Bartending is a lot like Catholicism in the age of Martin Luther’s reformation. One of the issues Martin Luther had with the church is that Catholics could purchase indulgences in order to avoid punishment from God. Tips in a bar are a form of indulgences. Big tippers get away with far more than bad tippers, but stealing from the kitchen is where I draw the line.
The Hamburglar has been featured in my blog before. During the previous O’ Brien’s administration, there was an issue on whether we could/would eighty-six the Hamburglar. You see the Hamburglar is a good customer in regards to the amount of money he spends. Alas, the Hamburglar only had a Discover card, which we don’t accept as payment, so any tab he started was based on faith. After walking on one too many tabs, he was deemed a cash and carry customer. He spends a lot of money at the bar and tips well, so he’s granted some indulgences, such as his compulsive lying. I can’t prove that he didn’t serve multiple terms in Iraq, but I do know that he doesn’t own O’ Brien’s. Come on. I may act like I own the place, but I would never stoop so low that I’d say I do. In any case, last night the Hamburglar closed out his tab. He left twenty on forty-two, an extremely generous tip. If I’m the Pope of the bar, I’m thinking this guy bought a few indulgences. So the Hamburglar can’t find the chicken strips which he ordered. I go to the kitchen to look for the ticket. It turns out the chicken strips have already gone out. The odd thing is that the Hamburglar is holding a bag with two to-go containers. I don’t know if he wants to get caught, but he admits that one is the chicken strips and the other is a hamburger. I ask, “Who paid for the burger?” He tells me that his friend, Captain Crook, paid for it. I ask Aoife and Kimi the deal and they know nothing about the burger. I catch the Hamburglar outside when he changes his story. He claimed, “I told the kitchen to make me a burger and I paid at the bar. I, also, gave the kitchen ten bucks.” Now he’s gone from his friend paying for it to him paying the bar and the kitchen. You can give the kitchen all the money you want, but it doesn’t count as payment for anything. Long story short, we yelled at him, called him a liar, got his credit card back and charged him for the burger. The strange part is that he could’ve ordered the burger, spent the same total as his first bill and left a healthy tip. I explained to the kitchen to not make anything without a ticket or say so from a manager. I don’t know what people are thinking, but you try and steal on my watch, and I’m gonna hop in my Gayata and hunt you down.
This was easily the low point of the night. It was a bit slow but there were good customers. The best was Robb Cullen. Robb sat quietly the whole night drinking his Grand Marnier and sipping on his cocktail, occasionally requesting a cola. At the end of the night, he left us a tip that could choke a horse. It boosted our bottom line by twenty percent. What indulgences has he purchased? This guy could take a shit in the middle of the bar on St. Patrick’s Day and I’d happily give him a tongue bidet. Yes, I know where my bread is buttered. I love getting a big tip, but I’ll have some trouble being cordial the next time I serve the Hamburglar.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Spins
I admit it. I drank too much last night. Since I’ve been working in a bar, my alcohol consumption is far lower than it was when I was patronizing/living in said bar. I wasn’t an amateur by any means. I ate two dinners, but for some reason I couldn’t measure my buzz to alcohol consumption ratio. I guess I’m out of practice and I definitely paid the price.
Paul, one of the owners of O’ Brien’s, was in town and since I’ve been pining for a promotion, I decided to peel my self off the couch and get some face time with the boss. I know how shit gets done at O’ Brien’s and if I ever want to get a bump from assistant to the assistant to the manager to deputy assistant to the assistant to the manager, then I have to party with the right people. I got down to La Vecchia around nine. I figured since I had already eaten dinner, I would have a couple of drinks then drive home. I was on my second Ketel rocks twist when Mark, the owner, set down steak and fries for Paul. Well, since Paul was shmoozing over at another table, I figured I’d try a fry. Now I work at an establishment where consumption of french fries runs a close second to water, so I consider myself an amateur expert in the field of freedom fried potatoes, and I must say, this fry was fucking amazing. Paul continued to shmooze and I continued to eat his fries. I ate so many of them that the steak began to look lonely, and you know, there’s nothing sadder than a lonely steak, so I had a taste. You know what? It was even better than the fries. Long story short, my second dinner was delicious and I figured my stomach was lined for beverage.
After my third Ketel we moved on to Finn McCool’s. We were having a good time when a slew of douche bags in golf attire showed up. That coupled with the fact that I hadn’t been to O’ Brien’s in thirty-six hours propelled us down the street. I had my fourth at Finn’s and my fifth at O’ Brien’s, then some shots next door at Main. At this point I realized that driving was not in my future, so I threw caution to the wind. I know I had a sixth and possibly a seventh, but it wasn’t a problem because I had two dinners, a bite of Brandon’s pastrami sandwich (no, that’s not code for something,) and a bottle of water. I don’t remember a whole lot, but I do remember that it was Truck Stop at Main, which had a good crowd. There seemed to be a few strippers in attendance. I hate to be presumptuous but something about tall skinny girls with big plastic cans dancing on each other like poles led me to that conclusion. I also remember a guy getting thrown out. I remember talking to someone’s father about the incident and he said, “I’m from Chicago and this shit never happens there.” Really? Do people in Chicago not get thrown out of bars for being assholes? It’s usually New Yorkers who play that card. One day I hope to be in another city and hear someone say, “I’m from Los Angeles and this shit never happens there.” But that’ll never happen, because according to people from Chicago and New York, shit only happens in Los Angeles.
Brandon was a mensch and drove my car home. I contemplated a third dinner at Jack in the Box, but decided against it. I should’ve hit it up. I still had no idea that my alcohol consumption had far exceeded my buzz. Instead, when I got home I decided to make a mixed berry smoothie. I plopped down on the couch and I got the spins. I hate the spins. In order to get the room to stop spinning I have only one solution. I dragged myself over to the toilet and jammed two fingers so far down my throat that I could almost touch my boxer shorts. The first thing to come up was red and I couldn’t figure out why I was bleeding, but anything to stop the spins. After puking up some more I realized that it was frozen mixed berries. Finally, the spins had stopped and I was able to go to bed. I’m not a fan of vomiting, but I’ll do it, because I hate the spins.
