There’s a new general manager at work. He asks me,
Moving on.
Last night there was a first date at my bar. It seemed to be going really well. Four drinks in, they’re the last couple at the bar. I hear him tell her,
“I just lost over 30 pounds.”
“Really?”
That’s my reaction too. Really buddy? Because now all I can think about is what you look like 30 pounds heavier. And I’m sure that’s what she’s thinking too. Stomach? Face?
Telling the story of how you lost 30 pounds five years ago may be an entertaining anecdote if you’ve used up all your other material, but the story of how you just lost 30 pounds isn’t helpful.
The woman asks,
“How’d you do it?”
“My break-up.”
Double fail! Now you’re borderline talking about a taboo first date topic: exes and she’s imagining so if I end up with this guy, he’s gaining that 30 pounds back.
She goes to the bathroom. The guy asks me,
“Not bad for a first date huh?”
It seems to be spiraling out of control, but yes, it was a strong start.
There’s an older regular whose bill is always about $50. What’s up for debate is the tip. Sometimes he leaves $10, sometimes $15 and if he’s in a really good mood $20. It all depends on how much I flirt with him. Some days I don’t have it in me. Yesterday I did.
I was flirting like I didn’t have anything else to do, because the bar was slow and I really didn’t have anything else to do. The regular gets his dinner. His brussels sprouts are undercooked. He’s not happy. I think to myself,
‘Dang it. There goes all my flirting down the drain. Now he’s cranky.’
I pour his last drink. I make it big. I tell him,
“That’s a daddy size.”
“Are you calling me daddy?”
“Yes I am.”
He hands me $20.
A few guys sit down at the bar.
Side note: Has anyone noticed that most of my blogs start off like a bad joke? And I kind of like it.
So a few guys sit down at the bar. They order a round of drinks. One gets a Pretty Things Baby Tree; it’s a strong dark beer in a small glass. A few minutes later the guy drinking the beer flags me down,
“What beer is this again?”
“Pretty Things Baby Tree.”
The guy seems drunk.
His friend pays for the round. They finish their drinks. I clear the glasses. The Baby Tree guy says,
“We’ll take another round.”
“Uh, well…”
I’m pretty sure I don’t want to serve the drunk guy anymore. He notices my hesitation and declares,
“Oh you forget what I was drinking, it’s ok, it was a Coors Light.”
We have two trash cans behind the bar, one on the left and one on the right. As the shift is about to start I switch them. My bar manager declares,
I happen to be a bartender in the middle of the craft cocktail craze. I could just as easily have been a bartender during the appletini time. I like the job. The craft can fend fine for itself without me.
My bar manager is very creative. The other day he made a drink with bird’s nest. Yes bird’s nest drink is a real thing. Swallows make their nests with spit and somehow that spit has made it into human beverages. Calling it bird’s nest drink is deceptive. There are no twigs in the drink, just bird spit.
Due to the high cost of bird spit, it has not made it onto our cocktail list, although other items I dislike have. My bar manager enjoys using rose water in cocktails. I can’t stand it. I complain to him,
“It tastes like a bathroom.”
He tells me,
“It tastes like the best part of a bathroom.”
Captain’s knee surgery went well. His leg is still attached and there was only moderate manscaping.
Happy Passover everybody!
My mom sent me a Passover care package and in the nick of time. Apparently there is a white fish shortage, a key ingredient in everyone’s favorite Jewish dish: gefilte fish.
What is this delicacy you ask? It’s ground-up fish mushed together again and served cold. I love it. I’m not sure why.
This may be the first time gefilte fish has made the news. There is a wait list.
“Everybody is pulling their hair out.” Says a fish wholesaler.
The New York Times is on the case. A few quotes from gefilte fish lovers:
“Do I like the taste? Not really. But do I like the tradition? Absolutely.”
“It may taste like cat food, but that’s why I love it. “
A grocery store manager sighs,
“I really feel for these people. I’m not crazy about it. But for most of us what’s Passover without gefilte fish?”
Indeed. Without the mushed-up cold fish, you’re left with crackers and a lot of wine.
Don’t worry, I’ll share my gefilte fish with you.
I’m a scavenger. The only thing I like more than food is free food. I’d much rather see what I can scrounge up over the course of a night than buy a meal.
Eating other peoples leftovers is frowned upon by management and if we are going to eat we have to go in the basement. There’s a lot of management, but I’m not one to go hungry.
Last night I slip out the back of the restaurant with a bucket of fries. Yes our fries come in a small bucket. I dip them in the aioli and shove them in my mouth. A manager pops out the back. He grabs some fries. I warn him,
“They’re cold.”
“I don’t care.”
