Saturday, July 28, 2007

18 vs. 60

Oh what an awful night last night. I got to work knowing that the night before my barback had served underage guys. I was telling my husband about these guys and as I was telling him about them, it clicked that they were probably underage. I then had a panic attack that the liquor police were going to find me, fine me, and make legitimate grounds for me to lose my job. I was a bit off when I got to work. On top of it, the bar wasn’t set up properly and the new bartender has made this system that she thinks is more efficient but really doesn’t work. She has moved around all of the shakers I use and when I’m busy and in a groove I’m not thinking, I’m just reaching and when every time I reach the shakers are not where they belong, it makes for a really hard fucking night. In the middle of the rush, an ex-girlfriend to a 60-year old regular, who happens to be a lawyer, called looking for him and started screaming that I was fucking lying to her when I said he wasn’t there. You would think the drama would lessen with age or you might think the lawyer would put a restraining order against her. But no, the girls that were psycho when you were 14 are even crazier when they are 54 and the boys that dated them then, still do so now. Then the mother of the underage kid called and wondered what the fuck was going on at our bar; I explained the situation to her and told her how sorry I was that this happened and how paranoid I had been all day and night. She was quite forgiving, thank God. She shared that she had tended bar for years and she understood how it happened and also revealed that she has five sons and she knows that boys will try to get away with as much as possible. About ten minutes after that, one of the underage boys showed up. I took him in the hallway and tore him a new asshole for the stress he caused me. At the end of the night I had to fire the nutfuck for having another table walk out because she didn’t deliver their drinks to them on time. It was the third time it happened in two weeks, and it’s never happened at my bar before. The really shitty thing about it is, she left when I was in the bathroom so I had to call her to come back down to work to be fired. Yeah, let’s just say that when I got home this morning at 4 a.m. it was great to think that after serving lamb chops and $30 dollar pours of cognac all night, that I got to live the good life of Del Taco and pink champagne.

Cheers!

A lady at a party goes up to Winston Churchill and tells him, "Sir, you are drunk." Churchill replies, "Madam, you are ugly. In the morning, I shall be sober."

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Pissing

It’s been a long exhausting week at the bar. I’ve really been giving it my all and after two long meetings this week, I have decided that I should keep my ears open to someone backing me on my own project. I had talked to the owners of the bar in February about some sort of sweat equity or possibility of ownership if we expanded. We had a long talk this week where I saw that they will probably never give up any ownership of the bar and that I really don’t think I want to be in business with them anyhow.

They didn’t specifically say this, I just saw that they can’t get their shit together to make it happen and more than anything, they don’t want it to happen. They are always starting a project without any follow through, which has been where I really shine. I get the shit done that they started. But they want to open a 2.1 million dollar steakhouse, which I think is fucking ridiculous. Steak has very low markup and a short life. I think it would be better to sell noodle bowls.

Anyhow, I had a bit of an offer a couple of weeks ago from a guy loooking to start a swanky martini bar, he asked me if I would be interested in a sweat equity situation, which is all I’ve got for equity. Then another regular asked me on Saturday if I have ever thought about opening my own bar and I said, “Funny you should ask, because I’ve been thinking a lot about it.” He is an investment banker and is the middle of a big project but said he would be very interested in backing me, but it wouldn’t be for a year or so. So I feel like I am getting some things on the platter, I have started putting together a business plan so when something more concrete starts to happen -- I’m ready. I’ve got a good idea that would be good in this town and is a great concept that could expand if it proved to be as successful as I hope. The swanky martini bar scares me, it might be too hip for Bend. There are not enough young hipsters in this town to pull it off. The bar I work at now looks really swanky, but we still do a lot of food and have PBR on tap! I just don’t have a good feeling about it, but I will see how set he is on the idea and how he sees a sweat equity partnership working.

