A History Lesson

Alcohol can tell your history. The first time I ever drank hard alcohol was at one of my parent’s friend’s parties. They lived up on a hill on the south side of town next to miles of sprawling BLM land filled with piñon trees and cacti. While everyone was enjoying the nice weather and the mountain vistas, my sister, her friend, and I put some brandy in a large Dixie cup and informed our parents that we were walking back to town. It was the middle of summer and the day was long, we walked late in the evening in full daylight each taking sips with a quick shake of the head after each one.

That would be one of the last times I drank hard alcohol in moderation. I was soon thereafter awarded a scholarship to go to Europe and within a month found myself drinking pot-stilled vodka mixed with Coca Cola until I vomited, but even that wouldn’t keep me from ordering another drink. I moved back to the states for an unusual fondness for McCormick’s vodka mixed with orange soda. As were my platform shoes and short haircut short lived once back in the States, my palette changed for a partiality for micro-brews and marijuana. One day some unusually clear thinking showed me that I was spending quite a lot on beer and how that could be better spent on clothing and long trips. I quit drinking for the most part and then almost entirely when I met a guy who viewed alcohol almost in the same context as my Southern Baptist grandmother, that it was only put on this earth to make you weak. I was doing pull ups off the door jams at this point, so any chance of fragility was out of the question.

I left college and moved to the city where I was surrounded by people that drank as a hobby, a sport, and some for exercise. I started hanging out more and jumped on the cosmo craze, feeling hip with my pink sips as I developed an interest in designer clothing, chef-inspired cuisine, and started to understand the difference between a viognier and a barolo. I soon after took on a cheerful alcoholic as a boyfriend who turned me onto Crown Royal and expensive bottles of champagne. It is with this I left a three-year relationship when I was making some of the better money of my life, with nothing more than a few photos of well-dressed drunk people in fancy restaurants.

After a move to the Virgin Islands and a realization that I needed to regain a sense of dignity and pride, I moved back to my hometown. Where I met my husband who showed me the delights of Jameson. I then found Jameson 12 at an Irish pub in Phoenix, and for now that is my staple drink. I like looking at the back of a bar and seeing a bottle that reminds me of a certain time, or a certain place, or a certain friend. I just wonder how that history is for some people, for example my regular D.

D is in his late 40’s, tall and thin with a long blond ponytail. He is always very cheerful and loves to tell everybody what good energy they have. He is the kind of guy who keeps crystals in his pocket and advises to have your tarot read in times of trouble. He usually never has any trouble himself, since his father sold a winery in Napa in the 70s and D lives off of that money. Thus, D has never had to work and lives about 25 miles out of town on a ranch that has an abundance of housecats and no other animals.

Obviously, money is not an issue to D. He has always been an extremely generous tipper and a good spender. Over the months I’ve come to learn that he is engaged to a woman S, who waits tables two nights a week at a French bistro in the town that they live near. He always speaks very highly of her and how they were getting married in Hawaii in February. About two months ago, he brought S in for dinner. She is the same age as he, extremely beautiful, nice, and charming. S and D started coming for dinner once a week, always sitting at the bar, always ordering the same NxNW glass of cabernet and ending with the same Italian coffee drink.

Last Friday, D was in alone. Which is not unusual. He had two Italian coffees and his tab was $15. He paid with a credit card and then left $100 as the tip. I didn’t look at the slip and just put it in the drawer. G.I. Joe might have thought that knowledge is half the battle but when it comes to what people have tipped me, I’ve found that I cannot help but lose my enthusiasm to poor tippers and furthermore I think it’s tacky to look at the charge slips as you pick them up.