He dips them in the aioli and adds,
“As long as these weren’t someone else’s.”
“For the record? No.”
“I’m not going to get you in trouble I just don’t want to eat someone else’s fries.”
“Then yes, they were someone else’s.”
He’s about to toss the fries in his hand. I exclaim,
“Wait! I’ll eat them.”
You know I love you. I had the best intentions of writing a blog today, but it is way too beautiful to be inside. If I run into you outside, I’ll tell you a funny story. It’ll be like a blog on tape.
Every week at work there is an owner and manager meeting. When I first started working there, the meeting was always downstairs, but due to what seems to be an ever increasing number of managers, the meetings are held upstairs in the restaurant before we open.
The meeting happens while I’m getting the bar ready. I work. They meet. I pretend not to be eavesdropping. That is until one day when I overhear them discussing something that’s wrong. I interject with the right answer. OOOPS.
One of the owners turns to me,
“Jessica, pretend like you’re not listening.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Then a couple weeks ago the meeting was happening and I really wasn’t listening. I was joking around with my fellow bartender and I laughed. My laugh tends to be a loud gasping gulping braying squawk for air. A manager comes over,
“You need to keep it down.”
I tell my coworker,
“I’m not worried. If I get fired for laughing too loud, then so be it.”
I’m working on my Big Sister of the Year acceptance speech. It’s going well except that I’m several minutes over my one minute time limit. That’s right. It’s like the Oscars. I have one minute to speak and then I’m not sure what’ll happen. I’m not going to be cut off by a commercial. If I’m cut off by an orchestra then so be it.
As someone who reads my blog, you know that I have more than one minute of quality little sister material. I have to submit my speech for review. Even if they edit it down to one minute, what are they going to do when I keep talking? It’ll take them one minute to realize I’ve exceeded my one minute and then maybe another minute to remove me from the stage. So I can probably squeeze in three minutes.
There’s a cocktail on our menu called “Jess’ Juice Box.” As my mom will tell you, that is a double entendre. Not everyone gets it right away, but when they ask,
This blog has gone viral.
April Fools!
I did well this year. My mom thinks I’m moving in with Captain. Captain thinks we’re going to a doll fair this weekend. My bar manager won’t be able to find any liquor bottles. And I hid the strings that hang down from our overhead lights, so good luck to my little roommate.
If you’re thinking I’ve gotten off scot-free this year. The day is still young. Good luck to all.
And even though it was an April Fools joke. I would definitely go to a doll fair.
I made you some brownies. You’re welcome.
I grew up immersed in everything girly, by choice. My mom made sure I had equal access to trucks and the color blue as I did to dolls and dresses. So I many not be the best judge of what fairytales the general population knows, but I’ve lived my whole life assuming everyone knows the story of Cinderella. Captain does not.
He tells me,
“She loses a shoe right?”
Right and a few other things happen. I try to fill in the holes before we go to the ballet. In the middle of the first act, Cinderella’s fairy godmother waves around a pumpkin. Captain whispers to me,
“What’s up with the pumpkin?”
“It’s going to turn into Cinderella’s carriage.”
“How?”
“Magic.”
The curtain falls at the end of the ballet and I turn to Captain,
“What’d you think?”
“I’m impressed. Did you see the quads on those guys?”
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| Mantyhose. Pantyhose for men. It’s a real thing. |
I have good news and bad news. The bad news is Captain tore his ACL skiing and needs surgery. The good news is he’s stuck in Boston and won’t be limping back to North Carolina anytime soon.
I get to Captain’s place. He’s on the phone with his North Carolina roommate, a co-worker of his. Captain hands me the phone,
“Hi.”
“Are you taking care of my Brycee-wycee?”
“What?”
We hang up. I turn to Captain,
“Brycee-wycee?!?”
“He’s oddly affectionate.”
My bar manager is the proud owner of the $1,000 Oxford English Dictionary. It is 2000 pages long and you need a magnifying glass to read it. The definition for blue is 20 pages long.
I ask him,
“How’s the dictionary going?”
“I read about the word rut.”
“I know rut.”
“No you don’t. You do?”
“I do. Rut, rutting. Doing it. Usually refers to animals mating.”
“That’s right. How do you know that?”
I like to think I have a decent vocabulary.
My bar manager adds,
“Of course you know all the sexual innuendo.”
A couple weeks ago a guy walks into the restaurant. I notice there is something terribly wrong with his forehead. I try not to stare. Fifteen minutes later another couple walks in with similar looking foreheads. I realize the first guy must not be deformed. There’s some trend going on. I ask my bar manager,
“What’s wrong with everybody’s foreheads?”
“It’s Ash Wednesday, the start of Passover.”
“That’s not right.”
Good Times with Jess 