Otherwise, life at the bar this week really wasn’t all that much different than the week before. We were hoping to fire the dimwit on Tuesday, but the fill-in girl (she works at our other restaurant) gave her notice and is moving back to Maine. So, that means I have to keep the dimwit. It’s hard to have her around, because I know her time is so limited. She is such a fuckup, I feel like every Saturday night we sit in the office and go over the million things that we went over the week before. Anyhow, I hired a new girl who I am very excited about. She is a super hard worker, very smart, and very wise in the industry. She is going to do really well.

I still need one more server, but I have a promising lead since the bar down the street got bought out and it put a lot of servers out of work. I recently saw the owner of that bar and asked her if any of her good servers were out of work and she is sending me one of her best girls. I meet her tomorrow, so I hope I am impressed.

Otherwise, the highlight of the week was on Friday night. I was sitting with my friend confiding in her that I needed to make some decisions about how much of me I was going to put into the bar, because if I started a new bar I would want my cocktail list and a lot of my ideas that I’ve implemented where I work now. I could feel that I was about to get a migraine headache, so I wasn’t in the best mind set when I looked out the window and saw that some drunk was about to piss on the building. I unlocked the door, ran over to him and asked him if he was about to urinate. He didn’t seem phased, so I grabbed him by his hoodie, told him to put his little dick away, and to stop pissing on the fucking building. He asked me why I was enraged at him, simply put it is not o.k. to piss on buildings. If you want to start eating puppy chow then we can talk but otherwise such rights are solely for animals on four legs and red penises.

I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a memeber.

- Groucho Marx

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Fat Dogs

Sweet, the night is over. The bar is clean and looks like it has never been used. If only my house could get that type of attention just once a week. I had a hell of a time getting to work today. The entire downtown was blocked off for a cycling criterium race. My dog, Sierra, had a playmate over today and I didn’t have time to walk them, so I decided that I would take them downtown and drop them off at my husband’s office. That way they could go for a bit of a jaunt. My dog’s friend, Drake, is definitely the most out-of-shape doggy heart attack waiting to happen in a country riddled by canine obesity I have ever seen. By the time we reached downtown, fifteen minutes after we left the house (I can do the ride without an obese dog in six minutes) he was heavily panting and twice decided to just sit, all 110 pounds as I propelled myself forward on my bicycle. This tug of war continued until we reached the point where the street was blocked off. Sierra was not on the leash but was at my side, when this crazy fat policewoman started screaming at me that no dogs were allowed. I could see my husband’s office building on the other side of the street, but it looked like an island a mile away where I had to jump into shark infested waters to swim to it. My dog ran up to her and she grabbed the dog screaming at me that I had to come and get her, so I told Drake to sit and then I went to get Sierra. But that wasn’t kosher with the fatass Gestapo bitch since I didn’t have both dogs in tow. It wasn’t like Drake was going anywhere, it was the first time in fifteen minutes that I hadn’t whipped him to move. I had a plastic bag of dog shit in my hand and I seriously considered winging it at her, but I remembered then that I live in a police state and at that point I could spend the next two years playing doctor with Bertha in a prison cell somewhere in East Texas. So when she wasn’t looking and no bicycles would take me out, I snuck across the street.

I got to work and the woman who owns the bar was in a complete tizzy. A couple had called in and reserved all eight tables outside and hadn’t arrived yet. The reservation had been held for an hour, which I thought was fucking ridiculous so I told the girls to put the chairs out (we kept the chairs in so no one would sit on them, since there was all of this mayhem with the race). The owner was a bit livid when she saw the chairs go out, but I was pissed that we were still holding tables for people that didn’t show up. She didn’t want to offend them since she felt they were good customers. Hours later, when the reservation holder came in to justify her fucking us over, I was able to put a name with a face. And yes, she is a regular of sorts, but one of the most annoying people I know and shit ass tipper. Good riddance I say.

