March 10, 2002 - Rantings Of A Crazy Drunk

10 March 2002
UPDATED 20 December 2005

OK, I've had all I can stands, and I can stands no more. I've in my 11th year of bartending, and I can't stand STUPID QUESTIONS. So, as a public service to you, the alcohol consumer, allow me to enlighten you with what you should NOT ask the bartender, what you should not SAY to the bartender, and what you should not DO to the bartender (or, for that matter, anyone else in the bar). This is beyond the blatantly obvious such as "don't start fights" and "don't puke on the bar." NOTE: The following rules work for me and other bartenders like me. Some bartenders just suck, no bones about it. In that case, you have the ultimate power: leave and don't go back, at least when he/she is working. Remember, you're voting with your money.

ONE: Have some semblance of a clue as to what you want before the bartender asks. Unless you are completely surprised that you are in a bar, had no idea you were going to a bar, and had prepared yourself for a lovely night in a pottery cafe before the question "What can I get you to drink?" was posed, you have no excuse. And I don't want to hear, "Well, I don't feel like having what I usually have," because odds are, you're going to order what you usually have anyway, but it's going to take you 60 seconds to come to that realization. Meanwhile, I've been standing there like Nick in "It's a Wonderful Life" getting pissed off because I could have taken care of three other people while you had a brain fart.

TWO: "What do you make that's good?" Besides making you puke at 2 am? Just fucking order something, OK? This is a rookie question. Bartenders make drinks. We're not chefs, there is no creative tactic to our profession (for the most part). We put ice in a glass, we put booze in a glass, we put mixer in a glass, that's it. If you don't like it, order something else. Ninety-nine percent of the morons that ask, "What do you make that's good?" invariably order a Bud Light or a rum and coke anyway, even if I ran off a laundry list of drinks.

THREE: "What's cheap?" Besides you? This question invariably means (a) you are going to order a draft Old Milwaukee, and (b) I'm not getting tipped. Allow me to give you the basic rundown of drinks in order of general cost, from lowest to highest: domestic draft, domestic bottles, premium draft, premium bottles, well drinks (can sometimes be cheaper than premium bottles, kind of like sometimes, due to an aberration in its orbit, Pluto can sometimes be closer to the sun than Neptune), call drinks, shots, premium drinks. There, now print that out, stuff it in your wallet (right next to that card you carry around Vegas telling you when to hit and when to stand in blackjack), and don't fucking ask me again, "What's cheap?" And while you're at it, don't ask me, "How much is..." How much is a good swift kick in the hairy beanbag? Free, I love giving those to morons who want to bargain shop in a bar. What the fuck, are you some old biddy looking to save a nickel on a beer? If you're so bad off financially that you need to price compare in a bar, just walk over to Safeway, pick up a bottle of Everclear (or Ronson Lighter Fluid, your choice) and a can of Sprite, go home, and drink yourself blind, you fucking moron. And leave the girl you brought in on your "Bargain Shopper" date here. I'll be more than happy to show her what it's like to be out with someone who isn't teetering between splurging for a Sam Adams and paying his water bill. Hey, before you go, can I borrow a rubber? I left all mine over at your mom's house.

FOUR: If there are no bowls of "bar munchies" on the bar when you sit down, and you don't see anyone with a bowl of "bar munchies" in front of them, then I don't have "bar munchies." However, I MIGHT have a food menu. Ergo, do not ask me for "bar munchies."

FIVE: If you ask me for a menu and I give you one, don't, after reading the menu, ask me for something that's not on the menu. That's why we went through the trouble of having the fucking things printed in the first place, so I wouldn't get asked, "Do you have nachos?" when they're not on the menu. And if you order a burger and I ask you what you want on the side, don't make me run through the list when it's PRINTED ON THE FUCKING MENU. Also, have some sort of clue as to the kind of food you would expect in the place you are drinking. I have worked in five-star restaurants where people have asked me for Buffalo wings, and an Irish pub where someone asked for nachos. How to avoid violating Rule Five: just ask for a menu. Not only will you not look like a retard when you ask me for a pizza at a sushi bar, but you might see something you like even more than what you were originally going to order. Same goes for drinks. Don't be surprised that the Guinness you got at Nacho Mama's wasn't the best you ever had, and the same for a margarita you ordered in an Irish pub. Theme establishments (which, by definition are not "real bars") generally don't do well outside their genre, kind of like ordering chicken in a seafood restaurant. There's a reason you went to a fucking seafood restaurant, it was for seafood, and unless the chicken had gills and fins, it won't be the house specialty.