Paul, one of the owners of O’ Brien’s, was in town and since I’ve been pining for a promotion, I decided to peel my self off the couch and get some face time with the boss. I know how shit gets done at O’ Brien’s and if I ever want to get a bump from assistant to the assistant to the manager to deputy assistant to the assistant to the manager, then I have to party with the right people. I got down to La Vecchia around nine. I figured since I had already eaten dinner, I would have a couple of drinks then drive home. I was on my second Ketel rocks twist when Mark, the owner, set down steak and fries for Paul. Well, since Paul was shmoozing over at another table, I figured I’d try a fry. Now I work at an establishment where consumption of french fries runs a close second to water, so I consider myself an amateur expert in the field of freedom fried potatoes, and I must say, this fry was fucking amazing. Paul continued to shmooze and I continued to eat his fries. I ate so many of them that the steak began to look lonely, and you know, there’s nothing sadder than a lonely steak, so I had a taste. You know what? It was even better than the fries. Long story short, my second dinner was delicious and I figured my stomach was lined for beverage.
After my third Ketel we moved on to Finn McCool’s. We were having a good time when a slew of douche bags in golf attire showed up. That coupled with the fact that I hadn’t been to O’ Brien’s in thirty-six hours propelled us down the street. I had my fourth at Finn’s and my fifth at O’ Brien’s, then some shots next door at Main. At this point I realized that driving was not in my future, so I threw caution to the wind. I know I had a sixth and possibly a seventh, but it wasn’t a problem because I had two dinners, a bite of Brandon’s pastrami sandwich (no, that’s not code for something,) and a bottle of water. I don’t remember a whole lot, but I do remember that it was Truck Stop at Main, which had a good crowd. There seemed to be a few strippers in attendance. I hate to be presumptuous but something about tall skinny girls with big plastic cans dancing on each other like poles led me to that conclusion. I also remember a guy getting thrown out. I remember talking to someone’s father about the incident and he said, “I’m from Chicago and this shit never happens there.” Really? Do people in Chicago not get thrown out of bars for being assholes? It’s usually New Yorkers who play that card. One day I hope to be in another city and hear someone say, “I’m from Los Angeles and this shit never happens there.” But that’ll never happen, because according to people from Chicago and New York, shit only happens in Los Angeles.
Brandon was a mensch and drove my car home. I contemplated a third dinner at Jack in the Box, but decided against it. I should’ve hit it up. I still had no idea that my alcohol consumption had far exceeded my buzz. Instead, when I got home I decided to make a mixed berry smoothie. I plopped down on the couch and I got the spins. I hate the spins. In order to get the room to stop spinning I have only one solution. I dragged myself over to the toilet and jammed two fingers so far down my throat that I could almost touch my boxer shorts. The first thing to come up was red and I couldn’t figure out why I was bleeding, but anything to stop the spins. After puking up some more I realized that it was frozen mixed berries. Finally, the spins had stopped and I was able to go to bed. I’m not a fan of vomiting, but I’ll do it, because I hate the spins.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Fuck Coachella!
I’m sure music fans will be up in arms when they read this title. I really have nothing against the music festival in Indio, except that it sucks twenty-thousand white people out of the westside. And like the Republican party, white people are an Irish Pub’s base. I have no problem with black people, it’s just that at any given time last time, I could count the number of black people in the pub on my dick. We did have a couple of Hispanics (or is it Mexicans, Latinos, Dodger fans, I never know) in last night; and, although, we have no problem with them, it seemed that one of them had a problem with us.
Wednesday night, Aoife reminded me that Coachella puts a hurting on our business, so my expectations were severely dampened. Happy hour was quiet, but it gave me a chance to chat with customers. I had one couple in and I noticed that she had a list with a post it note list attached. Now I’ve never been a big fan of lists. I have one friend who at the end of each list writes, “Make New List.” That’s a bit too militant for me. I asked the woman at the bar about her list and list adjunct and it turns out that the couple is getting married. For someone who doesn’t really want to get married, nor celebrate his birthday, I sure enjoy the shit out of celebrating other people’s milestones. Turns out this couple is supposed to honeymoon in Fiji. Alas, the constitution has been suspended and democracy has disappeared overnight. (I’m talking about Fiji now.) In order to attract tourists they devalued their currency. Now this couple has no desire to make a statement against the government by canceling their plans, but they don’t want to get jacked by an angry Fijian for keeping them. I wish them luck.
The second half of the night started out slow, scratch that dead. My old girlfriend and former Live And Let Date blogger Liza Persky came in. It’s always great seeing her although the circumstances weren’t. A friend of Liza’s was found collapsed in her apartment. They did an MRI at the hospital and discovered a tumor which they removed. She’s recovering miraculously, but it just goes to show that life turns on a dime. I normally don’t like to shirk my duties at work but I don’t get to see Liza too often and since it was slow, I let Tim and Aoife pick up the slack. That’s the thing about bartending. It’s so easy to get locked into one customer, whether it’s a friend, a regular, or just someone you wanna bone. In any case, I looked up at one point and saw that we were all having one of those moments. It was slow enough that people didn’t have to wait too long, but it was slow enough that they shouldn’t have had to wait at all. Liza eventually took off and I got my head back in the game. Luckily, business picked up. The Ruse, the band that night, brought a good crowd. A couple of semi-regulars, Jen and Theresa, came in. They were chatting with a couple of Hispanic customers, who were drinking well and racking up a tab. At one point, Stevie, the bar back pointed out that one of the Mexicans was starting a fight with another customer. Turns out the Latino in question was getting too close to Theresa and another woman’s boyfriend stepped in to run interference. This didn’t sit well with the Dodger Fan, who went on to say, “I hate white people!” Excuse me? (Shameless plug alert: Ironically, I have a blog called: whitepeopleIhate.com.) I mean I have nothing against people who hate whitey, but what are you doing in an Irish pub in Santa Monica? The only whiter place on earth is an Irish Pub in Manhattan Beach. In any case, they were escorted out, given the opportunity to continue promulgating their hatred on one of the whitest streets on the planet.