Otherwise, slammin jammin busy all night. We hired a food runner about a month ago, thinking that we could staff less wait staff and see our dollar stretch a little further (we pool tips). But the girl we hired is a fucking idiot. She just graduated from some $40,000 a year college which daddy paid for. All she talks about is how what she learned in college is advancing her today. I’m like, what the fuck are you talking about, you are food runner. She has to ask about every ticket and I snapped when a ticket with one glass of chardonnay with sitting with one glass of chardonnay and she asked, “Is this the glass of chardonnay?” I said, “Is that what the ticket says?!?!?!?!?!?!?” Because I really wanted to lose it at her, what a fucking idiot. Then she had the audacity to ask the firefighter server about taking over her job. She is one of the best servers I have ever met and the food runner thinks she can take the job when she can’t figure out a fucking singled out chardonnay ticket. No fucking way.

Cheers!

A man walks into a bar, OUCH! You think he would have seen it!

Friday, July 13, 2007

Corkage Fees

I’m definitely reaching that breaking point where I seriously need a massage and a day off. I was sure that if that there was one ounce of bullshit tonight that I was going to stomp it out with a gusto reserved for drunks who break glasses on purpose and then start fights with their best friends because they suddenly decide they're gay. Unfortunately, the only thing that happened that was even remotely worthy of such vigor were three annoying women who brought in their own wine and then ordered $15 worth of food between the three of them. We had live music this evening which was not cheap, the point being that the band draws a crowd to pay for itself. We don’t have a corkage fee (never been an issue, everyone drinks cocktails for the most part). We only have two regulars, who ever bring in wine, and they always bring in great bottles which they leave us a glass or two of. But today a new rule is born, the discretionary corkage fee. Unbelievably rude, they arrived with an already opened half-drank bottle of white! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

For anyone who hasn’t tried it yet, you must have the 360 Vodka and the new Rangpur Gin by Tanqueray. The 360 Vodka is a brilliant product packaged very environmentally in an 85% recycled glass bottle with 100% recycled paper labeling. The bottle is resealable with a Grolsch-like lid. You can take the lid off and mail it back in a postage-free mailer provided and they will re-use the lid and donate a dollar for every lid received to a renewable energy program. If you order a case, the box is recycled cardboard and is the same size as a filing box, so it can easily be re-used. Every company can look at these guys for some simple and smart ideas. Not organic like the Square One, but pushing the envelope nonetheless. The vodka itself is filtered four times and will beat Grey Goose in any taste test and in fact, beats the new Diamond 100 (filtered 100 times) which practically tastes like water.

Tangueray just offered the new Rangpur in its portfolio. It is distilled with rangpur limes, which are a little fruit which is actually a hybrid from a mandarin orange and a lemon. Nonetheless, the flavor is very limey and very yummy. My new favorite cocktail is a gimlet made with the Rangpur and the 360 with a splash of Rose’s lime.

Cheers!

"A good writer is not, per se, a good book critic. No more so than a good drunk is automatically a good bartender."

-Jim Bishop

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Kooky cooks

Unfortunately, there was not any event that was really noteworthy tonight. We got a really good push right around 7 that lasted for a couple of hours. Doable, but I definitely had that sinking feeling a couple of times, which I don't feel very often. Sometimes it is fun to get a push, you feel on it and people are impressed to see you in action, but today I just felt like I had the big facko macko grin on every time I turned around and I was sure that everyone could see right through it. The night would have been easier with a food runner -- next week.

Had a good interview today, hopefully this girl is good. We bring her in for a realistic on Friday, which is always a good test of stamina. It's a busy long night and people either excited because they know they are going to make money, or they freak out because it is too much. Hopefully she's into it. I really need someone good, I only like working with smart witty fun hard-working people who are over achievers, everyone else just drives me fucking crazy. And I already have one server who drives me fucking crazy, need not two.

So the night was winding down and I was washing my 300th rack of dishes and who walks in but Yakov! I started laughing and told him I was sure that he was in prison. I guess his friend's (the friend who he moved from Las Vegas) father died two weeks ago and he had to help her get him to the hospital and then help her make arrangements for his funeral. He said he's also been busy helping with his father's business since his father seemed to have an expenditure problem while Yakov was gone. His father makes some type of airplane part and Yakov helps him somehow, perhaps by selling them on the black market to the Russians. I think the Russians still like to buy things like that from us on the black market, sure of it.