A few moments later, he calls me over with the curl of his pointer finger and says, “you didn’t see the tip, did you?” To which I replied no, I didn’t. He says, I left you $100 and then I feel like he is trying to kiss me from over the bar. I turn my head and say thank you but wonder if he thinks I am one of the cheapest prostitutes in Bend. I saw Cathouse, $100 won’t even get you a hand job. But the money wasn’t really for me; it was to impress the smart-looking blond girl sitting next to him. He proceeded to place his arm around her, rub her back, and kiss her on the neck. He bought another round of drinks, this time Voyant Chai liqueur, and this time left $50 on it. He left with this blond girl and put on a show of kissing her hard against his truck outside of the restaurant.

At 1:45 a.m. the phone rings. The phone never rings this late into the night, I am always alone now with the doors locked counting money or putting stuff away. So to hear anything in the building is shocking. I answer it. S asks me if I’ve seen D becaise she is concerned that she hasn’t seen him all night. I told her he left the bar around 10 p.m. I was surprised that he was fucking around on her; surprised that this woman was calling in the middle of the night, surprised that somehow I was in the middle of their fuck-up-ed-ness. But unfortunately, I am numb to people having affairs, people cheating with their wives’ best friends, and bar owners fucking their staff while their wives do the books in the backroom.

D & S came in the next night. S told me how D had fallen asleep in the truck in the driveway and how she didn’t find him until morning. I had to turn around and roll my eyes. S was looking at the back of the bar and saw the tall orange bottle that the Voyant comes in and asked about it. I told her it was Chai Tea Liqueur and that it was very yummy and creamy with cinnamon and nutmeg, like putting the flavor of Christmas in a bottle. She asked D if he wanted to try it and he says no. So just like I think of fun times, friends, and exquisite meals I’ve had when I scan across the bar, I just hope for D’s sake that they don’t have Voyant at the bar on his wedding day.

Dear Abby:

My husband is a liar and a cheat. He has cheated on me from the beginning, and when I confront him, he denies everything. What's worse, everyone knows he cheats on me. It is so humiliating. Also, since he lost his job over three years ago he hasn't even looked for a new one. All he does is buy cigars and cruise around and bullshit with his pals, while I have to work to pay the bills. Since our daughter went away to college he doesn't even pretend to like me and hints that I am a lesbian.

What should I do?

Signed,

Clueless


Dear Clueless:

Grow up and dump him. For Pete's sake, you don't need him anymore. You're a United States Senator from New York, act like it!

Attack of the Flu

For the past three years, October has brought a debilitating fit of bronchitis to me. I scurry around sick people year round without as much as a cough and then at the end of each October I suddenly cannot breathe when lying on my back and find a certain satisfaction when coughing up hard balls of mucus. I fantasize about never getting out of bed and watching television game shows until I have figured out the pattern on Press Your Luck. I watch the side of the bed become a cesspool of used tissues and use my sickness as an excuse to have food, books, magazines, and vitamins delivered to me by my husband as if I am some sort of invalid.

And it is with this state of body and mind I worked for the past three days. As alluring as it would be to not move and just sleep, I have no choice but go work eight to nine long hours on my feet in a busy bar. Smiling, laughing, joking, without coughing, sniffling, or lying down. It has been a real challenge to my showmanship and a real game in patience. Fortunately, we were busy but not to a point of any real challenge. Last Saturday was absolutely insane and I was behind the bar by myself. So I was glad to have another bartender on last night and I was able to sneak away and get some other stuff done, in particular change the cocktail menu.

I’m excited about the new drinks I’m putting on. The first called HucklePeary which is 44 North
Huckleberry Vodka, Grey Goose Pear, a dash of Gomme Syrup, and a little bit of fresh grapefruit juice.

The Second is called What’s up Doc and is Organic Carrot Juice, Ginger Syrup, a dash of fresh squeezed lemon juice, and Yazi Ginger Vodka.

The Third is called Pomoru Shu and is Pearl Plum Vodka, a dash of Crème de Casis, and Hou Hou Shu Sparkling Sake.

The Fourth is called Chai-Tea-Ni and is Voyant Chai Tea Liqueur, Vodka, Cinamon Nutmeg syrup, and a hint of cream.