SIX: Don't argue about the tab. Trust me, I can count a lot better sober than you can drunk, and I remember the two rounds of drinks you bought for the bar better than you do. If it's written on your tab, then the money is going in the drawer, not my pocket, so I have no incentive to pad the bill. I've never padded a tab on someone who wasn't a complete asshole, and if you WERE a complete asshole, well, just realize that you deserved it. Or, if you're just a cheap fuck who tips a dollar on a thirty dollar tab consistently - now I'm just exacting vengeance. If I had a nickel for every person who questioned their tab and I had to recount every shot they bought for someone else until they realized they were wrong, I wouldn't need to work anymore. And don't tell me that there's no way your tab was that high because you've only been there for 45 minutes, and in reality you showed up halfway through the basketball game that started at 7 o'clock and it's now 1 a.m. (Yes, true story) Either buy a watch or get a fucking clue.

SEVEN: Don't argue about the price. Don't walk into Tavern On The Green, order a Grey Goose martini, and scream when they tell you how much it is. You went to this place because it was exquisite, and the prices will reflect that. The same goes for regular bars. Don't cry when your Absolut and 7Up is five bucks. I know you can buy a whole bottle of Absolut for what you bought three drinks for, or a twelve pack of Bud for what I charged you for two. However, bars are in business to make money, and have to pay for things like rent, bartenders, cooks, gas, power, water, trash removal, repairs for coolers... well, you get the idea. Trust me, the bar owner isn't bathing in Perrier every day on what you paid for a Dewars on the rocks. More likely than not he's there fourteen hours a day trying to figure out from where he's going to come up with the rent this month and still make payroll next week. Yeah, you can get a Bud suitcase for $15.99, but then you have to drink it at home, and there are no girls in your house, or you wouldn't have gone out in the first place. Not to mention the fact that you're gonna be opening your beers by yourself, and most likely, drinking by yourself, because no one wants to be with you in that pig sty you call home. You're not paying for the drink, you're paying me to give it to you, the power to keep the coolers running, the gas company to keep the bar warm, etc.

EIGHT: Your opinion is just that. Yours. If I made something you didn't like, it's not my fault for being a lesser biped than you, my parents' fault for not raising me better, etc., because all those people to either side of you aren't here having shitty drinks/food because they're masochists. You didn't like it, end of story. It's not a universal absolute. Ask me for something else, and if you're not a prick about it, I'll be more than happy to get it for you. Now granted, some people have legitimate complaints: say, you order a screwdriver and the orange juice is bad, or a Colorado bulldog and the cream is curdled. That's my fault. But don't order a fuzzy navel and then tell me, "It tastes funny," or "This sucks," when you've never had that drink before.

NINE: Don't tell me at 1 a.m. on a Friday that I'm not smiling enough. Unlike you, patron of varying intoxication, I'm NOT having fun drinking with my friends. I'm busting my balls back here dealing with the people in One through Eight listed above, not to mention Ten and up listed below. I've been standing since 5 p.m., I smell like a brewery and a distillery got into a fight, I've walked more behind this bar than most people walk in a week, and I have a headache from the blaring music and the girls in the corner who feel the need to shriek like a little boy in Michael Jackson's bedroom every five minutes for the last two hours. So, while I'm going to put on my best face until last call, don't ask me to smile incessantly. It ain't gonna fucking happen.

TEN: Unless you see a sign saying, "We serve Budweiser, Budweiser, and only Budweiser" (feel free to substitute with any other brand), when I ask what you'd like, don't tell me, "a beer" and leave it at that. This isn't a fucking John Wayne movie, we have more than one kind of beer. Don't ask me what kinds of beers I have when there is a list or a bottle display right behind me. If I don't have your favorite beer, deal with it, don't complain. Not every fucking bar has Samuel Smith's Buttfuck Ale Light, despite it being the best beer you ever had in your life. Don't stand in front of the draft tower and ask me what I have on draft.

