The Sunday afternoon shift generally is about as bad as it gets, slow and old the time passes not hardly at all... what I expected. Except this Sunday afternoon I made rent in a few short hours.
Servers and bartenders in general out drink everyone. Writers and trust fundies, and frat boys included. Industry people as we are called, are the ninja gladiators of alcohol consumption and a large group of servers with an open bar tab is a lucrative and dangerous arrangement indeed. This group was set loose by my same owner, though from a different establishment.
In no time at all they went right to the top shelf. (hiii-ya) I was heartbroken to inform them that "No, we do not carry Louis XIII cognac but if we did I would line it up stat! in shot glasses for you, unfortunately the best I can to is dirty old Scotch. Old, old Scotch." *Sigh*
I have to admit, I feel a bit of a twinge watching kids shooting single malt scotch that is one, older then they are and two, costs more then one paycheck could cover. Does alcohol deserve our reverence at all?? However, my devious third thought was I should have ordered one more because four, my boss is picking up the tab and five if I ran off with a shot of Macallan 25 it would mean another eight dollars on my tip and I can not see one single downside to this arrangement.
But I didn't. Now I wish I had because I will never buy one for myself.
Meanwhile, without reservation I served car bombs and shots of Patron and fruity martinis until the check was as long as my arm. When the tab was cut off they slapped me on the back full of love and adoration, then trailed out into the night, not hardly a sign of intoxication on them.
Something as ephemeral as a swarm of beer-locust I can not contain. I knew I could only love them as long as they chose to stay, then so bittersweet, set them free to the next bar.
Soft landings babies!!
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