The Fifth is called Red Curry and is Bicardi Coconut Rum, Ginger Syrup, Lime Juice, and a splash of Mazama Pepper Vodka to give it some heat.

And regardless of these fancy cocktails, a $33,000 bar top, and a clientele made up mostly of retired golfers, lawyers, doctors, and other professionals. Somehow some sort of sleeze can always find his way through the door. One such creature walked through the door last night, so sloppily dressed I thought he was a cab driver because I had fares waiting for a cab. But he ponied up to the bar and ordered a Grey Goose on the rocks. The other bartender poured it for him and I went about tending to other things. Not soon after, one of our favorite customers who is the chef at a neighboring restaurant told me that the sleeze was annoying the women next to him. I decided to do a load of dishes and then deal with it, and at that point the women got up and told the sleeze that he was freaking them out. I moved the women to a table and let the guy sit by himself for a moment. But within seconds he was in the midst of the chef’s conversation with his friend. His friend was sitting next to the sleeze and the sleeze asked if he wanted to go to the strip bar with him. He replied that he would have to ask his wife, the other bartender. The other bartender isn’t his wife but replied that she keeps a tight leash on him and that he couldn’t go to the titty bar. The sleeze then proceeded to bop him in the side of the head. He replied, “Don’t hit me in the head.” And the sleeze said, “You can hit me in the head, but I’ll hit you right back.” So I looked at him and said, “You have annoyed two women to a point where they don’t want to be in the bar. Now you have invited yourself in a conversation where you are not welcome. Then you proceed to hit this person on the head. You need to go.” He asked if he were getting kicked out of the bar because he wasn’t leaving. So I went out from under the bar, grabbed him by the hoodie and pulled him out the door. He put both of his arms out and grabbed onto the door so he couldn’t leave. And I looked at him and asked him if he wanted me to call the police on him. And he still was grabbing on, so I pulled one of his arms off the door which caused him to fall because he was pulling all of his weight from the doorjam. By this point three men were standing there ready to save me, but fortunately once again, I didn’t need saved.

So that was the highlight of the night. And today, I haven’t got out of bed once.

Cheers!

"My doctor told me to take something for my cold."
"What did you take?"
"His Coat!"

Who likes it up the ass?

About three months ago, a blond guy in his early thirties came into the bar with a friend. In a fit of extreme anxiety he blurted out, “Do you use fresh herbs?” Since I wasn’t quite sure if he was trying to get the name of a reputable drug dealer or a mojito, I asked him to repeat himself. He replied, “You know, fresh herbs.” And I asked what for ? And he said, “You know for your drinks.” You would think that the six mojitos with delicate mint leaves floating in them right next to him and a full glass of luscious picked mint would be enough to answer his dense question, so I replied, “No, we use plastic herbs with a special time-release crystal that makes your drink extra fresh and minty!” The guy replied, “Well you’re a sarcastic one aren’t you. Actually you are just obnoxious.” And I told him that he was right and there was a bar just right across the street for arrogant ignorant equally obnoxious bar customers where kind loving tolerant bartenders would be nice to him regardless. And with that, the guy became a regular.

Jim does contract work at the hospital and comes in to town about every two weeks. The third time he came in, he was with a fellow contractor and ended up sitting next to two blatantly gay men who were opening a high-end fashion boutique in town. Jim just happened to go to the restroom in between the two guys giggling and taunting one another, when the lispier of the two gay men asked me if Jim batted for their team. I have moderate to good gaydar, but certainly not as good as someone who actually takes a chance shoving his dick up a straight man’s ass. Since I hadn’t put that much thought into it, I told him that I didn’t know.

A few weeks later, Jim reappeared with three well-dressed men who were all joking about where they get their hair done, who has hotter abs, and what they like to feed their cats. I couldn’t believe that I had missed it, obviously Jim was gay. There was no doubt and to confirm my new found suspicion he stayed late with one of the men drinking until the bitter end at which point they made plans on meeting at Jim’s hotel room. The next three times Jim was in, he was hanging out with this guy.