Although I normally hate slow nights, this one was actually quite enjoyable. Aside from the anger towards my people; although, “my people” are semitic and lean more towards a shade of khaki, the customers in the bar were alright. I may have jumped the gun on the title. I’ll let you know how tonight goes, but with business the way it was last night, all I can say is, “Fuck Coachella!”
Wednesday night, Aoife reminded me that Coachella puts a hurting on our business, so my expectations were severely dampened. Happy hour was quiet, but it gave me a chance to chat with customers. I had one couple in and I noticed that she had a list with a post it note list attached. Now I’ve never been a big fan of lists. I have one friend who at the end of each list writes, “Make New List.” That’s a bit too militant for me. I asked the woman at the bar about her list and list adjunct and it turns out that the couple is getting married. For someone who doesn’t really want to get married, nor celebrate his birthday, I sure enjoy the shit out of celebrating other people’s milestones. Turns out this couple is supposed to honeymoon in Fiji. Alas, the constitution has been suspended and democracy has disappeared overnight. (I’m talking about Fiji now.) In order to attract tourists they devalued their currency. Now this couple has no desire to make a statement against the government by canceling their plans, but they don’t want to get jacked by an angry Fijian for keeping them. I wish them luck.
The second half of the night started out slow, scratch that dead. My old girlfriend and former Live And Let Date blogger Liza Persky came in. It’s always great seeing her although the circumstances weren’t. A friend of Liza’s was found collapsed in her apartment. They did an MRI at the hospital and discovered a tumor which they removed. She’s recovering miraculously, but it just goes to show that life turns on a dime. I normally don’t like to shirk my duties at work but I don’t get to see Liza too often and since it was slow, I let Tim and Aoife pick up the slack. That’s the thing about bartending. It’s so easy to get locked into one customer, whether it’s a friend, a regular, or just someone you wanna bone. In any case, I looked up at one point and saw that we were all having one of those moments. It was slow enough that people didn’t have to wait too long, but it was slow enough that they shouldn’t have had to wait at all. Liza eventually took off and I got my head back in the game. Luckily, business picked up. The Ruse, the band that night, brought a good crowd. A couple of semi-regulars, Jen and Theresa, came in. They were chatting with a couple of Hispanic customers, who were drinking well and racking up a tab. At one point, Stevie, the bar back pointed out that one of the Mexicans was starting a fight with another customer. Turns out the Latino in question was getting too close to Theresa and another woman’s boyfriend stepped in to run interference. This didn’t sit well with the Dodger Fan, who went on to say, “I hate white people!” Excuse me? (Shameless plug alert: Ironically, I have a blog called: whitepeopleIhate.com.) I mean I have nothing against people who hate whitey, but what are you doing in an Irish pub in Santa Monica? The only whiter place on earth is an Irish Pub in Manhattan Beach. In any case, they were escorted out, given the opportunity to continue promulgating their hatred on one of the whitest streets on the planet.
Although I normally hate slow nights, this one was actually quite enjoyable. Aside from the anger towards my people; although, “my people” are semitic and lean more towards a shade of khaki, the customers in the bar were alright. I may have jumped the gun on the title. I’ll let you know how tonight goes, but with business the way it was last night, all I can say is, “Fuck Coachella!”
Monday, April 13, 2009
Opening Day
I remember going with my Dad to see Fernando Valenzuela pitch opening day in 1981. It was the first of many consecutive shut outs and the beginning of Fernado-mania. I have fond memories of Dodger games. I’m not much of a baseball fan, but I’m happy to hang out with my friends on a sunny day. I’ve heard that Dodger games have changed as of late. Some friends who don’t “root, root, root for the home team” say that it’s a dangerous, violent place. These people are from Philadelphia,. What do they know about murder and urban violence? (Editor’s note: I just googled Philadelphia and Crime and they know a lot.) In any case, Megan and David invited me to go to opening day this year and I couldn’t say “no.”
We left David and Megan’s at around noon and in the time we could’ve been half way to Vegas, we found a parking space in Chavez Ravine with a distant view of the stadium. Now Angelenos get a bad rap when it comes to sports and I’m not saying it’s not deserved. They argue that we get to a Dodger game in the third and leave in the eighth. As a Westsider, it’s not easy crossing town. We would love to have seen the first pitch, but the two lanes of bumper to bumper traffic on Sunset prohibited us from doing so. When we finally got in the parking lot, it was a mess. Not only was it overpopulated with drunken gang bangers, but I was shocked how many fucktards double parked. At one point, we rolled past some dude napping in his Camry, which was taking up two spots. David asked, “Should we ask him to move his car?” Faster than the speed of light, Megan decisively said, “No.” It’s the kind of place where you didn’t want to ask anyone to do anything for fear of getting stabbed, which actually happened in the parking lot. (Click here for article.)
We were excited to have front row, field level seats behind home plate and were surprised to find out that we had top deck seats, but still front row and behind home plate. I believe David was a bit disappointed. Personally, I don’t care where I sit, I’m just there to hang out with my friends, but after the long drive and the hike up to our seats, my blood sugar level was beginning to plummet. Since I eat fourteen times my body weight every seven minutes, blood sugar usually isn’t an issue, but I was going on five hours with only a cup of Kashi Good Friends and soy milk. We got to our seats, which were awesome. I took everyone’s order: a dog, coke, water and beer, plus what I would get, and found the first place that sold food. It was called “Dodger Dog Express,” named after the mediocre hot dog that Dodger stadium is famous for. Now I was in no mood for irony; but, ironically, they were out of Dodger Dogs. For those of you who know me and my Rain Man ways, I’m not incredibly adaptable. Maybe my expectations were too high, but when you call yourself “Dodger Dog Express” you better have some fucking Dodger Dogs up in that bitch or change your fucking name. I grabbed the drinks, ran back to the seats to drop them off, and went to another food stand. Guess what they didn’t have? If you guessed the only fucking thing I wanted to purchase, you’d be exactly right. This led me to the main concession stand, which of course had the longest lines. I got in and it moved slowly when it moved. When I was one person away from the front, my concession lady disappeared. I don’t know if she went to take a dump or what but one of the other Junior High drop outs should’ve filled in. Since I don’t believe in the diffusion of responsibility, I yell out, “Is anyone working this line?” It’s already bad enough that I feel like a D Block prison guard on the set of American Me, but now my English as a First Language falls on deaf ears. She finally returned and I bought four hot dogs, one for David. I ran to the condiment station and put mustard on one and shoved it in my mouth. I don’t recall chewing it or what it tasted like, but my blood sugar level returned to normal and the universe was okay again.
