate that reasoning. And it's always met with "Well, we were ahead of you." Another equally compelling defense. And then it always moves along to "As long as you buy us a drink, we'll LET you have our seats." I try to mediate, wanting everyone to sit, to enjoy, to tip... So I interject when I should, stay quiet when I can, and use my bartender ESP to solve everything, like "Hey, these people are leaving soon; you can have their seats - they're a better angle to the TV and basketball scores anyway," I manage with a side-nod and a wide-eye connection to the offended party. Usually works.)
But, back to the missing chef. It doesn't really affect my night, because bar-sitters come first for the atmosphere (okay, "Bartender"), second for the drinks, and a distant third for the chef's reputation. As long as one and two on their priority list are covered, I am sure they will overlook the fact that the sous-chef has quietly assumed the top duties. And yes, the kitchen is open, so it is really their fault for not noticing themselves that the celebrity is no longer back there concocting their orders with his notorious flair.
No matter, really, because their backs are to the kitchen; their attention being paid to the Celtics, the bartender, and sometimes even their date. So crisis averted. LAST NIGHT.
But will tonight be different, I wonder. Will the word spread as it does in the close-knit fine-dining environment, enough by tonight that people will actually ask, interested in the imagined (or not) drama that surrounded this surprising exit??
Or will tonight simply be a retrodden version of LAST night? Where people worry more about the obnoxious drunk in the corner, who called the classy bartender "the girl with the pipes" who he would want on his side if there were ever a fight in the bar (wishful thinking on his part on both counts); or that Chris, the Bar Back is so dejected over the sudden break-up of his still-in-college sweetheart that he wanted to punch the guy because he referred to him as the "kid" he would "forget about", not wanting him on his side in the fight.
Or maybe the mysterious "banana" will reappear again tonight (which can only mean that Jason the owner is trying to increase his late-night stamina later before he goes to visit his rumored ex-mistress, whom he recently hired back to the restaurant.) The Banana was back last night, a silent and sudden fixture on his office desk, that hadn't been there for over 6 months -- the same amount of time as Leslie's hiatus from Brady's. And, as a coincidence, wife Sarah was absent. Had she taken off with Jacques to make a fresh start in this gossip-riddled, tawdry food industry?
Time will tell. Tonight the bartender will be just as interested in the interworkings of the staff and management as she will be in the blind dates, drunken shenanigans and embarrassing moments usually reserved for just the patrons. Can't wait to go in: T minus 2 hours!
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Bartender Jackpot: Blind Date Part 4: A Gawky Goodnight
"Say it isn't so!" I scream on the inside. Not that I am judging Jane in any way for once weighing in at 400 pounds. She looks great now, and her diet or exercise or surgical experience has certainly done the trick.
No, the problem I have now is that respectable Jane is being somewhat drawn into Mitch's "allure". She must feel a camaraderie with this until-now nothing-special blind date.
And then I realize why Jane, who looked so put together, needed a blind date. She still feels insecure about the old Jane, the obese one that was left in the corner while guys talked to her thinner, more attractive friends. These were not my observations, but Mitch's, as the night went on, and he decided he would go in for the empathetic route back to her place later, he desperately hoped.
Nice, Mitch. Not only is he saying these things, in hopes to connect with her, and tell her that he, too used to be (not ANYMORE???) the left-out hefty teenager, and the relentlessly-teased awkward athlete. But he is choosing his moments wisely - like after her second extra-strong martini, or when she is about to take a phone call from her ex-husband. You gotta give him some degree of credit - using his survival skills and scrappiness when he needs them the most.
They had both had gastric bypass surgery, they told each other. When I heard that, I understood their reluctance to order -- or do anything -- without the other's agreement -- each needing the other's approval in some degree. "Would you like to order an appetizer?" "Hmm, do you want one?," he would ask her. "I don't care - do you?" This dance happened all night - dinner order, sparkling water or regular water, even with the next drink order... It was getting old fast.
At one point, Mitch DID manage to get to the men's room, leaving an empty wine glass before he got up. So I say to Jane, fully expecting an affirmative answer, "Should we get him another one while he's gone?" She nods reflexively, then must think better, and instead says, "We should probably ask him. I don't want to be presumptuous, and then he'll think I want him to get drunk, and....." Gotcha. So now I am even more confused. But it's time for the bartender to play a little - this is after all, the extent of my entertainment on this Saturday night. Everyone else is drinking and eating without much fanfare, and I DO have a blog to write.
So when Mitch gets back, I say, jokingly, "We were trying to guess whether or not you'd get another Pinot Grigio, but then I told Jane you'd want something more manly - to impress us - right?"
He goofily attempts to play along. "Oh, right." "Well I DID invent my own drink." I think to myself, that this is way too easy, and maybe I shouldn't have exploited his pompousness, self-consciousness and loneliness after all. But it WAS Saturday night. So I ask, "What's it named?"
Now at this point, Jane is looking expectantly, thinking this guy might be cool after all. He likes to drink - and not just Pinot Grigio. And he is giving me all sorts of attention. Maybe it will work out. And then Mitch goes and sabotages himself:
"The Mitch-inator," he announces with such authority that my friends at the opposite end of the bar, whom I have let in on the fact that a blind date is happening at the other end, and there may be some entertainment if they listen carefully, practically spit out their martinis, and look at me like "STOP IT! You can't encourage this guy anymore because we are all way too embarrassed for him."
Not as embarrassed as Jane apparently. And then Mitch adds, "You know like the Terminator, but it's the Mitch-inator."
And the guy sitting next to Mitch, who has remained stoic all night, devoted instead to a Saturday night baseball game, can't even ignore this one, and says to Jane," That must be because it ends all his dates." At this moment, Jason passes by as if coming from nowhere (we know that he sees and hears everything in the whole restaurant even though he may not fill us in on it til the next week, a la his White Board observations.) But with the history between these two, Jason can't resist a real-time comment. He slaps Mitch on the back and with dripping sardonic empathy:"SOOOO good to have you back, ole buddy."
Mitch tries to score some clever points with Jane by asking, "Hey Jason - didn't I see you driving a black Porsche last week? It's a Boxster, right?"
"Ahh, no. It's a 9-11." Jason would normally check this type of ostentatiousness, but can't help himself, due to the fact that the very last time these two were together, Mitch practically spat in his face while telling him he would never return to Brady's. "So what brings you back here, Mitch? It's been awhile?" he asks, trying to take the high road now.
"Just meeting someone special," he purrs as he strokes Jane's shoulder.
Ewww. Ewww. Ewww. Bartender Swoop-in: "So, Jane - shall I make you a Mitch-inator?" She politely declines without even asking again what's in it, and then comments to no one in particular that it's getting late anyway, while glancing at her watch.
Just then Mitch takes her hand in his, turns it over, and slips off her watch. Baseball game-watcher, my friends, and almost everyone else, exchange ashamed looks as if all in on a really bad, really private joke. Mitch, of course, is unflinching and unapologetic.
They debate for the next few minutes on the trajectory of the rest of the date: Go next door and listen to music; stay for another drink; call it a night. I interject that a really great band is playing next door - both to get them out of my sight because I can't take this fumbling, and because I know they cannot make a decision on their own.
At this point, the rest of the bar has totally cleared out, and I am left to clean and re-clean, and find lots of different ways to signify how late it is, including turning the surrounding lights off, blowing out the bar-rail candles, and wondering aloud who's on Letterman tonight.
Finally they take the hint -- or Mitch maybe get his own individualized hint that this date isn't going anywhere else. Though he has tried many different angles, including offering to keep an extra car key for her when she mentions, only because she is looking for something to talk about, that she sometimes misplaces her Minivan keys.
He defeatedly walks her out of the restaurant, I assume to her car to end the date with one last chance at a continuance. But no such luck. Mitch reappears not three minutes later, and actually has the nerve to say:
"You say that band is really good? Wanna grab a drink and talk P90X? I've got lots of pointers."
Somehow, Mitch, I think that is one thing you don't have enough of...
No, the problem I have now is that respectable Jane is being somewhat drawn into Mitch's "allure". She must feel a camaraderie with this until-now nothing-special blind date.
And then I realize why Jane, who looked so put together, needed a blind date. She still feels insecure about the old Jane, the obese one that was left in the corner while guys talked to her thinner, more attractive friends. These were not my observations, but Mitch's, as the night went on, and he decided he would go in for the empathetic route back to her place later, he desperately hoped.
Nice, Mitch. Not only is he saying these things, in hopes to connect with her, and tell her that he, too used to be (not ANYMORE???) the left-out hefty teenager, and the relentlessly-teased awkward athlete. But he is choosing his moments wisely - like after her second extra-strong martini, or when she is about to take a phone call from her ex-husband. You gotta give him some degree of credit - using his survival skills and scrappiness when he needs them the most.
They had both had gastric bypass surgery, they told each other. When I heard that, I understood their reluctance to order -- or do anything -- without the other's agreement -- each needing the other's approval in some degree. "Would you like to order an appetizer?" "Hmm, do you want one?," he would ask her. "I don't care - do you?" This dance happened all night - dinner order, sparkling water or regular water, even with the next drink order... It was getting old fast.
At one point, Mitch DID manage to get to the men's room, leaving an empty wine glass before he got up. So I say to Jane, fully expecting an affirmative answer, "Should we get him another one while he's gone?" She nods reflexively, then must think better, and instead says, "We should probably ask him. I don't want to be presumptuous, and then he'll think I want him to get drunk, and....." Gotcha. So now I am even more confused. But it's time for the bartender to play a little - this is after all, the extent of my entertainment on this Saturday night. Everyone else is drinking and eating without much fanfare, and I DO have a blog to write.
So when Mitch gets back, I say, jokingly, "We were trying to guess whether or not you'd get another Pinot Grigio, but then I told Jane you'd want something more manly - to impress us - right?"
He goofily attempts to play along. "Oh, right." "Well I DID invent my own drink." I think to myself, that this is way too easy, and maybe I shouldn't have exploited his pompousness, self-consciousness and loneliness after all. But it WAS Saturday night. So I ask, "What's it named?"
Now at this point, Jane is looking expectantly, thinking this guy might be cool after all. He likes to drink - and not just Pinot Grigio. And he is giving me all sorts of attention. Maybe it will work out. And then Mitch goes and sabotages himself:
"The Mitch-inator," he announces with such authority that my friends at the opposite end of the bar, whom I have let in on the fact that a blind date is happening at the other end, and there may be some entertainment if they listen carefully, practically spit out their martinis, and look at me like "STOP IT! You can't encourage this guy anymore because we are all way too embarrassed for him."
Not as embarrassed as Jane apparently. And then Mitch adds, "You know like the Terminator, but it's the Mitch-inator."
And the guy sitting next to Mitch, who has remained stoic all night, devoted instead to a Saturday night baseball game, can't even ignore this one, and says to Jane," That must be because it ends all his dates." At this moment, Jason passes by as if coming from nowhere (we know that he sees and hears everything in the whole restaurant even though he may not fill us in on it til the next week, a la his White Board observations.) But with the history between these two, Jason can't resist a real-time comment. He slaps Mitch on the back and with dripping sardonic empathy:"SOOOO good to have you back, ole buddy."
Mitch tries to score some clever points with Jane by asking, "Hey Jason - didn't I see you driving a black Porsche last week? It's a Boxster, right?"
"Ahh, no. It's a 9-11." Jason would normally check this type of ostentatiousness, but can't help himself, due to the fact that the very last time these two were together, Mitch practically spat in his face while telling him he would never return to Brady's. "So what brings you back here, Mitch? It's been awhile?" he asks, trying to take the high road now.
"Just meeting someone special," he purrs as he strokes Jane's shoulder.
Ewww. Ewww. Ewww. Bartender Swoop-in: "So, Jane - shall I make you a Mitch-inator?" She politely declines without even asking again what's in it, and then comments to no one in particular that it's getting late anyway, while glancing at her watch.
Just then Mitch takes her hand in his, turns it over, and slips off her watch. Baseball game-watcher, my friends, and almost everyone else, exchange ashamed looks as if all in on a really bad, really private joke. Mitch, of course, is unflinching and unapologetic.
They debate for the next few minutes on the trajectory of the rest of the date: Go next door and listen to music; stay for another drink; call it a night. I interject that a really great band is playing next door - both to get them out of my sight because I can't take this fumbling, and because I know they cannot make a decision on their own.
At this point, the rest of the bar has totally cleared out, and I am left to clean and re-clean, and find lots of different ways to signify how late it is, including turning the surrounding lights off, blowing out the bar-rail candles, and wondering aloud who's on Letterman tonight.
Finally they take the hint -- or Mitch maybe get his own individualized hint that this date isn't going anywhere else. Though he has tried many different angles, including offering to keep an extra car key for her when she mentions, only because she is looking for something to talk about, that she sometimes misplaces her Minivan keys.
He defeatedly walks her out of the restaurant, I assume to her car to end the date with one last chance at a continuance. But no such luck. Mitch reappears not three minutes later, and actually has the nerve to say:
"You say that band is really good? Wanna grab a drink and talk P90X? I've got lots of pointers."
Somehow, Mitch, I think that is one thing you don't have enough of...
