You and I both know what you like to drink. You had an inkling when you hopped into the shower — before your friends tapped their car horns to rudely let you know they’ve arrived — that your liver’s about to get punished.
You know you’re going to gulp liquids that are specifically brewed and distilled to make ugly people attractive, and boring people funny.
They’ve been invented to help you.
But there’s also a dark secret. One I’m willing to reveal if you continue to read the words dancing out of my laptop. Ready? Here it comes: You will be graded on what you drink and how you order that libation. Staff will look at, treat you and expect from you certain behaviors because of how and what you order.
The judgment is as follows: If you walk up to the bar, flag me down, wave, whistle and snap your fingers, you’d better have your order ready and alphabetized. If you stutter, halt your speech, pause or peer back to reassess your order, I’m gone.
Judgment: You’re not quite smart enough to have taken point. Let your wife or girlfriend order for you. You’re relegated to handing over your credit card and ID. Now go play “Buckhunter,” you smoosh.
If you order ten Long Island Iced Teas, first, thank you for padding my sales. Second, I’m going to assume a few things about you: You don’t realize there really isn’t more alcohol in a Long Island than there is in most drinks served in a pint glass. My only conclusion is that you’re just fine with paying $9 for a drink that will absolutely guarantee you a hangover.
When you walk in and ask about a “wine list,” I can only assume you’ve had massive brain trauma in the past week or so. Take a look around. Assess your environment. There are massive HD/3D/Wow those are huge/ televisions on the wall. Do you really think that we’re going to have a Chateu Lafit just waiting for you and your husband’s unsuspecting credit card?
Red and white with a twist top — enjoy.
When you ask me what we have on tap, I want to cut your head off and throw it in the street so that school children can play soccer with your decaying skull.
When you ask me what beer we have, it means you don’t care what you drink. People with an appreciation for what they pour into their face usually ask if we have a particular beer. Then they ask again. By this time, any bartender without a massive hole in their head could point you in the right direction.
If we don’t have something you find palatable, I’m sorry — 16 types of suds on tap and specialty beers in bottles — if you don’t like that, tough. Go home. Better yet, go to Bevmo and sit alone watching Scooby Doo reruns wishing you would have just said “yes,” to a pitcher of Stone IPA.
Yes, it’s common knowledge that bartenders are evil, dumb, power-grubbing heathens whose only goal is a power trip about who can drink and who has reached the point of evacuation.
Actually, the truth is that when we ask our security personnel to escort you and your brethren out of the establishment, we are by definition losing money. So if you think we enjoy telling people to leave, then you don’t have a strong understanding of how a bar makes money.
Though I’ve said it ad nauseam, for the duration of my column’s existence, I really only expect patrons to act like adults when they come to the bar. If you think you’re doing something dumb, you are.
We are in the service industry. We are not servants. If you can’t behave, then you’re going home. Yes, we’re having a good time. No, we’re not going to smile because you asked us to. We’re working, and you’re drinking.
As cliché as it sounds, we just want you to have a good time. We want you to enjoy yourself and pass the good word. Happy customers are repeat customers.
Have a good night and be safe!
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Filed Under: Doorman Diaries