We have the craziest fucking cook now. The guy that runs the kitchen is a Mexican guy; let's call him Jose. He's been with the people that own the restaurant for three years, so we often give him the benefit of the doubt. He is the most moody person I've ever met and we always joke he's on the rag. He needs his back patted every time he puts a dish up.

Yah! Jose knows how to make a summer roll! Typically we get everyone together for a cheer, but tonight we were too busy to cheer each time a cheese plate came out of the kitchen.

He is the most annoying fucking thing in the world and we are hoping at the end of the summer that we can find someone to replace him. The obvious choice would be the girl working on the cold side of the kitchen right now. She can work sauté, but doesn't unless it's a bit of an emergency. It's a small kitchen, it runs with two cooks and a dishwasher. Jose recently had a baby and is always running home to take the baby and his unbelievably boring wife to the hospital. At 6:30 Jose decided that he needed to take the baby to the hospital, which left this kooky girl cooking. When the owner of the restaurant showed up to help her in the rush, she thought there was a problem. I'm like, you can't work the whole kitchen by yourself, the ticket times would be too long. Then she started mumbling in this weird southern drawl she has. I don't have a fucking clue what she was saying, although it was clear that she didn't think she was mumbling, but rather having a conversation with me. I nodded and agreed, I was just too tired to say, "I don’t understand a fucking word you're saying." In the midst of breaking down and cleaning the kitchen, she came out to the bar with her handbag on her shoulder like she was leaving. I asked if she was leaving and then she started mumbling some ya'll mumble jumble again. Then she went back into the kitchen and mopped the floor. She seemed kooky before, but now she appears to be schizophrenic. Fantastic, just what the doctor ordered as we go into the two busiest months of the year.

Cheers!

A guy enters the bar carrying an alligator. Says to the patrons, "Here’s a deal. I'll open this alligator's mouth and place my genitals inside. The gator will close his mouth for one minute, then open it, and I'll remove my unit unscathed. If it works, everyone buys me drinks." The crowd agrees. The guy drops his pants and puts his privates in the gator's mouth. Gator closes mouth. After a minute, the guy grabs a beer bottle and bangs the gator on the top of its head. The gator opens wide, and he removes his genitals unscathed. Everyone buys him drinks. Then he says: "I'll pay anyone $100 who's willing to give it a try." After a while, a hand goes up in the back of the bar. It's a woman. "I'll give it a try," she says, "but you have to promise not to hit me on the head with the beer bottle."

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Yakov

I had an absolutely ridiculous beginning to the evening. I spent the day on-line searching for jobs overseas after seeing the movie Sicko last night. I spent my only night off this week questioning my mere existence in this country (that’s a great stress reliever). My questioning carried on late into today, but I finally think I'm ready to go back to being an ill-informed happy American (my genuine educated concern lasted right around 24 hours). Nonetheless, I arrived to work late in a funky state of mind. Not at all psyched about dealing with the girl we pretty much fired on Saturday and not very pyched about the realistic interview we had. (In a realistic interview, the candidate is put on the floor and follows a server around; almost like they are training. It is a great tool in hiring people because some people interview well and then you put them out on the floor and they are lazy or bad with people or can't organize or can't multi-task or think their cell phone is necessary at all times or a million other things you can't tell by asking them where they see themselves in 20 years.)

I thought I was prepared for work, we wear the overly seen black-shirt black-pants uniform. I arrived in a black tank top ready to don a very hip black cap-sleeved cropped light cotton jacket that just needed a few wrinkles taken out. Fortunately, I am always prepared and I brought my travel steamer; plugged it in, filled it with water, and waited as it decided that it would never make an ounce of steam again. As I created new swear words and ways of grouping them together, I decided to run one block down the street to the dry cleaner and have it pressed there. When I asked to have it pressed the girl at the counter was so gleeful in the fact that all of the presses were off that I considered jamming a handful of those awful metal hangers up her ass, but unfortunately I didn't have time. I had $110 in my pocket and decided to just go buy another top, my choices: five ridiculously overpriced boutiques where $110 might get you either a pair of socks or something hot pink with red fringe off of the clearance rack or the Patagonia store. Patagonia seemed like the right choice, at least I would wear whatever I bought there again. Seventy-five dollars later, I was able to spend the next six hours relenting the fact that I probably wouldn't make $75 in tips since there was not a constant flow of anything except for the dribble coming out of seat one’s mouth.

