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...
Monday, October 26, 2009
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.
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