Most people are stupid.

This is what my eighth-grade history teacher told me and as I go through life, I have learned this to be sadly true.

At the moment, I am staring incredulously at a woman who has just asked me to make her a weak, vodka martini. For those that do not know, a standard martini consists of gin or vodka and dry vermouth--all alcoholic ingredients. So, it isn't really possible to make a weak one. I suppose I could put water in it, but somehow I think this woman may be upset with my doing so.

Like I said, stupid.

Her husband, who is seated next to her, reminds me a bit of Tom Hanks. That is, if Tom Hanks were a lumberjack. He is dressed in a plaid shirt and overalls, which I was not aware until now could still be purchased in the United States. "Paul Bunyan-chic"...so do not remember seeing that during Fashion Week. Wonder if he left his blue ox in the parking lot.

"And may I please have an apple martini," Mr. Bunyan asks.

Inadvertently, I make a face. What (straight) man drinks apple martinis? I consider telling him to retrieve his testicles from wherever he left them, but refrain for fear that he may pull out his ax and cut off my head.

I set to work on making their drinks. I see Kathleen, the manager, hovering near the restaurant entrance. Quickly, I flash her the 'please lock the door' look, which she (thank God) sees and complies.

It is the end of a very long and busy evening. I was actually cleaning up for the night, when this couple strolled in. Hopefully, they will have one drink and be on their merry way.

I present Mr. and Mrs. Bunyan with their respective martinis and ring in the transaction. They seem content to talk to each other rather than me, so I resume my straightening up for the evening.

Once that is done, I grab my bag from underneath the bar and head to the restroom to change clothes. I have a quasi-date with a Norwegian lawyer I met at a nightclub two weeks ago, which is another reason I am hoping these two vacate the premises quickly.

After my costume change, I return to the bar hoping to find it empty. Instead, I am greeted by the martini couple intensely making out. My stomach does a flip-flop and not in a good way.
Don't get me wrong, I think it's great when older married people are still madly in love with each other. I would appreciate, however, if they were madly in love with each other outside of my line of sight.

Even worse, I cannot stop watching. It's like a car crash on the side of the highway. I know I shouldn't look. I don't even particularly want to look, but I am powerless to turn away. The middle-aged lovebirds are too busy slurping and slobbering all over each other to notice me. It's almost as disturbing as watching "Two Girls, One Cup."

Almost.

Suddenly, the couple disengages. They swiftly gulp down their drinks, toss a ten dollar bill on the bar, and leave without a word.

Guess they decided to continue in private, which is just fine by me. I pocket the ten dollar tip, which almost makes up for the image of their flailing tongues seared into my mind.

Almost.

With a quick 'goodnight' to Kathleen, I am out the back door and off to my date. I meet Oscar, the Norwegian lawyer, at a small wine bar/restaurant around 11:30. He is dressed in a navy blazer, white button-down shirt, and jeans. He is a decent looking guy, but somehow I don't think he is going to be my type. I was a wee bit intoxicated the night we met and I am surprised that I actually recognize him upon my arrival.

He greets me with a kiss on each cheek and we sit at the bar to have drinks. A glass of pinot noir for myself and a glass of chardonnay for him. As we peruse the menu for appetizers, I cannot help but notice how attractive the bartender is. Despite my best efforts at self-control, I find myself making googly-eyes at him whenever he comes to our end of the bar.

God, I'm an awful person!

After we decide on our appetizers and order with sexy bartender guy, we chat about work, hobbies, and other inane nonsense people talk about on a first date. Oscar, my date, seems nice enough, but he is a little bland for my taste. I take a large gulp of wine, hoping that the drunker I get the more interesting he will become.

Great theory, but it does not quite pan out.

As Oscar prattles on about work, I start to zone out. I wonder what my cat is doing at home, what I would do if zombies took over the earth, what sexy bartender and I would play for our wedding song, and other random things.

My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of our food. As we eat, I throw back two more glasses of wine. Thank God for alcohol.

I nod and smile through the rest of the evening, throwing in the occasional laugh where I think (or hope) is appropriate. The check finally arrives, just as I start to have vivid fantasies about my new down comforter waiting for me at home. I reach for my wallet to offer money that I know Oscar will not take. Instead, he hands his credit card to the bartender.

I can almost taste my freedom.

When the bartender returns, Oscar signs the credit card slip and closes the check presenter. But, not before I see the numbers on the receipt.

Our bill was just shy of eighty dollars, not bad for the number of drinks we (mostly myself) had. It is the number below that with which I am having a bit of trouble. In the space marked "tip," there is a very neatly printed four dollars.

Are you f-ing kidding me?!