We hung out for a few innings until Jake, Megan and David’s son, had enough. It was fine for me. We ended up missing the stabbing, the report of a man with a gun in lot four, and Orlando Hudson hitting the cycle, perhaps the rarest of offensive feats in baseball, but I got to hang out with my friends and shove meaty tubes of carcinogens in my pie hole. If someone gets tickets and drives, I would go back to Dodger stadium again. Save for the traffic, the lines, the paucity of food at certain stands, and the gang bangers, I had fun at Opening Day.
We left David and Megan’s at around noon and in the time we could’ve been half way to Vegas, we found a parking space in Chavez Ravine with a distant view of the stadium. Now Angelenos get a bad rap when it comes to sports and I’m not saying it’s not deserved. They argue that we get to a Dodger game in the third and leave in the eighth. As a Westsider, it’s not easy crossing town. We would love to have seen the first pitch, but the two lanes of bumper to bumper traffic on Sunset prohibited us from doing so. When we finally got in the parking lot, it was a mess. Not only was it overpopulated with drunken gang bangers, but I was shocked how many fucktards double parked. At one point, we rolled past some dude napping in his Camry, which was taking up two spots. David asked, “Should we ask him to move his car?” Faster than the speed of light, Megan decisively said, “No.” It’s the kind of place where you didn’t want to ask anyone to do anything for fear of getting stabbed, which actually happened in the parking lot. (Click here for article.)
We were excited to have front row, field level seats behind home plate and were surprised to find out that we had top deck seats, but still front row and behind home plate. I believe David was a bit disappointed. Personally, I don’t care where I sit, I’m just there to hang out with my friends, but after the long drive and the hike up to our seats, my blood sugar level was beginning to plummet. Since I eat fourteen times my body weight every seven minutes, blood sugar usually isn’t an issue, but I was going on five hours with only a cup of Kashi Good Friends and soy milk. We got to our seats, which were awesome. I took everyone’s order: a dog, coke, water and beer, plus what I would get, and found the first place that sold food. It was called “Dodger Dog Express,” named after the mediocre hot dog that Dodger stadium is famous for. Now I was in no mood for irony; but, ironically, they were out of Dodger Dogs. For those of you who know me and my Rain Man ways, I’m not incredibly adaptable. Maybe my expectations were too high, but when you call yourself “Dodger Dog Express” you better have some fucking Dodger Dogs up in that bitch or change your fucking name. I grabbed the drinks, ran back to the seats to drop them off, and went to another food stand. Guess what they didn’t have? If you guessed the only fucking thing I wanted to purchase, you’d be exactly right. This led me to the main concession stand, which of course had the longest lines. I got in and it moved slowly when it moved. When I was one person away from the front, my concession lady disappeared. I don’t know if she went to take a dump or what but one of the other Junior High drop outs should’ve filled in. Since I don’t believe in the diffusion of responsibility, I yell out, “Is anyone working this line?” It’s already bad enough that I feel like a D Block prison guard on the set of American Me, but now my English as a First Language falls on deaf ears. She finally returned and I bought four hot dogs, one for David. I ran to the condiment station and put mustard on one and shoved it in my mouth. I don’t recall chewing it or what it tasted like, but my blood sugar level returned to normal and the universe was okay again.
We hung out for a few innings until Jake, Megan and David’s son, had enough. It was fine for me. We ended up missing the stabbing, the report of a man with a gun in lot four, and Orlando Hudson hitting the cycle, perhaps the rarest of offensive feats in baseball, but I got to hang out with my friends and shove meaty tubes of carcinogens in my pie hole. If someone gets tickets and drives, I would go back to Dodger stadium again. Save for the traffic, the lines, the paucity of food at certain stands, and the gang bangers, I had fun at Opening Day.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Crap Friday
No, this isn’t a condemnation of religion. I mean no offense to Judas, Pontius Pilate, Jesus, or even Mel Gibson. It’s just that the night celebrated as Good Friday turned out to be horrible. I presume it’s just Spring Break and not the beginning of the end, but it seems like every decent tipper in this town was shipped out and was replaced with a cheap facsimile.
The difference between a good happy hour and a great one is when people come in and where they sit. Since Mary-Kate comes on at seven-thirty and takes the tables, if I have customers seated at tables, the only place where new customers can sit is the bar. Although there was a moderate crowd for happy hour, everyone seemed to come in when Mary-Kate came on and sat with her. (Yes, I hate them and their ass face. Name the movie.) That left me with the douche bag of the night. I never got his name. He sat at the bar and ordered a snake bite, lager and cider. When he ordered the drink, I could tell it wasn’t his first. I sensed that he was buzzed, but I had no idea. He wasn’t too problematic. He was quite quiet, except that he kept talking to himself. Since I don’t carry a DSM-IV with me to work (my bad) I don’t know how serious an issue it is. I find drunks who talk to other customers more of a problem, but I figure when they talk about the guy who started shooting up the place, they probably won’t describe him as “gregarious,” they’d probably say that he kept mumbling to himself. I kept wanting to say something, then he tipped me thirteen on seven, so I let him ramble on. I, eventually tired of it, and said, “Look, dude, you have to stop talking to yourself. You’re freaking me out.” Then he mumbled something about a taxi and that was my next call. He left without incident.
