"Rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength..."--Eric Hoffer
"We need another bartender over here."
"Is something wrong, sir?"
"She's got no sense of humor. Me and my buddies are just trying to have a good time, she's supposed to help us have a good time, and she's acting like some kind of robot."
The gentleman and his "buddies", for the moment, are enjoying the benefit of the doubt. They are in our empty lounge on a very slow Sunday, and up to this point have done nothing I have noticed that would brand them as troublemakers.
The bartender is one of my best, but she does have a tendency to be a little sparing with her words. She has lot of regular guests who love her, and she can rock and roll when its busy like few others I have seen--but she is much more focused on the mechanical aspects of her job than the social ones. Normally such a trait would go virtually unnoticed, but because she is quite beautiful and graced with a flawless body, some men take her natural economy with words personally.
I find her in the kitchen, and as I suspected she is clearly upset. She is sensitive to this type of situation, and has trouble with the concept of being blamed for simply being herself.
"What's up with the three stooges?", I ask.
Looking stricken, and near tears, she responds, "I don't know what to do. They sat down, and I asked them if I could get them a drink, and the first thing one of them says is 'I don't know, can you?' so I say 'I'll certainly try' and one of the other one asks 'Well, what else do you like to try?'
Then they asked me how my 'rack' was like they were talking about the lamb, and when I finally got a drink order and they settled down a little and started looking at menus, one of them called me over to say there was something in his drink--he had eaten a mouthful of barsnacks and chewed them up and spit them back into the beer glass and--"
"OK, that's enough--I get the idea. What are you doing back here now?"
"Getting their bread."
"Forget the bread, they won't be needing it. Head back to the bar in case someone else comes in, but say away from them."
As one would suspect, my benefit of the doubt evaporated at "what else do you like to try". I suppose I could dismiss them as three drunks, but it isn't my style to allow people to blame unacceptable behavior on chemical deviation. As I entered the lounge to expel the 'gentlemen' I see a large party gathering for an 80-something birthday--as they weren't the normal crowd for a barfight I quickly and regretfully soften my game plan.
"Sorry gentlemen, I'm afraid I don't have another bartender available this evening--so, this round is on the house and we'll wish you a good evening. Thanks for stopping in."
"That's OK--we'll make due with this little filly--once she gets to know us I'm sure she'll come around."
"She's not going to get to know you. We're not going to serve you anything else. It's time to go, gentlemen. Drinks are on me, I'll walk you to the door."
Like the rising dawn, I can see the realization come over one of the guys that he and his buddies are being thrown out.
"JUST YOU are gonna walk ALL THREE OF US to the door, now??"
"Without a doubt."
--First, It should be mentioned that while I relate a fair number of stories like this, and such incidents are ever more numerous, they don't happen constantly. However, I don't need to write about the five hours of bright, beaming smiles and "everything was wonderful, as usual" comments that I often experience in order to keep myself sane--I need to write about 'The Amazing Douchebags' and people like them to keep myself sane. Secondly, I am more surprised each day by the ever-growing number of men willing to imply or outrightly threaten violence during similar confrontations who immediately and shamelessly back down when I, or people like me, don't immediately yield. Its like they've been watching way, way too much TV.--
"Uh, uh, you're making a big mistake here. We're just havin' some fun--she's too uptight. Uh, you know, we're gonna go right down the street to [insert new outpost of national steakhouse chain that we are currently demolishing] and spend our money there. You're makin' a big mistake."
"I make mistakes all the time."
"You don't know what you're doing, pal!"
"Opinions vary." [Yes, I know, its a line from a bad Patrick Swayze movie--but I've always loved it and do use it on very rare occassion--always to great effect]
"Come on guys, we're outta here."
As they exited the restaurant I returned to their spot at the bar, which in fifteen minutes had been ravaged. Bar stools pushed up against each other on either side, snack mix all over the floor, bevnaps balled up everywhere, a rubber drink pad that they had pulled out of the well stretched sideways across the bar for some inexplicable reason.
After a quick clean-up I turned around to find a little tiny fellow from the still-gathering Octegenarian birthday bash standing right behind me, and I steeled myself for a complaint about the 'scene' I had just made.
"Yes, sir?"
"Thanks for throwing those guys out. When we came in, they told my grandmother she had a nice ass. Thank God she's almost deaf!"
"We need another bartender over here."
"Is something wrong, sir?"
"She's got no sense of humor. Me and my buddies are just trying to have a good time, she's supposed to help us have a good time, and she's acting like some kind of robot."
The gentleman and his "buddies", for the moment, are enjoying the benefit of the doubt. They are in our empty lounge on a very slow Sunday, and up to this point have done nothing I have noticed that would brand them as troublemakers.