Monday, October 26, 2009
Part 3 - Mortified for Mitch
Mitch takes a few quick sips of his wine to catch up with martini monger Jane. Not that I can blame Jane for her foray into a hopeful alcohol haze to cope with this more-awkward-by-the minute blind date.
When Mitch stands up suddenly, I am thinking, "Great - he's off to the men's room, and I can get the scoop from Jane about her true impression of this guy. Then, as any woman would do for another in a bind, I would help her escape, or get drunk, or start throwing glasses so he leaves -- OR SOMETHING to support my fellow sufferer -- I'm suffering too, being subjected to his embarrassing himself"
But no, Mitch of course is just getting started. He instead lifts up his shirt and shows his naked stomach to her. I immediately head to the far side of the bar to poke Chris, the Bar Back, so he doesn't miss this scene himself -- I'm going to need someone to rehash this stranger-than-fiction date with later on -- and many times after!
Before I can say "Whoa, fella - this is a family establishment" or "I know it's dark in here, but the reflection from that thing isn't helping", he grabs at some over-hanging, stretched-out skin sitting on top of his belt, and asks Jane incredulously "Can you believe I used to weigh 400 pounds???" Then he tucks the bottom of his shirt under his chin, grabs his Pinot Grigio unnecessarily with two hands so his stomach remains revealed, and strikes a pose with one hand on his hip so that when his shirt thankfully falls downward, it is hindered by his hand and is still exposing one side of his hairy pale girth. The raised Pinot Grigio glass in his other hand serves as a nice prop for this "look at me" scenario.
At that exact moment, Gina, one of the waitresses that had welcomed Mitch the old Regular back with open arms and kind words, walks by, gawks from behind his back at his display, rolls her eyes to me and stifles a laugh as she comes to wait at the end of bar for her drink order. I of course have to remain unfazed, because, while Gina is behind Mitch making the faces to me, I am right in front of him, really wanting to shoot Gina a look back with all of my being.
But no, I act like this is the coolest, most mundane thing and it happens all the time. All I can do to release some of the 'WTF' that is surging inside of me, is let out a "HUH" as I start mixing Gina's drinks. Of course they are all well drinks, and the well is directly in front of Mitch's seat -- not that he is sitting in his seat, but that just makes the view even more unobstructed. I decide to swallow my mortification, and actually LOOK at Jane. At the least, I can send her some bartender ESP, like "How would you like an even STRONGER drink now" or "GOD, I am so SORRY for you."
Mitch is looking at Jane at this point, too, expectantly. He is clearing thinking that this is the defining moment of the date; something they will look back on years from now as the time they both realized they were meant to be together. One has to admire - sort of - Mitch's boldness. Pompous scale registers at a 7. I can't decide whether to pity Mitch or to shut him off. Lucky for Mitch, I haven't soured Jane with my utter disdain, and she ACTUALLY SAYS:
"No way?! ME TOO!!!"
Yikes. Chris, Gina and I exchange looks of horror. This is going to be a long, strange night...
When Mitch stands up suddenly, I am thinking, "Great - he's off to the men's room, and I can get the scoop from Jane about her true impression of this guy. Then, as any woman would do for another in a bind, I would help her escape, or get drunk, or start throwing glasses so he leaves -- OR SOMETHING to support my fellow sufferer -- I'm suffering too, being subjected to his embarrassing himself"
But no, Mitch of course is just getting started. He instead lifts up his shirt and shows his naked stomach to her. I immediately head to the far side of the bar to poke Chris, the Bar Back, so he doesn't miss this scene himself -- I'm going to need someone to rehash this stranger-than-fiction date with later on -- and many times after!
Before I can say "Whoa, fella - this is a family establishment" or "I know it's dark in here, but the reflection from that thing isn't helping", he grabs at some over-hanging, stretched-out skin sitting on top of his belt, and asks Jane incredulously "Can you believe I used to weigh 400 pounds???" Then he tucks the bottom of his shirt under his chin, grabs his Pinot Grigio unnecessarily with two hands so his stomach remains revealed, and strikes a pose with one hand on his hip so that when his shirt thankfully falls downward, it is hindered by his hand and is still exposing one side of his hairy pale girth. The raised Pinot Grigio glass in his other hand serves as a nice prop for this "look at me" scenario.
At that exact moment, Gina, one of the waitresses that had welcomed Mitch the old Regular back with open arms and kind words, walks by, gawks from behind his back at his display, rolls her eyes to me and stifles a laugh as she comes to wait at the end of bar for her drink order. I of course have to remain unfazed, because, while Gina is behind Mitch making the faces to me, I am right in front of him, really wanting to shoot Gina a look back with all of my being.
But no, I act like this is the coolest, most mundane thing and it happens all the time. All I can do to release some of the 'WTF' that is surging inside of me, is let out a "HUH" as I start mixing Gina's drinks. Of course they are all well drinks, and the well is directly in front of Mitch's seat -- not that he is sitting in his seat, but that just makes the view even more unobstructed. I decide to swallow my mortification, and actually LOOK at Jane. At the least, I can send her some bartender ESP, like "How would you like an even STRONGER drink now" or "GOD, I am so SORRY for you."
Mitch is looking at Jane at this point, too, expectantly. He is clearing thinking that this is the defining moment of the date; something they will look back on years from now as the time they both realized they were meant to be together. One has to admire - sort of - Mitch's boldness. Pompous scale registers at a 7. I can't decide whether to pity Mitch or to shut him off. Lucky for Mitch, I haven't soured Jane with my utter disdain, and she ACTUALLY SAYS:
"No way?! ME TOO!!!"
Yikes. Chris, Gina and I exchange looks of horror. This is going to be a long, strange night...
Bartender Jackpot: Blind Date - Part 2 of 4
So with Ann the beloved bartender of Brady's past gone, everyone was surprised to see Mitch walk in and take his usual spot at the bar last Friday night. The waitresses treated him like the prodigal son, hugging him, exchanging pleasantries, introducing him to me with a "You'll love her - she's awesome!", and pretty much falling all over themselves to welcome him back.
Jason, on the other hand, didn't give much of a reception at all. He was remembering the last exchange they had, when Mitch stormed out after swearing and cursing at Jason for firing Ann after a heated drama-filled incident that took place front and center at the bar. But, being the businessman he is, and realizing that the return of Mitch and others like him, would only mean lucrative things for his wallet. He saved his comments for much later in the night.
Mitch, he told the waitresses, was waiting for a date.
"A BLIND date?", they gushed? He responded it was indeed. I wondered how they knew it wasn't a second, third date, or even his girlfriend he was waiting for. And then I got to know Mitch throughout the night, and realized that blind dates were the only type of dates that Mitch got these days. He was just about as pompous as he was bald - about a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10.
And, he was somewhat of an exaggerator ("Yeah, I've been doing this really challenging 90-day workout, it's all about muscle confusion. I am almost done..." Ha! "Really" I replied - "Me too! P90X, right? I'm almost done too." And his blind date looked at me, looked at Mitch, and complimented me on how great I looked. Then she said to him, "HOW LONG have you been doing that same workout that she is?")
But these character traits showed themselves later in the evening. Right now it was 6:45 and he was just going to nurse a club soda until his date arrived -- and set the scene for either an alt. bev or drunken night. Guess which one it turned out to be, four and a half hours later as the lights were turned off all around them, and Mitch had taken possession of Jane's watch so she wouldn't know what time it was and therefore could not say she had to leave... Professional Blind Dater - yup.
When Jane arrives, he awkwardly gets up, reaches for the hand she extends to him, draws her in close to him, and instead KISSES her hello, practically on the lips. "Sorry," he explains, "I just feel like we had this connection..." She laughs nervously, takes her seat, and immediately orders a martini. I abandon all other orders to make this drink and get Jane drinking as soon as possible -- she's gonna need it.
So what connection did he mean? Just then as she walked in, and he realized that she was attractive, nicely dressed and expertly coiffed? Or did they spend late-night hours on the phone all week, leading up to this date? It must have been the former, I decide, because they are going into their lifestories, backstories, and silly little observations that one makes to another in an introductory conversation. And then I am even more skeeved out by his kissing her hello. Poor Mitch lets on how desperate he is way too soon in this marathon date.
Once he realizes that Jane plans on drinking her way through this date, he does the manly thing, and orders a glass of Pinot Grigio to join her. Nice impression, Mitch...
Next: Stomach Stapling, Wine Snobbery and Striking Out
Jason, on the other hand, didn't give much of a reception at all. He was remembering the last exchange they had, when Mitch stormed out after swearing and cursing at Jason for firing Ann after a heated drama-filled incident that took place front and center at the bar. But, being the businessman he is, and realizing that the return of Mitch and others like him, would only mean lucrative things for his wallet. He saved his comments for much later in the night.
Mitch, he told the waitresses, was waiting for a date.
"A BLIND date?", they gushed? He responded it was indeed. I wondered how they knew it wasn't a second, third date, or even his girlfriend he was waiting for. And then I got to know Mitch throughout the night, and realized that blind dates were the only type of dates that Mitch got these days. He was just about as pompous as he was bald - about a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10.
And, he was somewhat of an exaggerator ("Yeah, I've been doing this really challenging 90-day workout, it's all about muscle confusion. I am almost done..." Ha! "Really" I replied - "Me too! P90X, right? I'm almost done too." And his blind date looked at me, looked at Mitch, and complimented me on how great I looked. Then she said to him, "HOW LONG have you been doing that same workout that she is?")
But these character traits showed themselves later in the evening. Right now it was 6:45 and he was just going to nurse a club soda until his date arrived -- and set the scene for either an alt. bev or drunken night. Guess which one it turned out to be, four and a half hours later as the lights were turned off all around them, and Mitch had taken possession of Jane's watch so she wouldn't know what time it was and therefore could not say she had to leave... Professional Blind Dater - yup.
When Jane arrives, he awkwardly gets up, reaches for the hand she extends to him, draws her in close to him, and instead KISSES her hello, practically on the lips. "Sorry," he explains, "I just feel like we had this connection..." She laughs nervously, takes her seat, and immediately orders a martini. I abandon all other orders to make this drink and get Jane drinking as soon as possible -- she's gonna need it.
So what connection did he mean? Just then as she walked in, and he realized that she was attractive, nicely dressed and expertly coiffed? Or did they spend late-night hours on the phone all week, leading up to this date? It must have been the former, I decide, because they are going into their lifestories, backstories, and silly little observations that one makes to another in an introductory conversation. And then I am even more skeeved out by his kissing her hello. Poor Mitch lets on how desperate he is way too soon in this marathon date.
Once he realizes that Jane plans on drinking her way through this date, he does the manly thing, and orders a glass of Pinot Grigio to join her. Nice impression, Mitch...
Next: Stomach Stapling, Wine Snobbery and Striking Out
Friday, October 23, 2009
Bartender Backstory & Blind Date Part 1
At 6:30 last Saturday night, in walks Mitch -- yet another used-to-be Regular who has finally returned. Although he didn't stop coming because of Karen's ineptitude -- his story dates back a bit further...
Ann, I have found out, was the Usual Bartender that Karen, and then I were hired to replace. It makes sense that Karen was just a band-aid solution, quickly hired and not fully checked out, because Ann had left so suddenly, leaving Jason in a bind right in the middle of the weekend.
This is somewhat assuring to find out, because I couldn't understand why Jason had ever hired her in the first place. Her bad attitude, poor pronunciation ("For whites, we have Pinot Greeees, Sauvignon Black and Reese's-ling"), and deathly-slow speed, probably didn't fully show themselves until she was thrown into the Friday and Saturday night rush, and by then Jason was too busy writing passive aggressive comments on the back-room whiteboard and schmoozing with customers to notice right away. [I could write an entire post about these comments: "No hanging at the end of bar chatting with bartender"; "Top buttons must be buttoned BEFORE arriving at work"; "Bartender's shirts should be longer"...]
But, back to Ann. She was the weekend bartender for four years before she left suddenly. I had heard the name from time to time, mostly from waitresses, yet hardly ever from Jason. I could sense some drama, but it took several weeks to piece it all together.
Ann's significant other, Jeff, worked next door to Brady's as head chef. The two would visit each other two or three times throughout the night, and the bar regulars would put up with these periodic interruptions because they knew and liked both of them. They considered Jeff as much of a friend as they did Ann. Because the two were so easy-going and likable, the bar was generally full with their friends and regulars. Jeff was as much of a fixture at Brady's as Jason and his wife.
But one night someone noticed that it was 8:30 and Jeff had not been over once to see Ann. And, come to think of it, Ann was not her gregarious self. Her eyes looked red and tired, and she was unusually disheveled and distant. She was trying to act as if nothing was wrong, but Mitch, John, Patty and the rest of the patrons knew something was up. And just as they were about to ask her, Jeff flew in, in a tirade, resuming a fight that obviously had started a few hours earlier, while they were driving in to work together.
"I talked to your BOYFRIEND, and he admitted everything. I cannot BELIEVE you were cheating on me with him!" he raged.
"I told you there is nothing going on. I love you, and I would never --" she tried to retort, clearly beaten down and more than a little embarrassed that this "talk" was taking place in front of 8 of her regulars.
"---oh PLEASE!" he spat. "Save it!" "You are so full of shit," Jeff said, really getting himself worked up, and not even noticing Jason approaching.