With exception, every other Friday is Vagtastic Friday. That’s when I’m behind the bar with Kimi and Aoife. For my birthday, Kimi made me a t-shirt that says, “I ♥ Vagtastic Fridays.” I wore it as an undershirt, but when I showed them, they said my regular shirt had to come off. Now if I’m at work and not wearing my flame-retardant, asbestos suit, I feel a bit naked. So wearing this shirt made me feel a little uncomfortable, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then I did. It’s one thing to share a joke amongst a few friends, but once you’re showing off the word, “Vagtastic,” customers, women especially, might think you’re a bit off. I remember eating at a Subway years ago and an employee had a hat which said, “Don’t Suck Corporate Cock.” I don’t know if he saw how his hat and Subway apron clashed a bit. In any case, I really got thrown off when a woman asked me the meaning of “Vagtastic.” i was stumped. I told her that it meant I was surrounded by vag. But then I totally disregarded the “tastic” part of it. No, it’s not because I drive a Miata, it’s because being surrounded by vag implies a state of tasticness. Are we clear? Good, because either am I.
I googled “Spring Break” and learned that it is Sioux for “one dollar tip.” Jesus fucking Christ! It seemed, with rare exception, that no matter how big an order, the tip ended up being a dollar. Whether paying cash or signing a credit card, it was a dollar tip. Now if I sell a five-dollar bottle of beer and get a dollar, I’m grateful, but when I make three vodka red bulls, a gin and tonic and rum and coke, and get a dollar on forty-four, I’m a little disappointed. I had one guy order a Stella, two Amstels and a coke for twenty-three dollars. He handed me nineteen-fifty. I asked if he had a credit card. No, he’d come back with the rest. You know what I learned from this transaction, half-dollar coins are still in circulation. The worst part about it all is that these cheap cunts were our only customers. It was dead and there was nothing I could do but passive-aggresively groan. On a busy night, you can pick and choose who you serve. On a slow night, you’re just grateful to be doing something. And, yes, it was an impossibly slow night.
It felt good to ring the “last call” bell. I normally bellow “last call,” but I didn’t want to frighten the six customers left in the bar. I pray that it’s just a holiday weekend thing and not the great recession rearing it’s ugly head in Santa Monica. Christians call it Good Friday and no offense to them, but to me it was Crap Friday.
The difference between a good happy hour and a great one is when people come in and where they sit. Since Mary-Kate comes on at seven-thirty and takes the tables, if I have customers seated at tables, the only place where new customers can sit is the bar. Although there was a moderate crowd for happy hour, everyone seemed to come in when Mary-Kate came on and sat with her. (Yes, I hate them and their ass face. Name the movie.) That left me with the douche bag of the night. I never got his name. He sat at the bar and ordered a snake bite, lager and cider. When he ordered the drink, I could tell it wasn’t his first. I sensed that he was buzzed, but I had no idea. He wasn’t too problematic. He was quite quiet, except that he kept talking to himself. Since I don’t carry a DSM-IV with me to work (my bad) I don’t know how serious an issue it is. I find drunks who talk to other customers more of a problem, but I figure when they talk about the guy who started shooting up the place, they probably won’t describe him as “gregarious,” they’d probably say that he kept mumbling to himself. I kept wanting to say something, then he tipped me thirteen on seven, so I let him ramble on. I, eventually tired of it, and said, “Look, dude, you have to stop talking to yourself. You’re freaking me out.” Then he mumbled something about a taxi and that was my next call. He left without incident.
With exception, every other Friday is Vagtastic Friday. That’s when I’m behind the bar with Kimi and Aoife. For my birthday, Kimi made me a t-shirt that says, “I ♥ Vagtastic Fridays.” I wore it as an undershirt, but when I showed them, they said my regular shirt had to come off. Now if I’m at work and not wearing my flame-retardant, asbestos suit, I feel a bit naked. So wearing this shirt made me feel a little uncomfortable, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then I did. It’s one thing to share a joke amongst a few friends, but once you’re showing off the word, “Vagtastic,” customers, women especially, might think you’re a bit off. I remember eating at a Subway years ago and an employee had a hat which said, “Don’t Suck Corporate Cock.” I don’t know if he saw how his hat and Subway apron clashed a bit. In any case, I really got thrown off when a woman asked me the meaning of “Vagtastic.” i was stumped. I told her that it meant I was surrounded by vag. But then I totally disregarded the “tastic” part of it. No, it’s not because I drive a Miata, it’s because being surrounded by vag implies a state of tasticness. Are we clear? Good, because either am I.
I googled “Spring Break” and learned that it is Sioux for “one dollar tip.” Jesus fucking Christ! It seemed, with rare exception, that no matter how big an order, the tip ended up being a dollar. Whether paying cash or signing a credit card, it was a dollar tip. Now if I sell a five-dollar bottle of beer and get a dollar, I’m grateful, but when I make three vodka red bulls, a gin and tonic and rum and coke, and get a dollar on forty-four, I’m a little disappointed. I had one guy order a Stella, two Amstels and a coke for twenty-three dollars. He handed me nineteen-fifty. I asked if he had a credit card. No, he’d come back with the rest. You know what I learned from this transaction, half-dollar coins are still in circulation. The worst part about it all is that these cheap cunts were our only customers. It was dead and there was nothing I could do but passive-aggresively groan. On a busy night, you can pick and choose who you serve. On a slow night, you’re just grateful to be doing something. And, yes, it was an impossibly slow night.
It felt good to ring the “last call” bell. I normally bellow “last call,” but I didn’t want to frighten the six customers left in the bar. I pray that it’s just a holiday weekend thing and not the great recession rearing it’s ugly head in Santa Monica. Christians call it Good Friday and no offense to them, but to me it was Crap Friday.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Seder
I’ve never really understood Passover for more reasons than I can explain here. But my college friend Rachel “I betcha can’t wait, Rachie” was in town from New York and invited me to Seder and I couldn’t say no. Rachie got her nickname when she was at the movies with her brother and grandparents. Rachie must’ve been eleven or twelve when a sex scene came on screen. Rachie’s grandmother leaned forward and in a not too quiet whisper yelled, “I betcha can’t wait, Rachie. I betcha can’t wait.” Rachie’s grandma was not at Seder. It’s too bad, because she seems like a bubbie I could party with.
