how to be a world class bartender.

17 Jan

Today I wore no makeup, a pair of faux snake short boots that are total mom shoes and an ugly gold and olive sweater that I probably never should have purchased, and definitely never should have worn after Christmas. Because why dress fancy-like when nothing ever happens on Tuesdays? I do my liquor inventory, answer phone calls, schmooze a bit, tell people I’ll ask my boss if I can make a donation to their ferret rehabilitation charity and catch up with Harry, because I haven’t seen him in 2 hours (he goes to work at 9, I go to work at 11). I figured it was a normal Tuesday, only today I was feeling more antisocial than usual.

Then the lunch hour hit, and for some reason, while I was trying to innocently count how much was left in the Frangelico bottle and ignore my surroundings, everyone wanted to sit at the bar. And chat with me. And tell me that I’m prettier than the waiter.

And then lunchtime became the part of the day that we restaurant people call lunchtime (vocab of the day: restaurant lunch – 3 to 5pm, when other people are done eating lunch and not yet on to dinner. We get to sit down, check our Words with Friends, watch some Ellen or SportsCenter or Disney Channel if you’re me, just take a breather). Only I didn’t get to eat lunch. Not even at 4, when the bartender normally comes in. Because the bartender didn’t come in. Because there was a “mixup” or whatever, and  Ryan my manager aka Work Husband (even though I work with my husband) offered to come in and help out but I’m SOOOOO nice and said that I’d just take care of it. So there I was, all frumpy and makeupless, and these people just kept coming in, ordering Stoli O on the rocks and happy hour wings and I had to card people and clean stuff and clear dishes and put napkins and utensils in front of people and ask people how they were doing and ENTERTAIN PEOPLE and bring more ketchup and stuff like that.

There were highlights, of course. For instance a friend came in with one of her friends, a fellow Jew, who met a Canadian in Mexico the other day and two-and-a-half days later got married in a Toga party wedding ceremony conducted by her brother on the beach. Can you believe it? I met a new Jew!

Also a man asked if there was a new chef in the kitchen, because the bread on his French Dip sandwich was less scooped out than usual. “No sir, no new chef. He just clipped his fingernails recently.”

These people all exhausted me, and all that windexing at the end of the night made my fingers wrinkly.

And so the moral of the story is, I’m not blogging tonight.

But for all of you Poetry Tuesday groupies, a haiku…..

 

Bartending is fun.

Unless you’re antisocial.

Then it really sucks.

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