"Okay, okay," pleaded the clearly uncomfortable-with-confrontation Jason (remember the white board). "Let's just stop this now."
"STOP this?!?!?" laughed Jeff, who was ready to snap. No one knows how he was able to concentrate on cooking at his restaurant for the four hours since they had driven in together, fighting, when all this was going through his mind. "That WHORE is the one that started it all. I wouldn't be surprised if she is sleeping with any one or two of THEM too," as he slapped the back of one of the mortified customers.
And with that, Ann had lost it. She threw the wine glass she was in the middle of filling when he burst in. With a smash, it hit the floor right between Jeff and Jason. The whole restaurant had already abandoned their own small talk and quiet conversations, to listen and stare at the incident behind them. And the bar patrons had no choice - they were physically in the middle of this battle, with Jeff behind them, and Ann in front of them. But now, the verbal fight was escalating fast to glassware and who-knows what else.
It turns out that Ann was indeed having an affair - and this "talk" had started earlier that day when Jeff logged on to her email account to pay bills. He accidentally deleted an email instead of sending it, so when he opened the Trash Folder to retrieve it, he stumbled upon a chain of steamy emails between Ann and one of Jeff's best friends. Ann had denied anything but emailing ever happened, felt awful about it, and begged for Jeff's forgiveness all day. But Jeff didn't go to work when he dropped Ann off, and instead went to to talk to his friend, who he tricked into admitting everything. His now-ex-friend even told him all the detailed information about hotels, made-up doctors' appointment and secret rendezvous's for the past six months.
Ann didn't expect the full affair would come out, and was truly hoping to make up with Jeff. Once she saw how furious and betrayed he was, she felt helpless and didn't know what else to do. So she threw the glass, and then another glass, and yet another. She was poised and ready to launch another, when Jason caught her arm from behind, gently placed the glass down, and escorted her out the back door where customers could no longer see her, all in one smooth motion. Jeff followed them, ranting and raving, and Jason soon returned, assumed her position behind the bar, and tried to reclaim some semblance of order in the restaurant.
He informed everyone sitting at the bar that Ann would no longer be working at Brady's; that she had been fired just then. Mitch and the others felt a loyalty to Ann, and couldn't help but feel badly for her, assuming that she had done nothing wrong, and that Jeff was a reckless, jealous idiot. So they turned on Jason. They told him they couldn't believe he would fire someone after 4 years, saying she was like family to them all - especially Jason. Jason wasn't buying it. He told them her unprofessionalism, her temper, and her company had gotten her fired.
Mitch threw down three twenty dollar bills, stormed over to Jason, and told him in no uncertain terms that he had just committed professional suicide, and that he would NEVER return to Brady's. He looked around the bar and urged the others to come with him, saying it would never be the same here without their beloved friend and bartender. A few others followed Mitch. The ones that did stay, did so quite uncomfortably for the remainder of their meals, and then left quietly. Everyone was shaken up over poor Ann and her saga.
So you can imagine Jason's surprise, and cockiness, when lo and behold, in walks Mitch 4 months later. The reason? A blind date. Oh, this is gonna get good....
Next: Mitch's awkward apology and even more awkward date.
Ann, I have found out, was the Usual Bartender that Karen, and then I were hired to replace. It makes sense that Karen was just a band-aid solution, quickly hired and not fully checked out, because Ann had left so suddenly, leaving Jason in a bind right in the middle of the weekend.
This is somewhat assuring to find out, because I couldn't understand why Jason had ever hired her in the first place. Her bad attitude, poor pronunciation ("For whites, we have Pinot Greeees, Sauvignon Black and Reese's-ling"), and deathly-slow speed, probably didn't fully show themselves until she was thrown into the Friday and Saturday night rush, and by then Jason was too busy writing passive aggressive comments on the back-room whiteboard and schmoozing with customers to notice right away. [I could write an entire post about these comments: "No hanging at the end of bar chatting with bartender"; "Top buttons must be buttoned BEFORE arriving at work"; "Bartender's shirts should be longer"...]
But, back to Ann. She was the weekend bartender for four years before she left suddenly. I had heard the name from time to time, mostly from waitresses, yet hardly ever from Jason. I could sense some drama, but it took several weeks to piece it all together.
Ann's significant other, Jeff, worked next door to Brady's as head chef. The two would visit each other two or three times throughout the night, and the bar regulars would put up with these periodic interruptions because they knew and liked both of them. They considered Jeff as much of a friend as they did Ann. Because the two were so easy-going and likable, the bar was generally full with their friends and regulars. Jeff was as much of a fixture at Brady's as Jason and his wife.
But one night someone noticed that it was 8:30 and Jeff had not been over once to see Ann. And, come to think of it, Ann was not her gregarious self. Her eyes looked red and tired, and she was unusually disheveled and distant. She was trying to act as if nothing was wrong, but Mitch, John, Patty and the rest of the patrons knew something was up. And just as they were about to ask her, Jeff flew in, in a tirade, resuming a fight that obviously had started a few hours earlier, while they were driving in to work together.
"I talked to your BOYFRIEND, and he admitted everything. I cannot BELIEVE you were cheating on me with him!" he raged.
"I told you there is nothing going on. I love you, and I would never --" she tried to retort, clearly beaten down and more than a little embarrassed that this "talk" was taking place in front of 8 of her regulars.
"---oh PLEASE!" he spat. "Save it!" "You are so full of shit," Jeff said, really getting himself worked up, and not even noticing Jason approaching.
"Okay, okay," pleaded the clearly uncomfortable-with-confrontation Jason (remember the white board). "Let's just stop this now."
"STOP this?!?!?" laughed Jeff, who was ready to snap. No one knows how he was able to concentrate on cooking at his restaurant for the four hours since they had driven in together, fighting, when all this was going through his mind. "That WHORE is the one that started it all. I wouldn't be surprised if she is sleeping with any one or two of THEM too," as he slapped the back of one of the mortified customers.
And with that, Ann had lost it. She threw the wine glass she was in the middle of filling when he burst in. With a smash, it hit the floor right between Jeff and Jason. The whole restaurant had already abandoned their own small talk and quiet conversations, to listen and stare at the incident behind them. And the bar patrons had no choice - they were physically in the middle of this battle, with Jeff behind them, and Ann in front of them. But now, the verbal fight was escalating fast to glassware and who-knows what else.
It turns out that Ann was indeed having an affair - and this "talk" had started earlier that day when Jeff logged on to her email account to pay bills. He accidentally deleted an email instead of sending it, so when he opened the Trash Folder to retrieve it, he stumbled upon a chain of steamy emails between Ann and one of Jeff's best friends. Ann had denied anything but emailing ever happened, felt awful about it, and begged for Jeff's forgiveness all day. But Jeff didn't go to work when he dropped Ann off, and instead went to to talk to his friend, who he tricked into admitting everything. His now-ex-friend even told him all the detailed information about hotels, made-up doctors' appointment and secret rendezvous's for the past six months.
Ann didn't expect the full affair would come out, and was truly hoping to make up with Jeff. Once she saw how furious and betrayed he was, she felt helpless and didn't know what else to do. So she threw the glass, and then another glass, and yet another. She was poised and ready to launch another, when Jason caught her arm from behind, gently placed the glass down, and escorted her out the back door where customers could no longer see her, all in one smooth motion. Jeff followed them, ranting and raving, and Jason soon returned, assumed her position behind the bar, and tried to reclaim some semblance of order in the restaurant.
He informed everyone sitting at the bar that Ann would no longer be working at Brady's; that she had been fired just then. Mitch and the others felt a loyalty to Ann, and couldn't help but feel badly for her, assuming that she had done nothing wrong, and that Jeff was a reckless, jealous idiot. So they turned on Jason. They told him they couldn't believe he would fire someone after 4 years, saying she was like family to them all - especially Jason. Jason wasn't buying it. He told them her unprofessionalism, her temper, and her company had gotten her fired.
Mitch threw down three twenty dollar bills, stormed over to Jason, and told him in no uncertain terms that he had just committed professional suicide, and that he would NEVER return to Brady's. He looked around the bar and urged the others to come with him, saying it would never be the same here without their beloved friend and bartender. A few others followed Mitch. The ones that did stay, did so quite uncomfortably for the remainder of their meals, and then left quietly. Everyone was shaken up over poor Ann and her saga.
So you can imagine Jason's surprise, and cockiness, when lo and behold, in walks Mitch 4 months later. The reason? A blind date. Oh, this is gonna get good....
Next: Mitch's awkward apology and even more awkward date.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Regulars Resurgence
Some degree of buzz seems to be building about Brady's, and one can only assume it's because there is once again a competent weekend bartender to hang with. At least that's what I think is happening, because a steady rise in occupied bar stools also comes with an up-tick of bosslady compliments ("So-and-so said that was the BEST martini she's ever had in her life." One, a martini might just be the easiest thing to mix; and, two, it's probably because anything tastes good when she takes the oxygen tube out of her nose.).
But regardless of how or why (or who - yes, we all know - ME), the shine has come back to the Brady's bar scene, little by little. It has been more like a swell than an all-out gush, but that's just fine. So each time Karen comes to fill her drink order for her old-lady table or 3-kids and 1 adult party (I think that is how Jason gets people to leave - he doesn't actually fire them, or even talk to them for that matter - he just assigns them the shitty tables) she sees two more, four more, six more people sitting at her old bar, and maybe it sinks in a little more to her each time, that drugs, a bad attitude and a crappy pour don't mix.
The old regulars are coming back, having heard the news that the service-disoriented hippie is no longer mixing mediocre mojitos, and they are bringing in new blood too. Take Patty, for instance. She was a Friday night fixture who would come in by herself, command all of the bartender's attention, eat slowly, yet drink quickly, and latch on to whomever else would talk shop with her. She must have told the "I left corporate America to start my own mom-and-pop business" seven hundred times. But we can only assume that she grew tired of telling the story to a vacant stare and an empty bar, because she hadn't been seen in two months.
Yet, she heard through the grapevine that a new ear had started, and she must have hoped I would lend it to her and her decorating stories. And I did. She started coming again, every Friday. Was it my understanding ear, or maybe the 22 year-old Bar Back's biceps that re-sparked her regular visits? No matter, because she was back and with more stories than ever for the unsuspecting couple to her left, more unsolicited business advice for owner Jason (because, you know, running an interior design business is JUST like running a restaurant), and more patrons to latch onto.
I am actually grateful for Patty and her quirkiness. She started the movement back to Brady's for others to follow. And she is also is a prime target for the dragon-breath vacation-story-telling moustached man that has also reinstated his status as Brady's Regular. When she's not there for me to divert his attention (well, speech) toward, I am the receiver of all the H words he can possibly muster to string together in three, ill-smelling sentences: " HHHHi - HHHHow areHH youHHH? HHHHow've youH BeenHH?" "HHHow 'Bout a HHHEnessey's on the rocksHHH?"
"Oh, look! Patty just walked in. Why don't you ask her what's new this week in the wonderful world of HHHome decorating, John?"
Besides John and Patty, other regulars are taking a chance again, like Stan the Butcher. Stan was my regular at my last bar, and when I left (--er, had finally had enough of the Fat Bastard-like owner's lewdness), he started coming to Brady's. He couldn't keep going to Venus without me there, and was somehow showing his solidarity to me and disapproval of Fat Bastard by leaving too. Not that Stan knew where I went -- we were after all, only Bartender and Patron. Only friends while we were each on opposite sides of the bar. Though I knew all about his wife leaving him, his sons' girlfriends' names and his suffering Butcher Shop, all he knew was my weekly schedule and that I poured him a strong Grey-Goose-Soda-Splash-o-Cran.
But there he was one night, sons flanking him on both sides, just expecting his mediocre-mojito service from Has-Been-Karen, and not even paying much attention to the bar. When he saw me, he looked up, both surprised and pleased. He had found his bartender friend at a bar that he now loved even with the sub-par waitperson. But now he would have both again. And he assured me he would be back. I promised not to seat him near Dragon Breath, pondering how nicely the Brady's bar would be filling in again.
See you tonight, Patty, John and Stan, and all the other Regulars. Hope you don't mind that the Bar Back is off for the weekend, Patty. I guess my biceps will have to suffice... And John, don't be offended when you see my shiny new candy dish full of peppermints. And Stan, I'll be ready to commiserate with you on how much of a privileged, spoiled, shrew that now ex-wife of yours was. Sorry, Karen - they're all mine now...!
But regardless of how or why (or who - yes, we all know - ME), the shine has come back to the Brady's bar scene, little by little. It has been more like a swell than an all-out gush, but that's just fine. So each time Karen comes to fill her drink order for her old-lady table or 3-kids and 1 adult party (I think that is how Jason gets people to leave - he doesn't actually fire them, or even talk to them for that matter - he just assigns them the shitty tables) she sees two more, four more, six more people sitting at her old bar, and maybe it sinks in a little more to her each time, that drugs, a bad attitude and a crappy pour don't mix.
The old regulars are coming back, having heard the news that the service-disoriented hippie is no longer mixing mediocre mojitos, and they are bringing in new blood too. Take Patty, for instance. She was a Friday night fixture who would come in by herself, command all of the bartender's attention, eat slowly, yet drink quickly, and latch on to whomever else would talk shop with her. She must have told the "I left corporate America to start my own mom-and-pop business" seven hundred times. But we can only assume that she grew tired of telling the story to a vacant stare and an empty bar, because she hadn't been seen in two months.