My Mom always taught me that whenever invited somewhere, it is imperative that you bring something. I asked Rachie is I could bring a bottle of Ciroc, vodka made from grapes. She explained that it wasn’t kosher for Passover. The last Seder I went to was at my friend Andrea’s where I put a hurting on a bottle of Ciroc and ended up putting my dick in the mashed potatoes. Alas, this would not be one of those kinds of parties. There were ten of us at the table. Like any Seder, we went around the table reading from the haggadah, which is the religious text that sets the order of the Seder. Rachie’s father put it to the table, “Should we read in English or Hebrew?” Now working in an Irish Pub I’m quite aware of being Jewish, but put me at a table of Conservative Jews reading in Hebrew and I feel like I’m a traitor to my people. I don’t feel guilty about it, but I did find that when the blessings were being spoken, I would move my lips like I knew what was being said. There have been times when I felt that I should learn the blessings. None more so then when I was at my friend Andrea’s and saw that her Phillipino nanny knew them by heart and I was just flapping my lips. Luckily, we read most of the haggadah in English. I, also, don’t know Passover ettiquette. I’m the one guzzling wine, yelling out things like, “Grab me another bottle of this kosher hooch, Rabbi” when we get to page four and the haggadah instructs us to “Take the first sip of wine.” Woops. Fine, I’m a bad Jew. Sue me.
I wasn’t gonna bring up my lack of understanding of Passover, but here goes. The thing I don’t get is how is it relevant today? Passover is the telling of the story of the Jews being led out of slavery, but how many Passovers took place before six million Jews were led to slaughter in the holocaust. I know we observe Passover to tell the story, but are we learning anything from it? I went for a walk with my friend Julie today who explained that when the Jews were fleeing Egypt, twenty percent went and eighty percent stayed, they stood at the edge of the Red Sea and many wanted to go back. Moses explained that Pharoah’s henchmen were chasing them, but many would rather return to their secure lives as slaves, than drown in the Red Sea. She explained that Passover is about do we have the faith to take that plunge. How do we throw off the yoke of our own slavery? I never realized how Passover applied to me until she said these words. This idea is with me all the time, because I won’t be bartending at forty-five, but what will I do and when?
We got to page thirty and it was time to eat. Seeing friends and eating are the two reasons I observe Jewish holidays. We started with matzo ball soup, which was delicious. Then we had a choice of gefilte fish, which my mom always called filthy fish, and/or chopped liver. When it comes to food, “and” is one of my favorite words. For the main course there was chicken, brisket, potato vegetable kugel, blended veggies baked into a casserole, and steamed asparagus. It was yumbo. The conversation was lively. There was the Jewish Rush Limbaugh at the table telling everyone the problems with world and why liberals are bad. I let it go for a couple of minutes, then decided to jump in. I found that I was pretty much alone in my debate. What’s that old saying in poker, “If you don’t know the sucker at the table, it’s you.” These people all knew Rush Limbaughstein. I didn’t find out until later that this guy starts political arguments at weddings and funerals just begging people to jump in. Yes, I was the sucker. After dessert, it was back to the haggadah. The groan I let out was probably too loud. Rachie’s father told us to jump from page thirty-eight to forty-nine and I shed tears of joy. Turns out he got ahead of himself. He said, “Let’s go back to page forty and sing some of our favorite songs.” I busted out with my karaoke favorite, “I like big butts and I cannot lie. You other brothers can’t deny...” and they were singing songs in the key of Hebrew. Thank God for Alan, Rachie’s husband, who said, “Yes, let’s sing some of our favorite songs.”
It was really a lovely time, but the dirt didn’t come out until later. Turns out that one of the guests is a compulsive liar. She told people at the temple that she was having thirty people over for Seder on each of the two nights. She was obviously lying unless she left all those guests at her place while she dined with us. Turns out all the elders knew each other from their temple. Some great stories came out about affairs had and spouses left. Negro, please! Tell these stories at holidays and I’ll join a temple. Rachel’s parents couldn’t have been more gracious. Rachel’s mom said, “If you ever want a home cooked meal just come over.” I’m sure I’ll be a bit peckish after work tonight. When I got home, I scraped the left side of my car on the pole next to my spot. I didn’t think I drank too much, but I may have been over served at Seder.
My Mom always taught me that whenever invited somewhere, it is imperative that you bring something. I asked Rachie is I could bring a bottle of Ciroc, vodka made from grapes. She explained that it wasn’t kosher for Passover. The last Seder I went to was at my friend Andrea’s where I put a hurting on a bottle of Ciroc and ended up putting my dick in the mashed potatoes. Alas, this would not be one of those kinds of parties. There were ten of us at the table. Like any Seder, we went around the table reading from the haggadah, which is the religious text that sets the order of the Seder. Rachie’s father put it to the table, “Should we read in English or Hebrew?” Now working in an Irish Pub I’m quite aware of being Jewish, but put me at a table of Conservative Jews reading in Hebrew and I feel like I’m a traitor to my people. I don’t feel guilty about it, but I did find that when the blessings were being spoken, I would move my lips like I knew what was being said. There have been times when I felt that I should learn the blessings. None more so then when I was at my friend Andrea’s and saw that her Phillipino nanny knew them by heart and I was just flapping my lips. Luckily, we read most of the haggadah in English. I, also, don’t know Passover ettiquette. I’m the one guzzling wine, yelling out things like, “Grab me another bottle of this kosher hooch, Rabbi” when we get to page four and the haggadah instructs us to “Take the first sip of wine.” Woops. Fine, I’m a bad Jew. Sue me.