Only a few weeks later, Jim came in with some of his workmates. One of them started chatting about his dog which led me to gush about my dog, the direct result of childless people in their 30’s owning a pet. Jim’s friend claimed he was the same about his dog, allowing the mutt to rule his life until he had children and learned to put the dog in its place. Curious as to how having children had affected his marriage, I changed the subject from the dog. Which of course led to him gibbering about how darling his two babies were. Out of the blue, Jim piped in how absolutely adorable his son is. “You have a son?” thinking that this is a remnant of the days before Jim took strangers home from the bar to blow him. “Yeah, he’s four months and in reply to your question it has brought my wife and me closer together too.”

Yeah.

If any young beautiful women would like to marry Yakov, he is having a wedding on August 8, 2008 for himself. He doesn’t have a bride yet but is excited for the wedding.

There were these two friends, one who was gay, who died in a horrible car accident. They both went to heaven and were standing at the pearly gates when St. Peter met them.

St. Peter asked the first man for a picture of his wife. After looking at the picture, St. Peter asked him if he had ever cheated on her.

The man replied, "I was unfaithful to my wife one time."

St. Peter decided to give the man a station wagon for him to drive around heaven.

Now it was the second man's turn.

St. Peter asked him for a picture of his wife and then asked if he had ever cheated on her.

The man replied, "Actually I'm gay, but here's a picture of my lover, and I never cheated on him."

St. Peter was very impressed and decided to give the man a Ferrari to drive around heaven.

After a few months in heaven, the two friends met up with each other. The second man was bragging about his Ferrari when the other turned to him and said, "I wouldn't be bragging if I were you. I just saw your lover on a skateboard."

Asshole Down!

This is the documentation of my night.

This evening around 9 p.m. a tall bald gentleman dressed in a white dress shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots came into the bar and sat at seat three on the bar. I was not behind the bar when he ordered, but he had Grey Goose with a Chamord float and a twist. He did not appear to be intoxicated when he entered the bar. He got up to use the restroom, which entails walking across the restaurant, and slipped. I did not see it, but another server did and came and told me. I asked her if he was all right and she yes. I asked her if there was anything on the floor and she said no. He returned from the restroom and asked to speak to a manager. I said I could help him. He told me that our floor was ridiculously slippery and he didn't know what kind of wax we used on the floor, but it was unnecessary. I replied that we didn't use any wax on the floor, but we would certainly look into making it less slippery. I never told him that no one else had ever slipped on the floor, although no one ever has. He showed me the bottom of his boot, which was very slick and had absolutely no tread on it. He told me that he did not know what type of shoes we wore here, but he had on absolutely normal shoes and it was ludicrous how slippery the floor was and that he could sue us and take everything we had. I asked him if he was hurt and he said no and that he wouldn't sue the bar anyhow because he was already rich. He then added that he was from New York City and had a sick sense of humor. At this point I figured he was done, he had vented, we had established that he wasn't hurt, and I said that we would look into the floor not being so slippery.

He takes a few steps and then asks me my name. After I reply, he begins to personally attack me by telling me that I need to change it. I replied that I was sorry that he had happened to take a spill in our restaurant, but that was no reason to personally insult me. He then sat down and started rubbing his arm saying that it had pulled out of the socket when he slipped and once again he would sue us. I assured him that if he had hurt himself that we had insurance that would cover his medical bills and asked if I could call him a doctor. He said that he didn't need a doctor and that he wasn't going to sue, that he had all the money he needed. He then proceeded to start calling people on his cell phone. He made a big scene about calling people and telling them where he was, but never said that he was hurt. I had a server make him an ice pack for his arm. He never put the ice pack on his arm. He just rubbed it one more time. He complained again about the slippery floor, claiming he was a hockey skater and a superb athlete, not one to be clumsy or slip on a floor. I left to go to the office and called the owner of the bar, to ask him to come down to talk to this man. The owner said he would be right down. I went back out and told him that the owner would be right down to talk to him. He said that he would not still be in the bar; I told him that the owner was well on his way and would be present momentarily. To that, he got up and left the bar.