Yet, she heard through the grapevine that a new ear had started, and she must have hoped I would lend it to her and her decorating stories. And I did. She started coming again, every Friday. Was it my understanding ear, or maybe the 22 year-old Bar Back's biceps that re-sparked her regular visits? No matter, because she was back and with more stories than ever for the unsuspecting couple to her left, more unsolicited business advice for owner Jason (because, you know, running an interior design business is JUST like running a restaurant), and more patrons to latch onto.
I am actually grateful for Patty and her quirkiness. She started the movement back to Brady's for others to follow. And she is also is a prime target for the dragon-breath vacation-story-telling moustached man that has also reinstated his status as Brady's Regular. When she's not there for me to divert his attention (well, speech) toward, I am the receiver of all the H words he can possibly muster to string together in three, ill-smelling sentences: " HHHHi - HHHHow areHH youHHH? HHHHow've youH BeenHH?" "HHHow 'Bout a HHHEnessey's on the rocksHHH?"
"Oh, look! Patty just walked in. Why don't you ask her what's new this week in the wonderful world of HHHome decorating, John?"
Besides John and Patty, other regulars are taking a chance again, like Stan the Butcher. Stan was my regular at my last bar, and when I left (--er, had finally had enough of the Fat Bastard-like owner's lewdness), he started coming to Brady's. He couldn't keep going to Venus without me there, and was somehow showing his solidarity to me and disapproval of Fat Bastard by leaving too. Not that Stan knew where I went -- we were after all, only Bartender and Patron. Only friends while we were each on opposite sides of the bar. Though I knew all about his wife leaving him, his sons' girlfriends' names and his suffering Butcher Shop, all he knew was my weekly schedule and that I poured him a strong Grey-Goose-Soda-Splash-o-Cran.
But there he was one night, sons flanking him on both sides, just expecting his mediocre-mojito service from Has-Been-Karen, and not even paying much attention to the bar. When he saw me, he looked up, both surprised and pleased. He had found his bartender friend at a bar that he now loved even with the sub-par waitperson. But now he would have both again. And he assured me he would be back. I promised not to seat him near Dragon Breath, pondering how nicely the Brady's bar would be filling in again.
See you tonight, Patty, John and Stan, and all the other Regulars. Hope you don't mind that the Bar Back is off for the weekend, Patty. I guess my biceps will have to suffice... And John, don't be offended when you see my shiny new candy dish full of peppermints. And Stan, I'll be ready to commiserate with you on how much of a privileged, spoiled, shrew that now ex-wife of yours was. Sorry, Karen - they're all mine now...!
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
"Escape" from the Bar Scene
While I have been away (both physically AND electronically) another blog has been competing for my readers' attention. Well, I guess they were not originally my readers, since the Blog X's distribution list is comprised of poker-playing, football-watching men that all belong to the same Mens' Club
(Are Mens' Clubs still legal?? I remember my grandfather telling me twenty years ago, as we drove by the Eire Pub en route to his house, that it was the last remaining Gentlemans' Club and wasn't it a shame when, from time to time, "the ladies" would try to infiltrate. "Well, Grandpa," I would respond to this repetitive tidbit every time we passed Adams St. in good old "Dot", "it seems to me that the ladies are the reason the men established the club in the first place -- to have a place of their own, and that they SHOULD be welcome once in a while to remind you men of from what you are escaping." HaHa. And Grandpa, knowing how ridiculous I really thought that was, not to mention the idea of a Men's Club in the first place, would laugh, remembering his granddaughter's backwardly feminist views in his mind, and say "That's my girl!")
So while Blog X has been vying for my and other readerships, have I become complacent? Could be. I was concerning myself last week, not with thinking up new bartending observations and blogworthy recipes. I was instead looking for the perfect pair of jeans (didn't find them), shoes (again, came up short), and jewelry (had to settle for what was already in my closet) for a night away. I actually scored a Saturday night off of work to take part in a Ladies Weekend (no men allowed!).
While I was planning, shopping, and just plain reflecting upon the night to come, where kids would be hundreds of miles away, and husbands would be gathered together in quiet deference to their deserving wives (At least that's what I think went on, from the looks of all the empties, the Skoal containers and the tear-stained pizza boxes), I failed to notice any comical bar happenings at work.
In my defense, I WAS only at work one night. So maybe on Saturday night, while I was dancing inside a disco-ball party van, 'X-Ray Woman' came back to Brady's to beg for 'Too-Good-for-Her, Nice-Guy' to take her back.
And perhaps, while I was drinking with the rest of the Saturday-afternoon shopping-widowers (as one of only 2 shopping-widows. If I couldn't find the perfect clothes and accessories on the mainland, I CERTAINLY wasn't going to find a bargain outfit here!), Karen stormed in after calling in "sick" 3 nights in a row, demanding her old job back as "Busiest Night Bartender."
And just as we near-forty-year-olds were "fighting off" twenty-something dirty dancing wannabees on the sticky, slippery floor at the Hen Gable, metrosexual Jason, Brady's owner, may have actually admitted that he was in fact gay like we had all suspected, and that he had just left his controlling, domineering wife, Victoria for another man.
While we were in our own Members-Only Club-like atmosphere, these things could very well have been happening simultaneously back in Gossip-riddled Suburbia. But we left it all behind to shake our booties, even though booty actually meant "boot cast" from an Achilles injury (and it may have well been souped up with wheels and sparkles because every guy wanted to dance with it), and "fight off" raunchy dancers, which actually resulted in pool table injuries.
I guess it's all the same to a female bartender though: you are either catering to inebriated patrons who throw you lots of low-lighting-induced, alcohol-inspired compliments ("Wow - YOU have THREE kids?? You don't look old enough to have ONE!") or you ARE one of the patrons, and are still on the receiving end of these "compliments". Female patrons tend to have flashing neon letters on their foreheads that appear only to the men (or sometimes in the ladies' room at the Hen Gable to an adventurous and bold woman or two), that say "Please talk to me right now, and assume that I want to talk to you, and not my girlfriends whom I came here with, since you are a Man, and I, I AM A WOMAN." Look carefully - those letters materialize from almost thin-air at around 11:00 at most bars whether or not you are bartender or patron -- the common denominator, being, though, that you are female. Makes us wish for our own Eire-type Club, that is for sure.
I particularly like it when females turn the tables on these assuming males, and actually watched with great satisfaction when one woman at Brady's walked right up to her male friend that had been guilty of extreme neon-letter-reading last time they were together, tapped him squarely on the shoulder and said, "Mike, I am here now. You can start hitting on me," before poor Mike even got the chance to give her the 'hi-I-want-to-hug-you-but-only-as-a-cover-for-groping-you" hug.
The look on Mike's face - and on that of his friends' - was of sheer shock and disbelief. He then looked at me, his friendly bartender, mouth agape, as if to say, " Was it really that noticeable last time?" "Yes, Mike, it REALLY was" I reply in Bartender ESP as I refill his Man-opolitan, and hope that he applies this exchange to all his recent dealings with females, including his friendly female bartender, and is maybe a little bit regretful of his Modus operandi. You can tell he is wondering now, if it was too much to ask the bartender, as she was bending down to retrieve the Cointreau from the back of the bar, how many lunges she does to do to look like that. Or at least we females can all HOPE.
So the female-only club idea may have some merit. Where else would we be able to strut our stuff - booty-cast and all - without the hip-tap, or the "come on, just one dance" eyes, or even the "let's go get a drink" nod??? There just may be a place for good ole Dot here in Scituate. But then... where would blogwriters get such good fodder? And without it, my edge over Blog X would be lost, and I would have to create distribution lists to recruit off-topic readers too... Nah, co-ed bars have their place in good ole Scituate. Most of them, anyway.
(Are Mens' Clubs still legal?? I remember my grandfather telling me twenty years ago, as we drove by the Eire Pub en route to his house, that it was the last remaining Gentlemans' Club and wasn't it a shame when, from time to time, "the ladies" would try to infiltrate. "Well, Grandpa," I would respond to this repetitive tidbit every time we passed Adams St. in good old "Dot", "it seems to me that the ladies are the reason the men established the club in the first place -- to have a place of their own, and that they SHOULD be welcome once in a while to remind you men of from what you are escaping." HaHa. And Grandpa, knowing how ridiculous I really thought that was, not to mention the idea of a Men's Club in the first place, would laugh, remembering his granddaughter's backwardly feminist views in his mind, and say "That's my girl!")
So while Blog X has been vying for my and other readerships, have I become complacent? Could be. I was concerning myself last week, not with thinking up new bartending observations and blogworthy recipes. I was instead looking for the perfect pair of jeans (didn't find them), shoes (again, came up short), and jewelry (had to settle for what was already in my closet) for a night away. I actually scored a Saturday night off of work to take part in a Ladies Weekend (no men allowed!).
While I was planning, shopping, and just plain reflecting upon the night to come, where kids would be hundreds of miles away, and husbands would be gathered together in quiet deference to their deserving wives (At least that's what I think went on, from the looks of all the empties, the Skoal containers and the tear-stained pizza boxes), I failed to notice any comical bar happenings at work.
In my defense, I WAS only at work one night. So maybe on Saturday night, while I was dancing inside a disco-ball party van, 'X-Ray Woman' came back to Brady's to beg for 'Too-Good-for-Her, Nice-Guy' to take her back.
And perhaps, while I was drinking with the rest of the Saturday-afternoon shopping-widowers (as one of only 2 shopping-widows. If I couldn't find the perfect clothes and accessories on the mainland, I CERTAINLY wasn't going to find a bargain outfit here!), Karen stormed in after calling in "sick" 3 nights in a row, demanding her old job back as "Busiest Night Bartender."
And just as we near-forty-year-olds were "fighting off" twenty-something dirty dancing wannabees on the sticky, slippery floor at the Hen Gable, metrosexual Jason, Brady's owner, may have actually admitted that he was in fact gay like we had all suspected, and that he had just left his controlling, domineering wife, Victoria for another man.
While we were in our own Members-Only Club-like atmosphere, these things could very well have been happening simultaneously back in Gossip-riddled Suburbia. But we left it all behind to shake our booties, even though booty actually meant "boot cast" from an Achilles injury (and it may have well been souped up with wheels and sparkles because every guy wanted to dance with it), and "fight off" raunchy dancers, which actually resulted in pool table injuries.
I guess it's all the same to a female bartender though: you are either catering to inebriated patrons who throw you lots of low-lighting-induced, alcohol-inspired compliments ("Wow - YOU have THREE kids?? You don't look old enough to have ONE!") or you ARE one of the patrons, and are still on the receiving end of these "compliments". Female patrons tend to have flashing neon letters on their foreheads that appear only to the men (or sometimes in the ladies' room at the Hen Gable to an adventurous and bold woman or two), that say "Please talk to me right now, and assume that I want to talk to you, and not my girlfriends whom I came here with, since you are a Man, and I, I AM A WOMAN." Look carefully - those letters materialize from almost thin-air at around 11:00 at most bars whether or not you are bartender or patron -- the common denominator, being, though, that you are female. Makes us wish for our own Eire-type Club, that is for sure.
I particularly like it when females turn the tables on these assuming males, and actually watched with great satisfaction when one woman at Brady's walked right up to her male friend that had been guilty of extreme neon-letter-reading last time they were together, tapped him squarely on the shoulder and said, "Mike, I am here now. You can start hitting on me," before poor Mike even got the chance to give her the 'hi-I-want-to-hug-you-but-only-as-a-cover-for-groping-you" hug.
The look on Mike's face - and on that of his friends' - was of sheer shock and disbelief. He then looked at me, his friendly bartender, mouth agape, as if to say, " Was it really that noticeable last time?" "Yes, Mike, it REALLY was" I reply in Bartender ESP as I refill his Man-opolitan, and hope that he applies this exchange to all his recent dealings with females, including his friendly female bartender, and is maybe a little bit regretful of his Modus operandi. You can tell he is wondering now, if it was too much to ask the bartender, as she was bending down to retrieve the Cointreau from the back of the bar, how many lunges she does to do to look like that. Or at least we females can all HOPE.
So the female-only club idea may have some merit. Where else would we be able to strut our stuff - booty-cast and all - without the hip-tap, or the "come on, just one dance" eyes, or even the "let's go get a drink" nod??? There just may be a place for good ole Dot here in Scituate. But then... where would blogwriters get such good fodder? And without it, my edge over Blog X would be lost, and I would have to create distribution lists to recruit off-topic readers too... Nah, co-ed bars have their place in good ole Scituate. Most of them, anyway.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Martinis as Sport - Part II
They were armed with tasting sheets, readied palettes, and competitiveness as we sidled up to the bar/island to taste 8 flavors of Cupcake Martinis. Well, maybe they were just ready for a night out with the girls and a few cocktails. Either way, they all brought their A games and a desire to help with my Martini Market Research.
A few weeks earlier I had been struck with the idea of making grown-up cupcake-inspired treats, after making batch after batch of cupcakes to welcome my Second Grader and Kindergartner home from their respective first days of school. (As an aside, I have heard that the cupcake tradition has spread around town, and kids from other bus-stops, and even other schools, have asked their parents if they can be dropped off at our bus-stop on the last day of school - the other date that I break out the "Treat Greets." Actually, the cocktail part has since caught on too, and a patron at Brady's leaned in the other night and asked, "Are you The Cupcake Martini Lady?" Thanks, girls - that was cool!!)