I wasn’t gonna bring up my lack of understanding of Passover, but here goes. The thing I don’t get is how is it relevant today? Passover is the telling of the story of the Jews being led out of slavery, but how many Passovers took place before six million Jews were led to slaughter in the holocaust. I know we observe Passover to tell the story, but are we learning anything from it? I went for a walk with my friend Julie today who explained that when the Jews were fleeing Egypt, twenty percent went and eighty percent stayed, they stood at the edge of the Red Sea and many wanted to go back. Moses explained that Pharoah’s henchmen were chasing them, but many would rather return to their secure lives as slaves, than drown in the Red Sea. She explained that Passover is about do we have the faith to take that plunge. How do we throw off the yoke of our own slavery? I never realized how Passover applied to me until she said these words. This idea is with me all the time, because I won’t be bartending at forty-five, but what will I do and when?
We got to page thirty and it was time to eat. Seeing friends and eating are the two reasons I observe Jewish holidays. We started with matzo ball soup, which was delicious. Then we had a choice of gefilte fish, which my mom always called filthy fish, and/or chopped liver. When it comes to food, “and” is one of my favorite words. For the main course there was chicken, brisket, potato vegetable kugel, blended veggies baked into a casserole, and steamed asparagus. It was yumbo. The conversation was lively. There was the Jewish Rush Limbaugh at the table telling everyone the problems with world and why liberals are bad. I let it go for a couple of minutes, then decided to jump in. I found that I was pretty much alone in my debate. What’s that old saying in poker, “If you don’t know the sucker at the table, it’s you.” These people all knew Rush Limbaughstein. I didn’t find out until later that this guy starts political arguments at weddings and funerals just begging people to jump in. Yes, I was the sucker. After dessert, it was back to the haggadah. The groan I let out was probably too loud. Rachie’s father told us to jump from page thirty-eight to forty-nine and I shed tears of joy. Turns out he got ahead of himself. He said, “Let’s go back to page forty and sing some of our favorite songs.” I busted out with my karaoke favorite, “I like big butts and I cannot lie. You other brothers can’t deny...” and they were singing songs in the key of Hebrew. Thank God for Alan, Rachie’s husband, who said, “Yes, let’s sing some of our favorite songs.”
It was really a lovely time, but the dirt didn’t come out until later. Turns out that one of the guests is a compulsive liar. She told people at the temple that she was having thirty people over for Seder on each of the two nights. She was obviously lying unless she left all those guests at her place while she dined with us. Turns out all the elders knew each other from their temple. Some great stories came out about affairs had and spouses left. Negro, please! Tell these stories at holidays and I’ll join a temple. Rachel’s parents couldn’t have been more gracious. Rachel’s mom said, “If you ever want a home cooked meal just come over.” I’m sure I’ll be a bit peckish after work tonight. When I got home, I scraped the left side of my car on the pole next to my spot. I didn’t think I drank too much, but I may have been over served at Seder.
Monday, April 6, 2009
A Tale Of Two Bands
There are a number of factors which help us succeed, but having live music is one of the biggest. Friday was noteworthy for two reasons: 1) it was my first shift behind the bar since happy hour was cut from eight o’ clock to seven, and 2) a band I hadn’t seen on the schedule blew it up. The latter wasn’t as obvious until Saturday, which after a crazy afternoon and evening, the night just died.
It really was the best of times and some pretty lame times. Friday’s happy hour was a bit dull. It was a beautiful evening and the patio filled up. We don’t have mystery shoppers, but you never know who’s going to sit down. There were a couple of dudes and one works up the street at the Marriott. He told me that he would recommend O’ Brien’s to guests. As a manager, part of me wanted to comp their tab. What’s ten bucks in costs and twenty-five in lost revenue for a trove of potentially high end customers? But as a bartender, I couldn’t do it. For all I know this guy does animal porn and is just trying to mooch something for free, so I bought them a couple of shots and sent them on their way. I had a couple of other customers come in reeking of pot. I never know how to approach stoners, because up until a couple of months ago, there weren’t many bars or restaurants that I didn’t walk into high. (Thanks a lot, hypnosis.) Part of me wants to say, “Thirsty, lads? Thirsty? Cotton mouth? Huh? Huh?” But invariably, they’re too high to make a decision, so I figure fucking with them would only complicate things. The other part of me wants to say, “We’re only open for another eight hours so order the chicken strips and get on with your lives.” The happy hour curtailment wasn’t too bad. I only had to comp one beer for customers who only come in because of the happy hour prices.
Saturday’s happy hour was amazing. All I can say is that I wish March Madness was all year long. Come to think of it with the exception of “descent into,” most things which pertain to madness are usually awesome. Rick’s Tavern up the street has Burger Madness, which is tasty, and I’ve run out of examples. Thank you for joining me on this brief journey into all thing(s) madness. In any case, Saturday happy hour is how I love it, packed. It was so crazy that I couldn’t remember everything I had to do. Customers usually figure it out when they haven’t received the drink they asked for ten minutes prior then I look them in the eyes, triggering the memory of their order. I usually say something like, “Oh, shit!” and turn around bumping into a second customer on my sprint back to the bar. There was one big group of people and one couple in the group had a small child. They asked me to fill his bottle with milk. Unscrewing the top, I found an odd, plastic condom in the bottle. Why this is here I have no idea, but the milk would splash out when I poured it. Without the help of an erection, I had to use my fingers to poke it back in. I knew those fingers were good for something. I eventually filled the kids condom bottle with expired milk sending him to the hospital. It’s a bar, not a fucking day care center.
