Pitchers

“We don’t sell pitchers.” I say this quite often and it invokes the same kind of ire as when I inform a customer that we don’t sell Coors Light. Occasionally, I get the “What kind of Irish Pub doesn’t sell pitchers?” This kind, now you can take your ass up the road to Finn McCool’s and not a get a pitcher there. I explain to customers that a pitcher is sixty-ounces, and so is three Imperial Pints, our standard glass. And you know what? Those bastards who go on about pitchers always end up ordering different beers in the end. The problem with telling people that we don’t sell pitchers is that since the rugby team gets an hour of Bud Light after their game, there tends to be pitchers scattered through out the bar on any given Saturday. This causes customers to call me a liar and I hate being called a liar.

Prior to coming to work, I checked out the Santa Monica Rugby Club’s schedule. They were hosting the Las Vegas Blackjacks. I feel that team name is a little on the nose. Why not the Las Vegas Roulettes or the Las Vegas Buffets or even the Las Vegas Crystal Meth Addicted Whores? On the nose or not, I always root for the Whores. In any case, I got to work and saw that some of the Blackjacks were already in the bar. Turns out the Blackjacks only brought one team, so there was a one o’ clock game, and only a smidgen of a party to be had. I was perturbed, a half-hour into my shift and there were only a dozen rugby players and thirty pounds of Bangers and Mash set up in the back. I began to drown my sorrows in Bangers. There nothing like deep fried sausage to chase the blues away. (And, yes, that last sentence was literal.) It turns out that the most of the Santa Monica team didn’t come to the party because they were resting up for the blow out that was to take place at seven o’ clock. And let me tell you, Dear Reader, it was a blow out.

I don’t know when it happened, probably around eight, but there was a two-front storm. First, was the rugby team’s piss up. David Hughes, rugby player extraordinaire and fiance of Brooke “Kamikaze” Nelson, inquired about the cost of having our three pitchers made available for sale. I told him that I’d charge them for three pints and that was that. The second front was a customer’s birthday. He hired a band to play. The party was dropped off by a bus. By the time they arrived, I had completely forgotten my earlier disappointment with the meager turnout for the rugby party, because I was in the weeds. For those unfamiliar with the term, “In the weeds” refers to not being able to keep up with the crowd at hand. Personally, I love being “in the weeds.” It makes me feel alive. Now we’ve got a two-front storm and three pitchers out on the floor, numbers most quants would shy away from. The problem is, now I’ve got customers ordering pitchers of beer. I tell them we don’t sell pitchers, they’re only for the rugby team. Invariably, the customer would tell me that they are part of the rugby team, to which I would respond, “Then grab one of the three pitchers and I’ll sell it back to you.” Then there was the one customer who called me a “liar.” I knew he was kidding, but I wanted to throttle him just the same. Being behind the bar, you can miss a lot. Turns out this storm brought a couple of near fights in the back. It’s never a good sign when security is calming a situation before they clock in. Also, a couple of people vomited in the bar and this was all before nine-thirty.

Tim and Aoife came on and it was similar to last Saturday, they just had to jump into the mix. Since we tend to be a late night bar, it’s pure gravy having an early crowd. Both Tim and Aoife were confused about the pitcher situation. I told them to charge for three pints. Tim asked, “Until when?” I said, “Until they stop drinking.” I took my dinner break. Since I’m back on wheat, my options increase exponentially. Right now, I’m in the process of burning out on BLT’s with avocado. I threw a club in there to mix it up, but processed turkey skeeves me. It tastes like ham made from a bird. MMMMMMMMMMMBird Ham. The birthday party left and the rugby team’s drinking games slowed down. It started to look like a normal night. At one point, a Euro ordered “two shots and two beers.” I don’t know what part of generic Soviet society he grew up in, but I asked him to clarify. “Sambuca and two beers.” Fine, I closed him out. No tip. He’s from the old country. What can you do? Tim shoved his credit card receipt in my face and said, “They’re loving you tonight.” Two minutes later, a guy orders a round of drinks and tips a hundred percent, more than actually, thirty on twenty-nine. Tim picked up the credit card book and said, “That guy in the glasses just tipped us a hundred percent.” I replied, “Why is it when I get stiffed, ‘they’re loving me’, but when I get us thirty on twenty-nine, ”we“ just got tipped a hundred percent?” Tim conceded. The same guy returned to the bar for the same drinks and left the same tip. Turns out it was his birthday. I wish they all celebrated like him, instead of the whiners who come in trying to mooch a free drink on their birthday which occurred three weeks ago. When I point this out, they say, “But we’re celebrating now.” Have your birthday at my bar on your birthday, and I’ll buy you a drink, if you’re buying the round. I don’t know why your friends should get a break on your birthday. Let them buy you birthday drinks.

The birthday party left and the rugby team’s drinking games slowed down. The crazy night began to resemble a normal one. This normality ended around twelve-thirty when we got another pop. It turned out to be a huge night, almost the same as the previous Saturday. I only pray that this keeps up. If business stays like this, we may just have to invest in a few new pitchers.