I wasn't really sure WHAT I was going to do with the research data once I gathered it, but I knew it would be empirically fun no matter what. Plus, having a stocked liquor cabinet for weeks (or a week) after the event, was a nice reason in itself. So I began mixing and pouring the first flavor, the Chocolate Cupcake Martini once the first five women were gathered, and the tasting was on.
We were slaves to the order in which our ingredients came through the door (which felt like "Baileys, More Baileys, Something Else, Baileys, Baileys... [no complaints here!!), since I had asked each attendee to bring one bottle of liquor from a list provided on the Evite. The first couple were easy - the chocolate ones, so we started with those. I had made the "Secret Recipe-Base" ahead of time and just needed to add one or two ingredients to make each of the flavors. I used the Dutch Chocolate Vodka and Creme de Cocoa to make the Chocolate. Then as luck would have it, Peppermint Schnapps arrived next and Chamboard had come earlier, so we could all try the Chocolate Raspberry and Mint Chocolate as well.
The reviews for these flavors predicted the unpredictability of the rest of the night's reviews. It was odd how people could feel so decidedly different about seemingly basic tastes. Most people liked, or at least didn't hate, the Chocolate Cupcake flavor. It was perhaps the most mainstream of the flavors. Comments like "Tastes like kicked-up Hornstra Chocolate Milk" and "I loved it and I'm a beer girl" were mostly representative of peoples' feelings about this one. Some commented that it was "creamy"; "good, but probably not good for the waist-line" and "one of my favorites". Only one or two spoke differently, saying it was "too milky" or "needs more chocolate" (Sorry - I guess the sugared cocoa powder on the rim wasn't enough for this chocoholic!!). Anyway, this was a straightforward flavor, with basic reactions. Nothing crazy.
You would think the Chocolate Raspberry and Mint Chocolate would enjoy the same steadiness in their reviews. But that's where I was wrong. Actually, I thought the Raspberry one would be a little too unique, but only one taste-tester "Didn't like" it. Others said "Favorite", "Yum", "Amazing" and "I wanted to lick the fancy glass clean" (This was the only drink served in the mar-TEENY glasses, with rimmed chocolate syrup and chocolate chips at the bottom - maybe that was why its reviews were one of the best. We fancy ladies liked the fancy presentation. Probably not the reason, since we all, as moms are not influenced by how something looks, like we tell our children - right?? OK, so it was fancy on the inside too - and delicious.)
The Mint Chocolate Cupcake flavor, on the other hand, split the audience, and reminded lots of us of parking lot parties, Varsity Letterman jackets and paper bag moments. Apparently, Peppermint Schnapps was synonymous with suburban teenage mischief -- so I am told. Comments like "High School Flashback"; "Reminded me of college (Okay, maybe a late bloomer among the rest of us 15-year old booze-bags)" and "Schnappy Happy" were balanced off by "Delicious" and "Better than Raspberry" by some of our less alcoholically-reminiscent participants.
As more and more women arrived, bearing gifts like Godiva Liqueur, Hot Damn (an appropriately assigned beverage, Gimp!) and Vodkas of all persuasions (not to mention more Baileys!), the organization loosened up a bit, the pours increased a bit, and the night was in full swing. A brief, yet serious time-out for a pesky pine-nut foul, sidelined one of the night's all-stars, and taught us a real lesson in teamwork -- not to mention the importance of involving nurses, pharmacists and moms in any team dynamic. Having a bartender is always a good strategy too, and I was thankful to have a couple of those to keep the game on track!
The pine-nut player went home, but not without contributing to the win for the rest of the team -- her ingredient made the victorious recipe possible (No, not Baileys). The Boston Cream Martini was loved by all, hailed as "Dessert-like (Hmm, wasn't the party named "Drink Your Dessert"?? - very good!)" and "X-worthy".
Strawberry Shortcake was liked by some, but calling upon my medicine cabinet to treat the allergic reaction must have soured others, because time and again, it was referred to as drug-like (-- and not in a good way). "St. Joseph's Chewables," said one. "Amoxycilin" said another. "Nyquil (really??)" from yet another. Oh, and the Nyquil commenter threw in a "Yuck." Some of you were a bit more diplomatic, saying strawberry was not your "favorite taste" or that you were "not wild about it". I appreciate the diplomacy, but honestly can take the real comments -- I mean come on, I write a weekly blog about myself -- my skin must be pretty thick, not to mention self-loved.
Then there was Blueberry Muffin. Another embarrassed-reference about college schnapps-drinking -- that wasn't rule-breaking, girls!! Not very rebellious - funny though that this commentator couldn't REMEMBER if she drank it then, but assumed with a name like Schnapps, it had to be collegiate. A few of you thought it tasted like cereal - a compliment I think. And you really brought me back with your reference to "Boo-berry". Maybe I should rename the Chocolate one "Count Chocula-tini" to stick with that theme. Again these drinks were tasted later in the night, and the funny comments reflected that. Good stuff.
Lemon Chiffon and Apple Spice were probably the least favorites - though a few of you listed Lemon in your top 3. Frankly, I think the fact that someone (and a couple barbacks) were placing fancy drinks dressed with fancy garnishes in front of everyone made most of you want to love them all, and I appreciate that. Or at least love the idea of loving them all. You all took your charge quite seriously, followed the rules, wrote your reactions and helped me on this very important task. Well done!
The tasting took less time than I expected - we had all moved on to beer and wine by 9:30. Or maybe the switch helped you focus and figure out your Secret Recipe Guesses. It was funny that some of you guessed eggs, tonic and gin (those were examples, listed in the directions for making your guesses! The night was getting fuzzy, I know...)
It was neck-and-neck, two of you guessing 3 out of the 6 ingredients. Then sudden death - another tie. Then a second sudden-death, and the bartender won out. Enjoy your pedicure, you earned it with a tough night of tasting, theorizing and tending!!
As 11 o'clock approached, most of the guests started leaving. This was too bad because my kids had finally stopped calling down the stairs from their beds ("Is so-and-so's Mom here?" And "So-and-so's?" "It's so unfair that you get to have a party on a school night!") and I was ready to retry the winning recipes just to make sure I got them right. A couple women stayed, we "cleaned", which is code word for "I get to stay later and have more drinks and I can explain it away to my husband as 'I helped clean'". Works for me, so the three of us rehashed the evening, laughed at the funny comments, hoped that pine-nut player was okay, and sat at a now-cleaned off island, drinking as the school-night became the school morning. All in the name of Market Research...
So how did our competition compare to H's day at Foxborough yesterday? Ours totally won out: he wasted a whole bottle of booze (not one of ours, don't worry!) on his marinade. That doesn't sound like appropriate market research. He also suffered through rain, traffic and not-so-friendly competition (Falcons fans don't sound so cool). The only obvious similarity was the school-night nature of the event. Which explains the snoring I hear emanating from the other room right now. Time for me to go have some Baileys!
The order in which the martinis were ranked by my expert panel:
1. Boston Cream
2. Chocolate
3. Chocolate Raspberry
4. Lemon Chiffon
5. Strawberry Shortcake
6. Mint Chocolate
7. Blueberry
8. Apple Spice
----Recipes to follow---
A few weeks earlier I had been struck with the idea of making grown-up cupcake-inspired treats, after making batch after batch of cupcakes to welcome my Second Grader and Kindergartner home from their respective first days of school. (As an aside, I have heard that the cupcake tradition has spread around town, and kids from other bus-stops, and even other schools, have asked their parents if they can be dropped off at our bus-stop on the last day of school - the other date that I break out the "Treat Greets." Actually, the cocktail part has since caught on too, and a patron at Brady's leaned in the other night and asked, "Are you The Cupcake Martini Lady?" Thanks, girls - that was cool!!)
I wasn't really sure WHAT I was going to do with the research data once I gathered it, but I knew it would be empirically fun no matter what. Plus, having a stocked liquor cabinet for weeks (or a week) after the event, was a nice reason in itself. So I began mixing and pouring the first flavor, the Chocolate Cupcake Martini once the first five women were gathered, and the tasting was on.
We were slaves to the order in which our ingredients came through the door (which felt like "Baileys, More Baileys, Something Else, Baileys, Baileys... [no complaints here!!), since I had asked each attendee to bring one bottle of liquor from a list provided on the Evite. The first couple were easy - the chocolate ones, so we started with those. I had made the "Secret Recipe-Base" ahead of time and just needed to add one or two ingredients to make each of the flavors. I used the Dutch Chocolate Vodka and Creme de Cocoa to make the Chocolate. Then as luck would have it, Peppermint Schnapps arrived next and Chamboard had come earlier, so we could all try the Chocolate Raspberry and Mint Chocolate as well.
The reviews for these flavors predicted the unpredictability of the rest of the night's reviews. It was odd how people could feel so decidedly different about seemingly basic tastes. Most people liked, or at least didn't hate, the Chocolate Cupcake flavor. It was perhaps the most mainstream of the flavors. Comments like "Tastes like kicked-up Hornstra Chocolate Milk" and "I loved it and I'm a beer girl" were mostly representative of peoples' feelings about this one. Some commented that it was "creamy"; "good, but probably not good for the waist-line" and "one of my favorites". Only one or two spoke differently, saying it was "too milky" or "needs more chocolate" (Sorry - I guess the sugared cocoa powder on the rim wasn't enough for this chocoholic!!). Anyway, this was a straightforward flavor, with basic reactions. Nothing crazy.
You would think the Chocolate Raspberry and Mint Chocolate would enjoy the same steadiness in their reviews. But that's where I was wrong. Actually, I thought the Raspberry one would be a little too unique, but only one taste-tester "Didn't like" it. Others said "Favorite", "Yum", "Amazing" and "I wanted to lick the fancy glass clean" (This was the only drink served in the mar-TEENY glasses, with rimmed chocolate syrup and chocolate chips at the bottom - maybe that was why its reviews were one of the best. We fancy ladies liked the fancy presentation. Probably not the reason, since we all, as moms are not influenced by how something looks, like we tell our children - right?? OK, so it was fancy on the inside too - and delicious.)
The Mint Chocolate Cupcake flavor, on the other hand, split the audience, and reminded lots of us of parking lot parties, Varsity Letterman jackets and paper bag moments. Apparently, Peppermint Schnapps was synonymous with suburban teenage mischief -- so I am told. Comments like "High School Flashback"; "Reminded me of college (Okay, maybe a late bloomer among the rest of us 15-year old booze-bags)" and "Schnappy Happy" were balanced off by "Delicious" and "Better than Raspberry" by some of our less alcoholically-reminiscent participants.
As more and more women arrived, bearing gifts like Godiva Liqueur, Hot Damn (an appropriately assigned beverage, Gimp!) and Vodkas of all persuasions (not to mention more Baileys!), the organization loosened up a bit, the pours increased a bit, and the night was in full swing. A brief, yet serious time-out for a pesky pine-nut foul, sidelined one of the night's all-stars, and taught us a real lesson in teamwork -- not to mention the importance of involving nurses, pharmacists and moms in any team dynamic. Having a bartender is always a good strategy too, and I was thankful to have a couple of those to keep the game on track!
The pine-nut player went home, but not without contributing to the win for the rest of the team -- her ingredient made the victorious recipe possible (No, not Baileys). The Boston Cream Martini was loved by all, hailed as "Dessert-like (Hmm, wasn't the party named "Drink Your Dessert"?? - very good!)" and "X-worthy".
Strawberry Shortcake was liked by some, but calling upon my medicine cabinet to treat the allergic reaction must have soured others, because time and again, it was referred to as drug-like (-- and not in a good way). "St. Joseph's Chewables," said one. "Amoxycilin" said another. "Nyquil (really??)" from yet another. Oh, and the Nyquil commenter threw in a "Yuck." Some of you were a bit more diplomatic, saying strawberry was not your "favorite taste" or that you were "not wild about it". I appreciate the diplomacy, but honestly can take the real comments -- I mean come on, I write a weekly blog about myself -- my skin must be pretty thick, not to mention self-loved.
Then there was Blueberry Muffin. Another embarrassed-reference about college schnapps-drinking -- that wasn't rule-breaking, girls!! Not very rebellious - funny though that this commentator couldn't REMEMBER if she drank it then, but assumed with a name like Schnapps, it had to be collegiate. A few of you thought it tasted like cereal - a compliment I think. And you really brought me back with your reference to "Boo-berry". Maybe I should rename the Chocolate one "Count Chocula-tini" to stick with that theme. Again these drinks were tasted later in the night, and the funny comments reflected that. Good stuff.
Lemon Chiffon and Apple Spice were probably the least favorites - though a few of you listed Lemon in your top 3. Frankly, I think the fact that someone (and a couple barbacks) were placing fancy drinks dressed with fancy garnishes in front of everyone made most of you want to love them all, and I appreciate that. Or at least love the idea of loving them all. You all took your charge quite seriously, followed the rules, wrote your reactions and helped me on this very important task. Well done!