The biggest difference between Friday and Saturday was from nine o’ clock on. I thought Friday would be a loser night, but was blown away. Even though we got packed, I looked around at one point and didn’t recognize a soul. I couldn’t figure out how we got so many new faces, then it dawned on me, the band. Finally, a couple of old regulars, the Major brothers came in, so I did a few shots with them. It was a party kind of night. Having a pop at work definitely loosens me up. After a couple of pops, I may forget a customer’s Guinness for fifteen minutes, but I just explain that’s how you pour a perfect pint. fucko. Then I have security throw them out for stiffing me. It’s good to be the king. The best of times and shiteousness of times was represented by the point man for each of the two bands. All bands at O’ Brien’s get an eight drink tab. The Friday band all opened up their own tabs, barely filling the band tab, while the Saturday band went one drink over and I had to deduct it from their pay. This douche bag would not let it go. I tried to explain that we’re just a bar. We don’t give band members laminates and punch a hole in them, so each player gets their two drinks. The Friday band brought people and killed it. The Saturday band brought a black hole with them. When it was time to pay the Saturday band, there was a hundred dollar dispute. I explained to the point man that this is what is written, if you and Kevin agreed to more, come back and talk to him tomorrow. You know what? This fuck wad would not let it go. Three times he said, “Kevin said this last time he would pay us ______, after that it would be less.” I was ready to hop across the bar and throttle this fuck. I said, “This is the amount that’s written down! This is what I have to go on! Talk to Kevin tomorrow! And by the way, this was the worst Saturday in seven weeks!” I wanted to add, “I know this because I blog about it. Be ready for skewering.” I did a car bomb after work just to wash the residue of douche off me. People have no idea that when they’re annoying in the short run, they may get an extra hundred bucks, but, long run, this band will never be back.
I can’t completely blame the band for a weak showing on Saturday. Can I? But then again, if I can praise the Friday band for success, then why can’t I blame the Saturday band for failure? Normally, I don’t give a shit who sucks or why, but it’s fucking with my livelihood. Kevin does an amazing job booking the bands, and if a band sucks, or doesn’t bring a crowd, they don’t come back. Friday’s band will be back monthly. You can find Saturday’s band playing on the promenade on a rainy Tuesday. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was a tale of two bands.
It really was the best of times and some pretty lame times. Friday’s happy hour was a bit dull. It was a beautiful evening and the patio filled up. We don’t have mystery shoppers, but you never know who’s going to sit down. There were a couple of dudes and one works up the street at the Marriott. He told me that he would recommend O’ Brien’s to guests. As a manager, part of me wanted to comp their tab. What’s ten bucks in costs and twenty-five in lost revenue for a trove of potentially high end customers? But as a bartender, I couldn’t do it. For all I know this guy does animal porn and is just trying to mooch something for free, so I bought them a couple of shots and sent them on their way. I had a couple of other customers come in reeking of pot. I never know how to approach stoners, because up until a couple of months ago, there weren’t many bars or restaurants that I didn’t walk into high. (Thanks a lot, hypnosis.) Part of me wants to say, “Thirsty, lads? Thirsty? Cotton mouth? Huh? Huh?” But invariably, they’re too high to make a decision, so I figure fucking with them would only complicate things. The other part of me wants to say, “We’re only open for another eight hours so order the chicken strips and get on with your lives.” The happy hour curtailment wasn’t too bad. I only had to comp one beer for customers who only come in because of the happy hour prices.
Saturday’s happy hour was amazing. All I can say is that I wish March Madness was all year long. Come to think of it with the exception of “descent into,” most things which pertain to madness are usually awesome. Rick’s Tavern up the street has Burger Madness, which is tasty, and I’ve run out of examples. Thank you for joining me on this brief journey into all thing(s) madness. In any case, Saturday happy hour is how I love it, packed. It was so crazy that I couldn’t remember everything I had to do. Customers usually figure it out when they haven’t received the drink they asked for ten minutes prior then I look them in the eyes, triggering the memory of their order. I usually say something like, “Oh, shit!” and turn around bumping into a second customer on my sprint back to the bar. There was one big group of people and one couple in the group had a small child. They asked me to fill his bottle with milk. Unscrewing the top, I found an odd, plastic condom in the bottle. Why this is here I have no idea, but the milk would splash out when I poured it. Without the help of an erection, I had to use my fingers to poke it back in. I knew those fingers were good for something. I eventually filled the kids condom bottle with expired milk sending him to the hospital. It’s a bar, not a fucking day care center.
The biggest difference between Friday and Saturday was from nine o’ clock on. I thought Friday would be a loser night, but was blown away. Even though we got packed, I looked around at one point and didn’t recognize a soul. I couldn’t figure out how we got so many new faces, then it dawned on me, the band. Finally, a couple of old regulars, the Major brothers came in, so I did a few shots with them. It was a party kind of night. Having a pop at work definitely loosens me up. After a couple of pops, I may forget a customer’s Guinness for fifteen minutes, but I just explain that’s how you pour a perfect pint. fucko. Then I have security throw them out for stiffing me. It’s good to be the king. The best of times and shiteousness of times was represented by the point man for each of the two bands. All bands at O’ Brien’s get an eight drink tab. The Friday band all opened up their own tabs, barely filling the band tab, while the Saturday band went one drink over and I had to deduct it from their pay. This douche bag would not let it go. I tried to explain that we’re just a bar. We don’t give band members laminates and punch a hole in them, so each player gets their two drinks. The Friday band brought people and killed it. The Saturday band brought a black hole with them. When it was time to pay the Saturday band, there was a hundred dollar dispute. I explained to the point man that this is what is written, if you and Kevin agreed to more, come back and talk to him tomorrow. You know what? This fuck wad would not let it go. Three times he said, “Kevin said this last time he would pay us ______, after that it would be less.” I was ready to hop across the bar and throttle this fuck. I said, “This is the amount that’s written down! This is what I have to go on! Talk to Kevin tomorrow! And by the way, this was the worst Saturday in seven weeks!” I wanted to add, “I know this because I blog about it. Be ready for skewering.” I did a car bomb after work just to wash the residue of douche off me. People have no idea that when they’re annoying in the short run, they may get an extra hundred bucks, but, long run, this band will never be back.
I can’t completely blame the band for a weak showing on Saturday. Can I? But then again, if I can praise the Friday band for success, then why can’t I blame the Saturday band for failure? Normally, I don’t give a shit who sucks or why, but it’s fucking with my livelihood. Kevin does an amazing job booking the bands, and if a band sucks, or doesn’t bring a crowd, they don’t come back. Friday’s band will be back monthly. You can find Saturday’s band playing on the promenade on a rainy Tuesday. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was a tale of two bands.
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