The bartender is one of my best, but she does have a tendency to be a little sparing with her words. She has lot of regular guests who love her, and she can rock and roll when its busy like few others I have seen--but she is much more focused on the mechanical aspects of her job than the social ones. Normally such a trait would go virtually unnoticed, but because she is quite beautiful and graced with a flawless body, some men take her natural economy with words personally.
I find her in the kitchen, and as I suspected she is clearly upset. She is sensitive to this type of situation, and has trouble with the concept of being blamed for simply being herself.
"What's up with the three stooges?", I ask.
Looking stricken, and near tears, she responds, "I don't know what to do. They sat down, and I asked them if I could get them a drink, and the first thing one of them says is 'I don't know, can you?' so I say 'I'll certainly try' and one of the other one asks 'Well, what else do you like to try?'
Then they asked me how my 'rack' was like they were talking about the lamb, and when I finally got a drink order and they settled down a little and started looking at menus, one of them called me over to say there was something in his drink--he had eaten a mouthful of barsnacks and chewed them up and spit them back into the beer glass and--"
"OK, that's enough--I get the idea. What are you doing back here now?"
"Getting their bread."
"Forget the bread, they won't be needing it. Head back to the bar in case someone else comes in, but say away from them."
As one would suspect, my benefit of the doubt evaporated at "what else do you like to try". I suppose I could dismiss them as three drunks, but it isn't my style to allow people to blame unacceptable behavior on chemical deviation. As I entered the lounge to expel the 'gentlemen' I see a large party gathering for an 80-something birthday--as they weren't the normal crowd for a barfight I quickly and regretfully soften my game plan.
"Sorry gentlemen, I'm afraid I don't have another bartender available this evening--so, this round is on the house and we'll wish you a good evening. Thanks for stopping in."
"That's OK--we'll make due with this little filly--once she gets to know us I'm sure she'll come around."
"She's not going to get to know you. We're not going to serve you anything else. It's time to go, gentlemen. Drinks are on me, I'll walk you to the door."
Like the rising dawn, I can see the realization come over one of the guys that he and his buddies are being thrown out.
"JUST YOU are gonna walk ALL THREE OF US to the door, now??"
"Without a doubt."
--First, It should be mentioned that while I relate a fair number of stories like this, and such incidents are ever more numerous, they don't happen constantly. However, I don't need to write about the five hours of bright, beaming smiles and "everything was wonderful, as usual" comments that I often experience in order to keep myself sane--I need to write about 'The Amazing Douchebags' and people like them to keep myself sane. Secondly, I am more surprised each day by the ever-growing number of men willing to imply or outrightly threaten violence during similar confrontations who immediately and shamelessly back down when I, or people like me, don't immediately yield. Its like they've been watching way, way too much TV.--
"Uh, uh, you're making a big mistake here. We're just havin' some fun--she's too uptight. Uh, you know, we're gonna go right down the street to [insert new outpost of national steakhouse chain that we are currently demolishing] and spend our money there. You're makin' a big mistake."
"I make mistakes all the time."
"You don't know what you're doing, pal!"
"Opinions vary." [Yes, I know, its a line from a bad Patrick Swayze movie--but I've always loved it and do use it on very rare occassion--always to great effect]
"Come on guys, we're outta here."
As they exited the restaurant I returned to their spot at the bar, which in fifteen minutes had been ravaged. Bar stools pushed up against each other on either side, snack mix all over the floor, bevnaps balled up everywhere, a rubber drink pad that they had pulled out of the well stretched sideways across the bar for some inexplicable reason.
After a quick clean-up I turned around to find a little tiny fellow from the still-gathering Octegenarian birthday bash standing right behind me, and I steeled myself for a complaint about the 'scene' I had just made.
"Yes, sir?"
"Thanks for throwing those guys out. When we came in, they told my grandmother she had a nice ass. Thank God she's almost deaf!"
posted by last one home at 4:18 PM
4 Comments:
Wow! I just get back, and have three lovely posts to read! Your stories are entertaining as always, as well as thought provoking. I hope you keep up the frequency. (Though in light of your note, I suppose that means I'm hoping that you get *special guests*, and I'm not sure if that's very nice of me)
LOH: I discovered your blog in November 2007 (why I remember exactly when is a story I wish I could write with your humor and honesty), immediately read all posts and have been following since. Although I've taken the occasional break from reading, as you have from posting, I never go too long without checking in. Thanks for taking the time to write.
once had a boss, while i was bartending & had customers at the bar, tell me i had a nice ass but needed some tits. customers had free reign to say whatever they wanted after overhearing that remark ugh,
guess bartending ain't always easy...
Post a Comment
<< Home