The tasting took less time than I expected - we had all moved on to beer and wine by 9:30. Or maybe the switch helped you focus and figure out your Secret Recipe Guesses. It was funny that some of you guessed eggs, tonic and gin (those were examples, listed in the directions for making your guesses! The night was getting fuzzy, I know...)
It was neck-and-neck, two of you guessing 3 out of the 6 ingredients. Then sudden death - another tie. Then a second sudden-death, and the bartender won out. Enjoy your pedicure, you earned it with a tough night of tasting, theorizing and tending!!
As 11 o'clock approached, most of the guests started leaving. This was too bad because my kids had finally stopped calling down the stairs from their beds ("Is so-and-so's Mom here?" And "So-and-so's?" "It's so unfair that you get to have a party on a school night!") and I was ready to retry the winning recipes just to make sure I got them right. A couple women stayed, we "cleaned", which is code word for "I get to stay later and have more drinks and I can explain it away to my husband as 'I helped clean'". Works for me, so the three of us rehashed the evening, laughed at the funny comments, hoped that pine-nut player was okay, and sat at a now-cleaned off island, drinking as the school-night became the school morning. All in the name of Market Research...
So how did our competition compare to H's day at Foxborough yesterday? Ours totally won out: he wasted a whole bottle of booze (not one of ours, don't worry!) on his marinade. That doesn't sound like appropriate market research. He also suffered through rain, traffic and not-so-friendly competition (Falcons fans don't sound so cool). The only obvious similarity was the school-night nature of the event. Which explains the snoring I hear emanating from the other room right now. Time for me to go have some Baileys!
The order in which the martinis were ranked by my expert panel:
1. Boston Cream
2. Chocolate
3. Chocolate Raspberry
4. Lemon Chiffon
5. Strawberry Shortcake
6. Mint Chocolate
7. Blueberry
8. Apple Spice
----Recipes to follow---
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Martinis as Sport
I sit here Sunday morning, a football widow for the day (He ["H"] FINALLY left after pacing around questioning the tardiness of his ride coming from one street over: "It's 8:02 - He said he'd be here by 8." "Why don't you grab your 3 cases of beer, seventeen pounds of raw meat and, I don't know - start WALKING!" I want to reply.) But I believe he is entitled to this day of no responsibilities; of reliving his youthful days of manly Sunday camaraderie gathered around a hibachi and a cooler; a day he has been planning, strategizing and justifying for what seems like weeks.
You would think he hasn't been out of the house for months, though, the way he joyfully roused himself at 6:30 to marinade steak tips, carve ice sculptures for a freshly-sanitized cooler (at least that's what I assume he did with the ice pick and all that pent-up anxiousness), and watch the Doppler radar over and over like a child tracking Santa's sleigh on Christmas Eve ("You see, right there, kids -- it's breaking up! That gigantic blob of green rain will give way to blue skies at precisely 1:00 in Foxborough. Not sure about here in Scituate - you and Mom may be out of luck. Here, let's watch it again...")
Not that it matters whether it rains, snows or drops firebombs at the Patriots' stadium -- the men (okay, 'boys') are child-free, woman-free and carefree, and damn it, they are going to make the most of this 16-hour window of self-centeredness. They all left their money worries, honey-do lists and disciplining desires in rainy Scituate. Friendly Foxborough, on the other hand, holds only the worries of beer quantities, fantasy league trading opportunities and whether or not the Hiram Walker Promotions Girls' skimpy outfits will be covered up by rain gear (Probably not, since it never rains in Foxborough)
So here I sit, popping left-over cupcake martini garnishes, Snickers bars and Peppermint Patties (I asked you to hide them on me, H!!), to snap me out of my morning fog and provide some much-needed caffeine. You see, H and I have been playing the "Since you are going out this night, then I am going out that night" game for the two past weeks; and last night was my night - a late one. We've been jockeying for entitlement and excitement the only way we can these days - without the other.
That's the theme of our entertainment opportunities lately: Girls Nights Out and Guys Nights (or "days") Out. It may have started when he referred to my bartending work as "going out 2 nights a week" - you can imagine the "discussion" that ensued from that utterly absurd observation. Yet, the gauntlet had been thrown, and I, loving a passive aggressive competition as I do, held up my end. (So, yes, I sometimes now, without guilt, go out AFTER work. Yawn.)
Two weeks ago, H mentioned in passing, as if it was a given, that Sundays would inevitably be spent experiencing football - whether games were 'home' or 'away'. That was on a Wednesday, the day before his usual night out, Thursdays. The possible tenor of the next 4 football months flashed suddenly before my eyes: H out Thursday and Sunday, I work Friday and Saturday. I immediately claimed that next night as my own, justifying it as us both having a night out, without working. And we were off....!
Thursday: Girls Night Out. Fun time. So fun that I decided the following Thursday should be my fun too. But I spun this one a little differently: Market Research. Being a bartender, market research means lots of fun. Cupcake Martinis had been garnering a lot of Facebook time and personal attention lately - I decided to fully explore their potential with a home tasting party. And the Cupcake Martini Cocktail Tasting Party was born. Evites were sent...
H was fully onboard; even helped perfect (read: taste, offer critique, taste again, critique a little more, taste, taste, repeat) the Yellow Cupcake Martini Base with me. When the guest list expanded from 10 to 20 to 40 women, he grew a little wary of the idea of being totally and completely outnumbered by females and decided to reinstate his Thursday Night Out. I could handle it, he reasoned, by myself. He was right, and I entered full-blown party planning mode.
The following week, tasting sheets had been printed out, pitchers were labeled and ready for eight flavors of cupcake martinis, and women were arriving promptly at 7:30, bottles of booze, cocktail shakers and appetizers in hand. Our excitement was comparative to the football excitement of Sunday morning maleness. Yet our competition was a lot more participative - we would not be watching the plays from bleacher seats; we would be actively involved in our own competitive match. And there were prizes at stake here too: a pedicure to the MVP who guesses the secret recipe; not to mention the pride and honor of a solid win.
The ladies filed in to their respective spots around the kitchen island and planned their strategies ("I am going to drink all the chocolate ones first." "Well I am going to work backwards and start with the fruity ones first.") They eyed each other, 2-ounce mar-TEENY glasses in hand, readying themselves for the challenge bestowed upon them. Who would fare the best in this fierce competition of drinking, deducing and driving home???? It almost sounds like a day at Foxborough. Stay tuned for instant replays from both these events -- as soon as I throw away this Snickers bag.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming up next: Tasting Take-aways & Fan Favorites
You would think he hasn't been out of the house for months, though, the way he joyfully roused himself at 6:30 to marinade steak tips, carve ice sculptures for a freshly-sanitized cooler (at least that's what I assume he did with the ice pick and all that pent-up anxiousness), and watch the Doppler radar over and over like a child tracking Santa's sleigh on Christmas Eve ("You see, right there, kids -- it's breaking up! That gigantic blob of green rain will give way to blue skies at precisely 1:00 in Foxborough. Not sure about here in Scituate - you and Mom may be out of luck. Here, let's watch it again...")
Not that it matters whether it rains, snows or drops firebombs at the Patriots' stadium -- the men (okay, 'boys') are child-free, woman-free and carefree, and damn it, they are going to make the most of this 16-hour window of self-centeredness. They all left their money worries, honey-do lists and disciplining desires in rainy Scituate. Friendly Foxborough, on the other hand, holds only the worries of beer quantities, fantasy league trading opportunities and whether or not the Hiram Walker Promotions Girls' skimpy outfits will be covered up by rain gear (Probably not, since it never rains in Foxborough)
So here I sit, popping left-over cupcake martini garnishes, Snickers bars and Peppermint Patties (I asked you to hide them on me, H!!), to snap me out of my morning fog and provide some much-needed caffeine. You see, H and I have been playing the "Since you are going out this night, then I am going out that night" game for the two past weeks; and last night was my night - a late one. We've been jockeying for entitlement and excitement the only way we can these days - without the other.
That's the theme of our entertainment opportunities lately: Girls Nights Out and Guys Nights (or "days") Out. It may have started when he referred to my bartending work as "going out 2 nights a week" - you can imagine the "discussion" that ensued from that utterly absurd observation. Yet, the gauntlet had been thrown, and I, loving a passive aggressive competition as I do, held up my end. (So, yes, I sometimes now, without guilt, go out AFTER work. Yawn.)
Two weeks ago, H mentioned in passing, as if it was a given, that Sundays would inevitably be spent experiencing football - whether games were 'home' or 'away'. That was on a Wednesday, the day before his usual night out, Thursdays. The possible tenor of the next 4 football months flashed suddenly before my eyes: H out Thursday and Sunday, I work Friday and Saturday. I immediately claimed that next night as my own, justifying it as us both having a night out, without working. And we were off....!
Thursday: Girls Night Out. Fun time. So fun that I decided the following Thursday should be my fun too. But I spun this one a little differently: Market Research. Being a bartender, market research means lots of fun. Cupcake Martinis had been garnering a lot of Facebook time and personal attention lately - I decided to fully explore their potential with a home tasting party. And the Cupcake Martini Cocktail Tasting Party was born. Evites were sent...
H was fully onboard; even helped perfect (read: taste, offer critique, taste again, critique a little more, taste, taste, repeat) the Yellow Cupcake Martini Base with me. When the guest list expanded from 10 to 20 to 40 women, he grew a little wary of the idea of being totally and completely outnumbered by females and decided to reinstate his Thursday Night Out. I could handle it, he reasoned, by myself. He was right, and I entered full-blown party planning mode.
The following week, tasting sheets had been printed out, pitchers were labeled and ready for eight flavors of cupcake martinis, and women were arriving promptly at 7:30, bottles of booze, cocktail shakers and appetizers in hand. Our excitement was comparative to the football excitement of Sunday morning maleness. Yet our competition was a lot more participative - we would not be watching the plays from bleacher seats; we would be actively involved in our own competitive match. And there were prizes at stake here too: a pedicure to the MVP who guesses the secret recipe; not to mention the pride and honor of a solid win.
The ladies filed in to their respective spots around the kitchen island and planned their strategies ("I am going to drink all the chocolate ones first." "Well I am going to work backwards and start with the fruity ones first.") They eyed each other, 2-ounce mar-TEENY glasses in hand, readying themselves for the challenge bestowed upon them. Who would fare the best in this fierce competition of drinking, deducing and driving home???? It almost sounds like a day at Foxborough. Stay tuned for instant replays from both these events -- as soon as I throw away this Snickers bag.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming up next: Tasting Take-aways & Fan Favorites
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
What's Different About This Place?
It was a somewhat slow weekend at Brady's. And even though it wasn't all that eventful, it was a pretty enjoyable two nights (well, as enjoyable as working instead of playing can be on Fridays and Saturdays), and at first I couldn't pinpoint why.
Then it struck me: No Karen. Karen is the "bartender" I replaced. She was demoted to waitress, sent away to table service - in the eyes of many, a less glamorous restaurant job than bartending. I don't really think there's much difference - you are either captive audience to your demanding clientele or you are not. At a bar, customers expect immediate service, pithy conversation, and mindreading (A bartender should know when to "interrupt" to describe drink specials and take dinner orders, since she is standing within ten feet of you at all times. A waitress has the ability to simply walk over to your table and be granted your full attention. Most of the time tables are anxiously awaiting your arrival, and are happy to be "interrupted.")
Also, if anyone is left in the restaurant at all, not just sitting at your bar, the bartender must stay. On the other hand, a waitress is able to leave as soon as her several tables have vacated. She simply counts her money, runs a quick report and heads next door to a still-happening bar to have a drink and decompress with the other servers. While they are going over the night's high-notes and pitfalls ("Can you BELIEVE that old guy ate his entire order of short ribs and then declared there wasn't enough meat on them and refused to pay?!?"), the bartender is left cleaning and re-cleaning stemware and speed racks just to bide time until the lingering couple in the corner or boisterous birthday party upstairs decides to finally call it a night -- because, you never know, they may just order one more Keoke Coffee or Sambuca shooter.
So bartenders work later, are expected to make both perfect drinks and perfect jokes, and often miss out on after-work socializing. Still, some - like Karen - found prestige in being a bartender over a waitress. That extra $2 an hour probably wasn't the reason as much as the fact that she thought better of herself than everyone else that worked there, no matter how unfounded that was.
She came to work late, would always selectively fill orders that were "easy" -- a glass of wine or soda before an order for 3 different martinis -- and there was the drug thing too. (She left half way through her shift to have a good cry, probably brought on by the triple dose of percocet she admitted to taking before arriving to work, you guessed it, late. By the time a waitress stepped behind the bar to take over (let's hope her rate went up for those three remaining hours), the service printer tape had reached the floor with more than 15 tables of martini, mojito, and mixed drink orders. Oddly - or not - Karen had read most of them before declaring herself unfit - and left a few sodas and bottles of wine (unpoured) on the service bar for pick-up.
So imagine the awkwardness when the demoted bartender-now-waitress, must rely upon her replacement (me) to make her drinks and enable her to successfully serve her tables. No words are uttered, no eye contact -- she actually lays in wait for me to leave the bar to grab extra ice or liquor, and descends on the unsuspecting barback to make her tables' cocktails. (Yes, my barback should actually be getting the ice and store-room booze, but the occasional heavy lifting and a quick run around the bar keep me sane, and P90X-worthy.)