He never appeared to be intoxicated, rather an arrogant ass on an ego trip.

1) Here are the other written down statements as to the night.

A man walked by us at the bar, fell and grabbed my arm for support. When he rose he complained about his boots and seemed intoxicated. He carried on about his cowboy boots and the floor. He seemed fine and without injury. And he left the bar.

2) We were having a great dinner. We saw the man next to us walk around and slip on the floor, he appeared to catch himself but was very embarrassed and made a big deal to a couple that was directly behind his slip. When coming back from the restroom, he started talking to a waitress, then accused her of being defensive because her arms were crossed. But he was talking about suing the place. (I personally always cross my arms) He asked her name and then told her to change her name. He had really bad energy. He said a kid was laughing at him. He was very aggressive. Called someone complaining.

On that note, I hope this man dies and burns in hell.

This guy went into a bar and ordered a beer. He happened to look down the bar and see a man sitting there with a head the size of a cue ball. So he walked down and said to the man, “Excuse me sir, I don't mean to be rude but I noticed you have a small head. Is this a birth defect?” The man said “No, I got this in the war. My ship was torpedoed by the German's in WWII. I was the only survivor on the ship so I swam to shore. One day a mermaid swam up to me and said she would grant me three wishes. For my first wish I wanted to return to the U.S. The mermaid granted that wish. My second wish was to have all the money I would ever need. Wish granted. My third wish was to have sex with the mermaid. She said, ‘I can't grant that wish because mermaids can't have sex.’”

So I said, “How about a little head?”

Distill the Distillers

Well, the hiring issues are over. I offered the position of food runner to the girl whose father is a chef. She obviously didn’t take it. The firefighter came back. And for the first time in the history of the restaurant, the staff is good and happy and they all work well together. It is such a relief to go to work and not have any staff issues.

Tonight I wanted to strangle one of the most annoying men I have ever met. About two months ago, my husband and I went to dinner with the people who own the bar. We went to a new restaurant in town and were treated extremely well, with a lot of extra attention. The next night, the bartender and owner of that restaurant were in with a man who distills vodkas and bourbon for a living. He asked if I had his bourbon, which I did not but I told him I would bring it in. He gave me his card and I saw that he also had a lot of interesting flavors of vodka, so I decided to try one of those too. Upon arrival of these two liquors, I immediately opened them and found that they were just a fancy label and a nice bottle away from being locally distilled rubbing alcohol. The bourbon I ended up pouring off in the well and I managed to finagle the vodka into a cocktail that includes muddling a bunch of basil, and adding enough lime and sugar to mask any hint of what the vodka actually tastes like.

This evening this man came in and I merrily showed him that I brought in his beloved vodka. He asked me what we used it for and I made him one of these labor-intensive cocktails. He loved it, and then asked me what the story was about the 360 vodka because he hadn’t seen it. I told him that it had an incredible flavor profile and came from a very progressive company. I said it was comparable in taste to a vodka that we carry that has been filtered 100 times and tastes almost like tap water. I said that I had tasted it to the Grey Goose and it definitely had less impurities to it and had less flavor. He then went off on a rampage about how Grey Goose is shit and of course nothing tasted good compared to it. He went off how Grey Goose isn’t really from France and it is really made in Ohio. If I looked at the bottle it would say it wasn’t made in France. I looked at the bottle and it said it was distilled and bottled in France. He continued about the disgrace of Ohio-made Grey Goose and I said, what is the problem with Ohio. It’s in the grain belt of this country, if any place should make vodka, why not where we farm all the grain. He continued on his ridiculous anti-Grey Goose stance for the next 90 minutes. I almost told him he should shut the fuck up since his product tasted like McCormick’s vodka at the price of Stoli, especially after he declared that the other companies distill four times and filter at least twice but he knows that that it doesn’t do anything after two distillings and the filtering is just a marketing ploy. A marketing ploy that sells vodka I guess, since Grey Goose outsells any of my other calls. What a fucking idiot.