The realistic realistically sucked, so I sent him home at 7. He spent most of the evening frowning and looking put-upon that he was in one of the most beautiful spaces in town, was surrounded by beautiful women, and had the chance to get a much better job than he currently has. Certainly all reasons to keep a constant scour on the face.

Otherwise, I had the time to be concerned about one of my bar regulars Yakov (not his real name, but based on the Eastern Europeaness of his real name).

Yakov:

Around 25 years old.

5'9" medium build

Blond hair.

Charasmatic.

Always smiling.

Always well dressed, typically in brown.

Always smells like very expensive and good cologne.

Always wears a very expensive watch, most recently a Tag Hauer with diamonds in it.

Yakov first started coming to the bar with a house-arrest ankle bracelet. He knew exactly how long it took to leave the bar and get to his house out of town. He never delayed and when he said he needed his bill, it meant immediately. Not soon after he started coming, we found out that he had the ankle bracelet because last year when he was living in Seattle he was at a party and a friend asked him if he knew five men who would marry five Asian women so that they could get their greencards. And Yakov said, "Yeah, I bet I could find five men that would marry hot Asian women to get their greencards. How hard could that be?" And it proved not be hard at all, and those five men found five men and those five men found five men, you get the picture. So after about a year, the INS started noticing a trend with these Asian women and as they investigate they find Yakov at the top of the pyramid.

Yakov was supposed to go to federal prison, but somehow charms the judge into letting him have house arrest instead. When he gets house arrest, he takes his parol officer out and persuades her to let him have three hours each night to leave the house and have dinner and a drink. Somehow, she agrees to this. He even gets his anklet taken off early. So part of the deal is that he cannot fly for two years, but the second the anklet is off, he swears that he will be on a plane by the end of the next week. And sure enough, he comes in and says, I'll see you a week. I got permission to go to Las Vegas to help a friend move to Oregon. He told them that she had no family and he was the only person who could help her. He said two federal marshals would be there to great him at the airport as he embarked and disembarked. But then he also says that he is going to put three video poker machines in the back of the U-Haul and transport them to Oregon, which is illegal since the state controls all the gambling.

This whole conversation took place over a month ago. And since there has been absolutely nothing as to his wearabouts, I'm thinking he must be in prison or killed by somesort of mafia guy that he was in cahoots with. A few days ago, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum came in, very cute young women with matching stripper-blond hair. These girls had been running around with Yakov right before he left. (Yakov really likes accessories, nice watches, nice cars, expensive haircuts, nice jackets, nice belts, and two dumb pretty girls finish the look off perfectly.) Dee asked me if I had seen him and I said no, waiting for their take on the whole thing. After a moment, Dum decided that he might have stayed in Nevada, but Dee thought he was most likely in prison. Dee had spoken to him four weeks ago when he was driving through Reno, so we know he left Las Vegas. Now I can’t help but wonder where the hell he is.

On a lighter note, if you see the 2003 Rockblock Syrah, pick it up. Good regulars to me brought in a bottle this evening and left a glass. Great nose with dried cherries and figs, fruit forward with a nice smooth long finish. I always feel like syrahs are so variable, you never know if it is going to be big and fruity, or taste like rubbing alchol with cheap strawberry jam infused in it. But this one is a winner!

Cheers!

A bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory.