And then I arrive back to a perspiring 21-year old, poring over the Bartenders Bible, in order to make a Kamikaze, while Karen glares at him to hustle. Hustle - Ha! As if she has any idea what that means. One night a glass of Pinot Noir sat at the service bar for 45 minutes, while she actually came back and forth for other drinks (and even made up a few that she didn't send in, demanding to know where they went, and then ran - as much as Karen would ever run - to the owner to report me for sabotaging her tables. Yes, that sounds exactly what a 36-year old mother of three who keeps this job in order to send her kids to swimming lessons and baseball tryouts, would do. Sabotage.). When I broke the "who's going to talk to the other first" contest (I said I wouldn't sabotage; I didn't say I was always mature), and asked her what the deal was with the wine, she looked blankly at it, at the ceiling, at it, at her order book, shrugged, and walked away to "serve" her other tables.
I may be a little smug about my position over hers - but only because she had been so rude, unhelpful and downright accusatory since I started. So when I experience a weekend without her on the floor, where I don't see her sour spaced-out face every 10 minutes for 5 straight hours, and don't have to chase her around for her tip-out at the end of her night (another reason I would NEVER leave while she still has tables), it is a welcome change. And even though there weren't any funny stories to report, no intoxicated patrons to shut off, and no break-ups or hook-ups in front of me, it was a decent weekend. Too bad it won't last.
Then it struck me: No Karen. Karen is the "bartender" I replaced. She was demoted to waitress, sent away to table service - in the eyes of many, a less glamorous restaurant job than bartending. I don't really think there's much difference - you are either captive audience to your demanding clientele or you are not. At a bar, customers expect immediate service, pithy conversation, and mindreading (A bartender should know when to "interrupt" to describe drink specials and take dinner orders, since she is standing within ten feet of you at all times. A waitress has the ability to simply walk over to your table and be granted your full attention. Most of the time tables are anxiously awaiting your arrival, and are happy to be "interrupted.")
Also, if anyone is left in the restaurant at all, not just sitting at your bar, the bartender must stay. On the other hand, a waitress is able to leave as soon as her several tables have vacated. She simply counts her money, runs a quick report and heads next door to a still-happening bar to have a drink and decompress with the other servers. While they are going over the night's high-notes and pitfalls ("Can you BELIEVE that old guy ate his entire order of short ribs and then declared there wasn't enough meat on them and refused to pay?!?"), the bartender is left cleaning and re-cleaning stemware and speed racks just to bide time until the lingering couple in the corner or boisterous birthday party upstairs decides to finally call it a night -- because, you never know, they may just order one more Keoke Coffee or Sambuca shooter.
So bartenders work later, are expected to make both perfect drinks and perfect jokes, and often miss out on after-work socializing. Still, some - like Karen - found prestige in being a bartender over a waitress. That extra $2 an hour probably wasn't the reason as much as the fact that she thought better of herself than everyone else that worked there, no matter how unfounded that was.
She came to work late, would always selectively fill orders that were "easy" -- a glass of wine or soda before an order for 3 different martinis -- and there was the drug thing too. (She left half way through her shift to have a good cry, probably brought on by the triple dose of percocet she admitted to taking before arriving to work, you guessed it, late. By the time a waitress stepped behind the bar to take over (let's hope her rate went up for those three remaining hours), the service printer tape had reached the floor with more than 15 tables of martini, mojito, and mixed drink orders. Oddly - or not - Karen had read most of them before declaring herself unfit - and left a few sodas and bottles of wine (unpoured) on the service bar for pick-up.
So imagine the awkwardness when the demoted bartender-now-waitress, must rely upon her replacement (me) to make her drinks and enable her to successfully serve her tables. No words are uttered, no eye contact -- she actually lays in wait for me to leave the bar to grab extra ice or liquor, and descends on the unsuspecting barback to make her tables' cocktails. (Yes, my barback should actually be getting the ice and store-room booze, but the occasional heavy lifting and a quick run around the bar keep me sane, and P90X-worthy.)
And then I arrive back to a perspiring 21-year old, poring over the Bartenders Bible, in order to make a Kamikaze, while Karen glares at him to hustle. Hustle - Ha! As if she has any idea what that means. One night a glass of Pinot Noir sat at the service bar for 45 minutes, while she actually came back and forth for other drinks (and even made up a few that she didn't send in, demanding to know where they went, and then ran - as much as Karen would ever run - to the owner to report me for sabotaging her tables. Yes, that sounds exactly what a 36-year old mother of three who keeps this job in order to send her kids to swimming lessons and baseball tryouts, would do. Sabotage.). When I broke the "who's going to talk to the other first" contest (I said I wouldn't sabotage; I didn't say I was always mature), and asked her what the deal was with the wine, she looked blankly at it, at the ceiling, at it, at her order book, shrugged, and walked away to "serve" her other tables.
I may be a little smug about my position over hers - but only because she had been so rude, unhelpful and downright accusatory since I started. So when I experience a weekend without her on the floor, where I don't see her sour spaced-out face every 10 minutes for 5 straight hours, and don't have to chase her around for her tip-out at the end of her night (another reason I would NEVER leave while she still has tables), it is a welcome change. And even though there weren't any funny stories to report, no intoxicated patrons to shut off, and no break-ups or hook-ups in front of me, it was a decent weekend. Too bad it won't last.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Missing Out?? Hardly.
I have settled comfortably in to being the regular weekend bartender at Brady's. True, I miss my own Friday and Saturday-night fun, like Friday afternoon "playgroups" that sound like they are organized (or at least named) for kids' fun, when really they are a great way to get us moms together at the earliest possible weekend-welcoming time to drink wine by the magnum-full, throw some chicken nuggets at the jousting kids (I don't care WHAT you do with those light sabers - just do it AWAY FROM US MOMS!!) and celebrate the impending two days of double parenting we are about to embark upon.
Those afternoons lasted well into the evenings, made possible by the emblazoning firepit, the husbands that joined to legitimize our passive parenting ("Does anyone mind if I start another Spongebob Marathon?"), and the fact that our kids wanted the fun to last as long as the adults.
Moms would come armed with Bacardi (no-carb rum and diet coke please!), wine, appetizers and children's pajamas. We would stretch it as late as we could, dismissing meltdowns and using our famous empty-threat:"If you scream one more time, that's it, WE ARE LEAVING!!" But mostly our mantra was: "If I don't see you (or the 14 other kids we threw in the basement with you in front of ICarly) then we can stay for another twenty minutes." Twenty minutes always meant an hour; and we convinced ourselves that the empty threats worked...
But there are no more "kids'" fun Fridays for me. Sometimes Thursday becomes the new Friday. It's not as late, it doesn't draw as many husbands, and we don't excuse as many meltdowns, BUT it does the trick when in need of socializing, wine-tasting and something to occupy the kids. Right, the kids. Hey, as long as you can get through Friday with a little wine headache, then Thursdays work just fine.
I think anyone who works in the hospitality business, is pretty open to finding their weekend-grade enjoyment whenever they can get it, and not limiting themselves to the normally-sanctioned "fun nights". That way, the unexpected Tuesday night booze cruise or Sunday afternoon beach parties satisfy the desire to let loose and are sometimes even more appreciated.
Besides, if I didn't bartend on the nights when most people find it acceptable to let loose, drink wine by the magnum-full and let their inhibitions run free, then I wouldn't have experienced all of the weird, obscene and embarrassing that I have at Brady's over the last few months.
The couple that broke up two feet from me, while sitting at the bar (well, she dumped him and he begged her back for two excruciating, more-inebriating-by-the-minute and mortifying hours) would never have broken up on a Tuesday night, I decided. She needed the audience, not to mention the wine, to push her through this awful exchange. If she dumped him in the comfort - and quiet - of her own home or his - the result would not have been the same. A bar made it more of a show for her, and she could detach more easily, like she often did when turning to a new woman, saying "He's cute, right? He will find someone new! Are YOU single?" Cringe...
The sixty-year old, sophisticated, put-together socialite, never would have had three glasses of a wine on a Monday, and ended up telling me about her handsome-trucker boyfriend that made her feel so wild and crazy, that she left her husband for him, forsaking her penthouse life for a one bedroom apartment and planning her new life around his visits. Then on the next visit, he told her to get tested for "something" he found out he has, and ended up giving to both the woman and her estranged husband. Something tells me that type of conversation only happens on a Saturday night, with your best girlfriend and an understanding bartender.
So yes, playgroups and "normal" adult fun can happen on any night now for me. But embarrassing life lessons, approval-seeking ex-girlfriends, and all kinds of other weekend-worthy situations will stay confined to the standard "busiest nights" of the weeks. And I will be there to listen (or pretend not to --).
Those afternoons lasted well into the evenings, made possible by the emblazoning firepit, the husbands that joined to legitimize our passive parenting ("Does anyone mind if I start another Spongebob Marathon?"), and the fact that our kids wanted the fun to last as long as the adults.
Moms would come armed with Bacardi (no-carb rum and diet coke please!), wine, appetizers and children's pajamas. We would stretch it as late as we could, dismissing meltdowns and using our famous empty-threat:"If you scream one more time, that's it, WE ARE LEAVING!!" But mostly our mantra was: "If I don't see you (or the 14 other kids we threw in the basement with you in front of ICarly) then we can stay for another twenty minutes." Twenty minutes always meant an hour; and we convinced ourselves that the empty threats worked...
But there are no more "kids'" fun Fridays for me. Sometimes Thursday becomes the new Friday. It's not as late, it doesn't draw as many husbands, and we don't excuse as many meltdowns, BUT it does the trick when in need of socializing, wine-tasting and something to occupy the kids. Right, the kids. Hey, as long as you can get through Friday with a little wine headache, then Thursdays work just fine.
I think anyone who works in the hospitality business, is pretty open to finding their weekend-grade enjoyment whenever they can get it, and not limiting themselves to the normally-sanctioned "fun nights". That way, the unexpected Tuesday night booze cruise or Sunday afternoon beach parties satisfy the desire to let loose and are sometimes even more appreciated.
Besides, if I didn't bartend on the nights when most people find it acceptable to let loose, drink wine by the magnum-full and let their inhibitions run free, then I wouldn't have experienced all of the weird, obscene and embarrassing that I have at Brady's over the last few months.
The couple that broke up two feet from me, while sitting at the bar (well, she dumped him and he begged her back for two excruciating, more-inebriating-by-the-minute and mortifying hours) would never have broken up on a Tuesday night, I decided. She needed the audience, not to mention the wine, to push her through this awful exchange. If she dumped him in the comfort - and quiet - of her own home or his - the result would not have been the same. A bar made it more of a show for her, and she could detach more easily, like she often did when turning to a new woman, saying "He's cute, right? He will find someone new! Are YOU single?" Cringe...
The sixty-year old, sophisticated, put-together socialite, never would have had three glasses of a wine on a Monday, and ended up telling me about her handsome-trucker boyfriend that made her feel so wild and crazy, that she left her husband for him, forsaking her penthouse life for a one bedroom apartment and planning her new life around his visits. Then on the next visit, he told her to get tested for "something" he found out he has, and ended up giving to both the woman and her estranged husband. Something tells me that type of conversation only happens on a Saturday night, with your best girlfriend and an understanding bartender.
So yes, playgroups and "normal" adult fun can happen on any night now for me. But embarrassing life lessons, approval-seeking ex-girlfriends, and all kinds of other weekend-worthy situations will stay confined to the standard "busiest nights" of the weeks. And I will be there to listen (or pretend not to --).
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Out With the Young; In With the New
So the interview at Brady's ran smoothly, and Jason hired me on the spot to start the next night. As I was leaving, he casually mentioned Karen, the "usual bartender" that wasn't working out - though the only problem was that she didn't know it yet.
"But don't you worry about that. I will take care of it," he assured me.
"Great," I thought - getting trained by the person I am replacing. I am sure that will go just as smoothly as this interview. Right.
I arrive punctuallyat 4 p.m. the next day and am greeted with hopeful high-fives by the wait staff. Apparently Karen was not only not cutting it from the owner's point of view, but even the floor staff didn't like her. They didn't even know me yet or my aptitude behind the bar, but they were already positive that I would work out better than Karen. Now I really can't wait to meet her.
Karen walks in, looks at me not like the protective mama bear that I thought she would be, when realizing that her job may possibly be on the line. Instead she immediately huffs, blows her red-highlighted bangs out of her eyes, looks at me sideways and says "I can't believe Jason is doing this to me." Hi - nice to meet you, too. No wonder the reputation.
Then she goes on to half-heartedly walk me through the rigors of opening the bar for the night, all the while making it clear that she does not want to be doing this on "her busiest night." Apparently she has no idea that this will be her last "busiest night" (Saturday) and the one whom she is barely interested in wasting her breath talking to, nevermind showing the computer system to or where the extra olives are stocked, is getting her new position further secured by the hour (Not only does every waitress thank me for actually making drinks that are ordered -- guess that's not Karen's priority; but dishwashers, customers and the owner's wife all seem to be giddy with the expectation that 'The Bitch' will soon be gone.)