Very excited to try Redbreast 12 yr. Irish whiskey. It comes in tomorrow.

I was making love to this girl and she started crying. I said, "Are you going to hate yourself in the morning?" She said. "No. I hate myself now."

- Rodney Dangerfield

What's Your Poison

Oh my little worker bees. I got to work to find that the bookkeeper that my husband fired three days ago is doing the restaurant’s bookkeeping right where I intended to eat dinner. So I ate in the back of the kitchen where the health inspector just hung a new sign about how once upon a time a guy had diarrhea, went to work, didn’t wash his hands, got 256 people sick, shut down the restaurant, and killed a 56 year old woman. I thought it was a little dramatic for a sign above the sink that reminds you to wash your hands. But, honestly it fits right in with the other huckabaloo that unfolds in that kitchen. About fifteen minutes after I finished eating, I walked through the kitchen to find the head-cook coddling the dishwasher, who happens to be his sister-in-law. They have a typical Mexican brother-in-law/sister-in-law relationship in which he appears to always be trying to get into her pants and she always looks willing but afraid. So at first I just thought it was more of their odd flirtations but then I could tell that she was crying and hurt. In turns out she pulled a pan of hot potatoes off of the stove and burnt herself with boiling water. Although I am sure she is going to be fine, I sent her home with an ice pack. Which meant that the head cook had to leave for 30 minutes. So that left the other cook at sauté and me in pantry, and let me tell you -- I make a mean Greek Salad. I am always completely out of my element in the kitchen and I love it because it is a challenge. I also love it because I don’t have to talk to anybody except for the food runner and the other cook. It really is a nice break from the bar.

The new girl I hired, whose father is a chef, is getting freaked out and I can tell that we are too busy for her. I think she knows she is in over her head and I’m not really quite sure what to do with her because I like the run the floor really tight since we pool tips and everyone is good. But there is no way she can be out there in the restaurant, there are 21 tables if they are full that are being serviced by two servers and a foodrunner/busser. Obviously a lot of tables are just cocktailing, but nonetheless is a lot to handle and I can tell that there is no fucking way. Which means I have to sit down with her and figure out how to get her to where I need her, which means I’m going to freak her out. Which means hopefully she toughens up and figures it out. It just freaks me out because it reminds me a lot of the girl I just fired and I really don’t feel like reliving that. At least from the new round of hiring I got one really great girl and now the firefighter is coming back because she wasn’t getting any firefighting work and her crew chief is a crackpot who won’t pay her.

These are my two next choices:

A girl that works on a coffee cart at a golf course. In my ad it says experienced high-volume fine-dining server. What about coffee cart barista is any one of those.

Or I had a girl come in yesterday who works on a chuck wagon at a horse coral and told me she got 100% on her food handlers permit card, which everyone gets 100% on. They ask you things like, “Do you store ice cream in a freezer of an oven.” I told her, “Impressive. Let me put your resume in a safe place in case something in the food handling department comes up.”

Cheers!

There's a guy sitting at a bar, just looking at his drink. He stays like that for half an hour.

Soon, a big trouble-making truck driver steps next to him, takes the drink from the guy, and just drinks it all down.

The poor man starts crying. The truck driver says, "Come on man, I was just joking. Here, I'll buy you another drink. I just can't stand seeing a man crying."

"No, it's not that. This day is the worst of my life. First, I fall asleep, and I'm late to my office. My boss, in an outrage, fires me. When I leave the building to my car, I found out it was stolen.

"The police say they can do nothing. I get a cab to return home and when I leave it, I remember I left my wallet and credit cards there. The cab driver just drives away. I go home and when I get there, I find my wife in bed with the gardener. I leave home and come to this bar.

"And when I was thinking about putting an end to my life, you show up and drink my poison."

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."