Sunday, July 8, 2007

Last minute push

What a fucking crazy night. We didn’t do any business until 10:20, and for the record we do last call at 11 p.m. At 8 we sent home the food runner and at 10 we sent home the other bartender because it was so quiet. She looked at me and said, “Are you sure?” and I acted like she was an idiot, since the entire night had consisted of only one of us being behind the bar and the other of us lollygagging in some manner or another. And not soon after she left, the bar filled up and a sixteen people came in and asked if I could make 16 pineapple mojitos, and certainly you should never say no to that. So the ship immediately started sinking. The owner arrived in the beginning of the chaos, thank God, because she ran drinks and food. However, our newest server kept fucking up left and right and unfortunate to her, the owner was there to witness everything. I had already decided to sit down with her and share with her all of her inadequacies that she exhibited from last week (she was on vacation most of this week), but after tonight it was pretty much the, we want to fire you, but we can’t until next week when we find your replacement, so maybe you might want to look for another job.


That conversation is always awkward and it is the shittiest part of my job. I really wish that everyone was smart, hardworking, and good with people. But it seems like a lot of lazy people with very little personality somehow end up in this business. And I work at a place where we never fire people, we just make it so miserable until they quit or we schedule them down to the point where they need to find other work. And unfortunately, this week we are already understaffed because of the whole, “I think I want to be a wild land firefighter” thing.


So on a more cocktaily note. I created a cilantro mango margarita that is killing it. I really only put it on the list to show that cilantro is a tangible cocktail ingredient, but it has become my best selling cocktail in only a few short days. Who would have thunk it?


Cheers!

WOMEN'S POEM

Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man, who's not a creep,
One who's handsome, smart and strong.
One who loves to listen long,
One who thinks before he speaks,
One who'll call, not wait for weeks.

I pray he's gainfully employed,
When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door,
Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man who'll make love to my mind,
Knows what to answer to "how big is my behind?"
I pray that this man will love me to no end,
And always be my very best friend.

MAN'S POEM

I pray for a deaf-mute nymphomaniac with huge boobs
who owns a liquor store and a golf course. This
doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit.

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Art Walk

So it’s one of those nights where you make a string of tickets long enough to wrap around your waste to look over at the printer to see that now you can keep Manuel Uribe Garza’s pants up. Some pompous dick in front of me asks if I went to school for chemistry (thinking that it takes a chemist to make a grapefruit cosmo) and I answer no - international business. He then keeps hinting at if I want to work for him in his start-up software company, to which I think, does it mean I would have to spend more time with you, because if that is the case, fuck no. He obviously thinks that I’m wasting my life away behind a bar, which is fucking ridiculous because everything great has happened to me at a bar. I’ve met all of my best friends at a bar, I met my husband at a bar, and I’ve paid for everything I own from being behind a bar. What he doesn’t understand is that I probably make more money than he does, I get to say fuck at work, and I am a local celebrity. Sitting at a desk isn’t in me, or else I’d be doing it. I told him to leave me his card, and guess what - his start-up hasn’t started printing cards yet. Fuck nut.

One of our best waitresses got called tonight to go fight forest fires. She thinks it is what she wants to do. At first, I was selfish for the restaurant. I didn’t want her to leave because it meant hiring someone else and she is so fantastic, she is one of those people that is impossible to replace. But now, I’m worried, because it is fucking dangerous and they haven’t trained her at all. I was reading tonight how she is supposed to know how to use a chainsaw, drive a 5-2 transmission truck, and a million other things she doesn’t have a clue how to do. I honestly cannot believe they are sending her out there so green. She is supposed to be back on Friday to work. I told her she had the week to decide if she really wanted to leave the restaurant or not, because if so, next Friday and Saturday could be it until she returns in the fall. Assuming a tree doesn’t fall on her.

Otherwise, just the random drama of the veteran staff pissing on their territory. We hired a new bartender and the resident server just hounds her for every fucking thing. It’s unfortunate, because the bartender is good. She knows that the server is marking her turf, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I’ll be glad when they’ve established a hierarchy.

Cheers!

I think everyone should go to college and get a degree and then spend six months as a bartender and six months as a cabdriver. Then they would really be educated. -- Al McQuire