Don't get me wrong - Karen is a perfectly nice person -- to the customer she tries to upsell a Patron margarita to (Wait - isn't that like adding 50-year old Scotch to Pepsi??? How needless is that?) But her doe-like eyes and low cut blouse work on the young couple, and she seems to be confident in her handiness now. It doesn't seem to matter to her that I am beside her, managing the service bar fine while also catering to sit-down customers. Oh, and did I mention I came to work sober and drug-free? Yes, that is another reason Karen is on the outs -- she cut her finger while cutting fruit one night, and came to work the next day strung out on Percocet for the pain. I guess she was staring at each individual mint leaf while making a psychedelic mojito and was asked to step aside so one of the waitresses could finish it. Way to go, Karen.
So she must have an inkling that I am there to replace her. Yet, part of me feels badly for her. A patron asks her what her day job is. She replies "I'm 23. My day job is sleeping and going to the beach." Makes me want to scoff, "Kids today..." But I hold in my chuckle and back her up when she gets "in the weeds" opening a bottle of wine at the same moment a couple sits down at the bar and expects service. You take it easy, Karen - you must be sun-stroked...
The night ends perfectly well -- only because I bite my tongue all night and don't tell her what is to become of her, bad attitude and ineptitude and all. I rest assured that the next time I walk into that bar, I won't be met by a bitchy, all-to-overconfident bartender-has-been; but instead by a new wave of high-fives and waitress gratitude. I leave, without saying a word, thanking her for showing me the ropes, and not at all outwardly pissed that she shares none of the two hundred dollars of tips with me ($175 of which would not have even been possible without my rum-runner rescues and Karen-unusual patron politeness).
The last I hear is "Um, Jason, I need to talk to you" She thinks she is going to give him, the owner of the establishment that enables her daytime laziness, a piece of her mind about bringing in ANOTHER bartender to help HER of all people. No, not helping, replacing you. See you next week, or NOT...
"But don't you worry about that. I will take care of it," he assured me.
"Great," I thought - getting trained by the person I am replacing. I am sure that will go just as smoothly as this interview. Right.
I arrive punctuallyat 4 p.m. the next day and am greeted with hopeful high-fives by the wait staff. Apparently Karen was not only not cutting it from the owner's point of view, but even the floor staff didn't like her. They didn't even know me yet or my aptitude behind the bar, but they were already positive that I would work out better than Karen. Now I really can't wait to meet her.
Karen walks in, looks at me not like the protective mama bear that I thought she would be, when realizing that her job may possibly be on the line. Instead she immediately huffs, blows her red-highlighted bangs out of her eyes, looks at me sideways and says "I can't believe Jason is doing this to me." Hi - nice to meet you, too. No wonder the reputation.
Then she goes on to half-heartedly walk me through the rigors of opening the bar for the night, all the while making it clear that she does not want to be doing this on "her busiest night." Apparently she has no idea that this will be her last "busiest night" (Saturday) and the one whom she is barely interested in wasting her breath talking to, nevermind showing the computer system to or where the extra olives are stocked, is getting her new position further secured by the hour (Not only does every waitress thank me for actually making drinks that are ordered -- guess that's not Karen's priority; but dishwashers, customers and the owner's wife all seem to be giddy with the expectation that 'The Bitch' will soon be gone.)
Don't get me wrong - Karen is a perfectly nice person -- to the customer she tries to upsell a Patron margarita to (Wait - isn't that like adding 50-year old Scotch to Pepsi??? How needless is that?) But her doe-like eyes and low cut blouse work on the young couple, and she seems to be confident in her handiness now. It doesn't seem to matter to her that I am beside her, managing the service bar fine while also catering to sit-down customers. Oh, and did I mention I came to work sober and drug-free? Yes, that is another reason Karen is on the outs -- she cut her finger while cutting fruit one night, and came to work the next day strung out on Percocet for the pain. I guess she was staring at each individual mint leaf while making a psychedelic mojito and was asked to step aside so one of the waitresses could finish it. Way to go, Karen.
So she must have an inkling that I am there to replace her. Yet, part of me feels badly for her. A patron asks her what her day job is. She replies "I'm 23. My day job is sleeping and going to the beach." Makes me want to scoff, "Kids today..." But I hold in my chuckle and back her up when she gets "in the weeds" opening a bottle of wine at the same moment a couple sits down at the bar and expects service. You take it easy, Karen - you must be sun-stroked...
The night ends perfectly well -- only because I bite my tongue all night and don't tell her what is to become of her, bad attitude and ineptitude and all. I rest assured that the next time I walk into that bar, I won't be met by a bitchy, all-to-overconfident bartender-has-been; but instead by a new wave of high-fives and waitress gratitude. I leave, without saying a word, thanking her for showing me the ropes, and not at all outwardly pissed that she shares none of the two hundred dollars of tips with me ($175 of which would not have even been possible without my rum-runner rescues and Karen-unusual patron politeness).
The last I hear is "Um, Jason, I need to talk to you" She thinks she is going to give him, the owner of the establishment that enables her daytime laziness, a piece of her mind about bringing in ANOTHER bartender to help HER of all people. No, not helping, replacing you. See you next week, or NOT...
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Back Behind the Bar
I had been intermittently answering CraigsList ads and dropping my resumes at all the hip bars around the region (well, as hip as they could be 25 miles outside of the city), when I got the call from Brady's, an upscale restaurant on the beach that was looking for a new bartender.
I thought to myself "Great. A nice place, with nice food, must have a nice clientele, and be nicely managed." In the past I had worked at a nothing-fancy Italian place that was so mismanaged by the owner's daughter that I was often there more than an hour past closing, catering to her and her advantage-taking "friends", as they smoked like chimneys and helped themselves to the Patron and Belvedere, when paying customers were treated poorly for expecting to eat a full dinner at 8 o'clock and charged $10 a martini for the $12 a bottle Skye house vodka. Deservedly so, this place went out of business before its second year anniversary, and thankfully I did not have to be subjected to the nepotistic annoyances anymore.
Most of me was thrilled to be away from that place - the catty waitresses, the mouse traps that were seemingly everywhere behind the bar, the disgusting 'Biggest-Loser contestant-fat' owner that would spill off the bar stool every time he changed direction to stare at my rear end (I saw you - there were mirrors everywhere!), and the miserable manager who later revealed she was pregnant, as if that were the reason and excuse for her mistreatment of people, especially "tall pretty blond bartenders that remind her of how thin she is never going to be again" -- oh, so that's why you are so rude to me? All is forgiven!
But I WAS out of a job, and though I tried to dial down my spending (and re-focus on my freelance writing and marketing "day jobs"), it was clear that I would need to find a new drinking hole to work. I hadn't had the best of the luck in the past. Non-impressive Italian Restaurant was just one example in the list of many past experiences. There was also "Insane-Owner Pub" where Dirk would chase wait-staff around kitchen, shouting German obscenities and wielding onions. Yet, he hired me on the spot, to bartend, because he liked the way my hair would "sparkle on his stainless steel bar". How could I not know he was insane??? Well, maybe that one was my shortcoming.
And before that, there was "Nicely-run, but snobbily-patronized Country Club." There, I dressed in golf shirts and made Old-Fashioned (the only thing worse, from the mixer's point of view, than making a Mojito) by the bucket-full for geezerly polite men and their impolite, tiger-lady counterparts. While the men talked sports and stared at my legs in an almost excusably-unfocused way (You dropped your monocle, Mr. Fickmeyer!), the self-important, insecure women would constantly question my methods as well as my pedigree ("Did you shake my White Russian or box it?"; "Did you go to college?").
When the golf season was over, I left in pursuit of my writing. And you can bet that Ms. Deline was floored when I nonchalantly offered over my shoulder, after dropping off her perfectly mixed Sex on the Beach (funny that she would order that because I knew she and Mr. Deline were 1) not having any sex on any bed, nevermind a beach; and 2) Mr. Deline was known all around the Club for sexing a young cocktail waitress that did NOT go to college):
"This is my last drink delivery, Mrs. Deline. I am going back to --"
"..school?" she finished, apparently assuming that because I schlep drinks, I must be uneducated.
"No," I reply. "I don't think I want to get my PhD. I have everything else leading up to that."
Her eyes bulged; I could tell she was immediately rethinking all the comments she's made to me and about me - and plenty she thought were over my head at that time, and now trying to remember how much of a fool she had been. I smiled genuinely, and said "If you ever need any help re-strategizing your realty business with the recent market downturn, I've got lots of experience and ideas for you. Enjoy your drink."
Those were three of the better places I've bartended. So, you can understand my reluctance to go back to the male-dominated, female-subjugated, ogling, smelly world of schlepping beers... BUT, I do like a nice pair of Manolo Blahniks, a yearly vacation with my husband, and a weekly Girls Night Out. For all these things, plus raising three kids with all the activities and expenses that go along with it, I need to subsidize my day jobs with a night job from time to time...
So I called back Brady's Restaurant; overlooking the fact that the day I added a photo (see above - a very flattering photo; however it looks nothing like me!) to my resume and send it along through the anonymous CraigsList address, was the HOUR that Jason called to schedule an interview. But I was hopeful -- and going on broke with the downturn in companies' marketing budgets (Did I deserve that after my smug response to Mrs. Deline... maybe.) -- so I call him back. How bad could a "nice place" be???, I wondered. Besides, once on the phone with him, Jason sounds gay. I am immediately reassured, and agree to meet him tomorrow.
I thought to myself "Great. A nice place, with nice food, must have a nice clientele, and be nicely managed." In the past I had worked at a nothing-fancy Italian place that was so mismanaged by the owner's daughter that I was often there more than an hour past closing, catering to her and her advantage-taking "friends", as they smoked like chimneys and helped themselves to the Patron and Belvedere, when paying customers were treated poorly for expecting to eat a full dinner at 8 o'clock and charged $10 a martini for the $12 a bottle Skye house vodka. Deservedly so, this place went out of business before its second year anniversary, and thankfully I did not have to be subjected to the nepotistic annoyances anymore.
Most of me was thrilled to be away from that place - the catty waitresses, the mouse traps that were seemingly everywhere behind the bar, the disgusting 'Biggest-Loser contestant-fat' owner that would spill off the bar stool every time he changed direction to stare at my rear end (I saw you - there were mirrors everywhere!), and the miserable manager who later revealed she was pregnant, as if that were the reason and excuse for her mistreatment of people, especially "tall pretty blond bartenders that remind her of how thin she is never going to be again" -- oh, so that's why you are so rude to me? All is forgiven!
But I WAS out of a job, and though I tried to dial down my spending (and re-focus on my freelance writing and marketing "day jobs"), it was clear that I would need to find a new drinking hole to work. I hadn't had the best of the luck in the past. Non-impressive Italian Restaurant was just one example in the list of many past experiences. There was also "Insane-Owner Pub" where Dirk would chase wait-staff around kitchen, shouting German obscenities and wielding onions. Yet, he hired me on the spot, to bartend, because he liked the way my hair would "sparkle on his stainless steel bar". How could I not know he was insane??? Well, maybe that one was my shortcoming.
And before that, there was "Nicely-run, but snobbily-patronized Country Club." There, I dressed in golf shirts and made Old-Fashioned (the only thing worse, from the mixer's point of view, than making a Mojito) by the bucket-full for geezerly polite men and their impolite, tiger-lady counterparts. While the men talked sports and stared at my legs in an almost excusably-unfocused way (You dropped your monocle, Mr. Fickmeyer!), the self-important, insecure women would constantly question my methods as well as my pedigree ("Did you shake my White Russian or box it?"; "Did you go to college?").
When the golf season was over, I left in pursuit of my writing. And you can bet that Ms. Deline was floored when I nonchalantly offered over my shoulder, after dropping off her perfectly mixed Sex on the Beach (funny that she would order that because I knew she and Mr. Deline were 1) not having any sex on any bed, nevermind a beach; and 2) Mr. Deline was known all around the Club for sexing a young cocktail waitress that did NOT go to college):
"This is my last drink delivery, Mrs. Deline. I am going back to --"
"..school?" she finished, apparently assuming that because I schlep drinks, I must be uneducated.
"No," I reply. "I don't think I want to get my PhD. I have everything else leading up to that."
Her eyes bulged; I could tell she was immediately rethinking all the comments she's made to me and about me - and plenty she thought were over my head at that time, and now trying to remember how much of a fool she had been. I smiled genuinely, and said "If you ever need any help re-strategizing your realty business with the recent market downturn, I've got lots of experience and ideas for you. Enjoy your drink."
Those were three of the better places I've bartended. So, you can understand my reluctance to go back to the male-dominated, female-subjugated, ogling, smelly world of schlepping beers... BUT, I do like a nice pair of Manolo Blahniks, a yearly vacation with my husband, and a weekly Girls Night Out. For all these things, plus raising three kids with all the activities and expenses that go along with it, I need to subsidize my day jobs with a night job from time to time...
So I called back Brady's Restaurant; overlooking the fact that the day I added a photo (see above - a very flattering photo; however it looks nothing like me!) to my resume and send it along through the anonymous CraigsList address, was the HOUR that Jason called to schedule an interview. But I was hopeful -- and going on broke with the downturn in companies' marketing budgets (Did I deserve that after my smug response to Mrs. Deline... maybe.) -- so I call him back. How bad could a "nice place" be???, I wondered. Besides, once on the phone with him, Jason sounds gay. I am immediately reassured, and agree to meet him tomorrow.
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