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.