That is about a five percent tip! Did he miss the part about me working in a restaurant and even so, who the hell is that cheap?

Oscar stands and pulls my chair out for me. I want to leave before the bartender comes back and sees the paltry gratuity my cheapskate date left. It is my firm belief that people who stiff servers, without just cause (and I can assure you there was no reason for it), likely have other terrible habits, like kicking bunnies.

I thank him for the evening and practically run out the door. I do not want to be associated with the five percent tipper.

Men of the world be warned: cheap is an absolute deal breaker!

I hate mornings

God, my head hurts!

It's 11:15 on a Wednesday morning and I should really be setting up the bar, seeing as the restaurant opens in about fifteen minutes. Instead I am lying on top of it. I briefly wonder if my boss is watching the security cameras from her office. I contemplate moving my 'dead bartender' act into the cooler in which the beer kegs are stored (no cameras), but decide the effort required would be too great.

"Rough night," a voice calls out. I raise me head and see Kathleen, one of the restaurant's managers, standing in the front doorway.

I nod and put my head back down on the bar. "Just be up and on your feet by 11:30," she tells me and heads toward the kitchen. I manage a thumbs-up and return to wallowing in my own misery. Note to self: downing eight shots of Jameson and staying out all night is a terrible idea after the age of 21.

After resting a few more minutes, I slide behind the bar where I belong. Quickly, I set up the odds and ends that I will need during my shift. No sooner than I am done, I hear the front door of the restaurant open. A young couple enters and approaches the bar.

I stifle a groan. What kind of degenerates drink at 11:35 on a Wednesday, I think to myself. Anyone who drinks before noon on a weekday is not to be trusted (exceptions being made for St. Patrick's Day, Cinco di Mayo, and my birthday). Why don't they drink between the hours of 11:00pm and 7:00 am like normal human beings?! Ugh!

My thoughts are interrupted by the girl's annoyingly perky voice, "Hi, I'm Stacey!" Stacey looks like a life-sized version of sorority Barbie. "I was wondering if you guys had any jobs available?"

Yes, take mine. Please!

Somewhere in the mush that is currently my brain, I wonder if she had a Xanax omelette for breakfast. No one is this perky, this early in the day. Not without pharmaceutical help anyway.

I tell her to hold on and retrieve Kathleen, who leads Barbie, I mean Stacey (oops) off to a table to interview her. I am now left to entertain Stacey's boyfriend, who looks like he fell out of a J. Crew catalog. But not the regular catalog...more like the semi-annual "everything must go" clearance catalog. Basically preppy, but very sloppy. Good face though, definitely a fixer-upper.

The boyfriend asks for a club soda, which I get and do not charge him. I attempt to busy myself by organizing the pens I keep next to the register in hopes it will distract J. Crew boy from talking to me.

It does not work.

"So do you like working here," he asks.

"Yeah it's okay," I reply. When my head doesn't feel as if it has been beaten in with a five iron, I add silently.

"She wants to bartend," Mr. J. Crew informs me. "She's never done it before though."

I shrug noncommittally. "It's okay," I repeat. I know that I am not being helpful, but my hangover had severely impaired my conversational skills.

"Do you think they'll hire her with no experience?"

"Who knows, maybe," I explain. "She's cute which definitely works in her favor."

J. Crew smiles. It is a nice smile, actually. Still, I wish he would keep quiet so that I can be hungover in peace.

I make a mental note to ask Kathleen to get me a couple of Tylenols from the office. The only painkillers in the restaurant are not in the first aid kit, but rather locked in the owner's desk in the office. For safety purposes, as she puts it. As if her employees are a bunch of acetaminophen junkies who want to steal her Tylenol and use it for evil.

Give me a f-ing break.

Kathleen and Stacey return to the bar at this moment. "Stacey will be training tomorrow and hopefully she'll be working behind the bar by next week," Kathleen tells me. Stacey is grinning from ear to ear, literally. I honestly worry that she may pop a blood vessel in her head and die.

"I'm so excited," she exclaims.

I wonder what tall tale this girl told Kathleen to get herself hired with no experience, but I extend my hand and shake hers. "Welcome aboard," I say smiling. In the back of my mind though there is a far different thought: This poor girl is going to get eaten alive.

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Introduction

My name is Nikki. I have been tending bar for about seven years and I am currently employed at a restaurant in a suburb of NYC. I decided to write this blog to share some of my experiences in the service industry, as well as experiences in my life in general. I hope it will be something to which people, especially those in the restaurant industry, can relate. At the very least, I would like to provide a bit of frivolous entertainment and a few laughs. So enjoy!



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