ELEVEN: Drinks and shots are regional. Not every bartender knows how to make a "Monkey Turd," or has even heard of one. We make up drinks all the time and give them fucked up names (after all, would you do a shot called a "Teddy Bear" or a "Sweet and Tender Kiss"?), doesn't mean we send memos to every bartender in the country telling them the recipe. Furthermore, some shots are regional in the way they are made. There are twenty different ways to make a Sex on the Beach, so if I make one that doesn't taste like the one you had three months ago in Key West, deal with it. In addition, the same shot can have ten different names, and I might not know all ten. So, to be safe, have a semblance of a clue as to what is in a shot that you like. We, as bartenders, will be more than happy to tell you. And this way, when the next guy doesn't know how to make it, you can look like a big shot with your newfound knowledge. I know, this goes against Rule Two. I have my demons to deal with.

TWELVE: Bartenders are like cops; acting like an insufferable prick will elicit the opposite reaction of what you are attempting to achieve. We have the ultimate power to throw your ass out, and there are three guys with SECURITY shirts on who get off on hurting people, so go ahead, rant and rave and hurl insults. Just remember it's your fault when you're hurtling towards the sidewalk face first.

THIRTEEN: If I gave last call, and it's past the legal time to serve, don't ask me for "just one more drink." You saw the room get ten times brighter, figure the shit out. I don't give a shit what your watch says. I don't care that you just got here. I don't want you to offer me double for the drink. The bar's liquor license, or at least a nice fine of a few hundred bucks, is not worth the risk of giving you one last pop at five past closing time. There was a reason I shouted "LAST CALL!" fifteen minutes ago, and it was not because my doctor told me it would be a good idea if I did that three times a week. As a corollary rule, do not order a pitcher at two minutes 'til done and then get all pissy a few minutes later when we tell you that you have to finish up right now or we're taking the drinks. We are not trying to be dicks, it's the law. In Arizona, no one can have a drink in their hand after 1:15 am. Not, "no one unless they haven't finished their drink," not "no one unless they just got there," no one means NO ONE. Violations are subject to fine, which means I pay, and if you think I want to give the state of Arizona $300 because you are a slow drinker, think again. And again.

FOURTEEN: Your future service and drink quality (not to mention, in some cases, drink cost) will be proportional to how you tip. Don't expect me to fawn over you for a quarter. Don't tell me that if I "make it stronger next time" you'll tip me better, because odds are you're a cheap cunt who's looking for a cheap buzz. I've NEVER gotten a good tip on someone who said, "make it strong, I'll tip you good." Those generous and undemanding shall be rewarded, the rest shall suffer in the Eternal pit of damnation, thus sayeth the Lord. Well, if Jesus had been a bartender, that would have been in the Bible, I guarantee you. That's all I'm going to say on that. You cheap fuckers know who you are.

FIFTEEN: This works more for restaurants, but applies in bars all the same: know what the fuck you're ordering. Allow me to give you an example. I was working at a Houston's in Phoenix and someone ordered the Five Nut Brownie for dessert. Since desserts were made by the service bartender (a job I highly don't recommend), I made it. The server returned with it, saying the woman said she is on the carb diet and couldn't have the caramel sauce, could I make another one. Allow me to describe the ingredients for the plate: the bottom is coated with a champagne cream sauce, a chocolate brownie is placed in the center, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and caramel sauce is used as a decorative finish. THE WHOLE FUCKING DESSERT IS CARBS! The only part of the dessert that was on the carb diet was the fork. The moral of the story is... have a clue. To translate to bartending, don't order a juice drink tall and then complain that you can't taste the alcohol. Hey fucko, there's a reason you ordered a drink tall - so that you wouldn't taste the alcohol. Tall glass, same booze, means more mixer.

SIXTEEN: Here's the rule on changing your mind on your order: if you tell the bartender what you want and the bartender walks away, you're done. Don't ask me for a Long Island, and after I make it, tell me that you changed your mind and you want a beer. Fuck you, drink the fucking Long Island or you'll be wearing the fucker. Please notice the use of the word "fuck" as a verb, an adjective, and a noun all in the same sentence. Sister Celinda from third grade English would be so proud of me. But I digress. You order, it's made, end of story. That would be like ordering a lobster, and when the waiter comes out with your order, telling him that you changed your mind, you'd rather have the ribeye. Get a clue.

SEVENTEEN: BRING YOUR FUCKING ID. Unless you look as old as Strom Thurmond, you just MIGHT get carded. Most bars will not allow you in without one. In most states (if not all), walking around without some sort of state issued identification is against the law. They're not fuckin' heavy. I can't tell you how many girls I've carded and it's "My boyfriend has it and he's parking the car," or "I left it in the car," or whatever piece of shit excuse you have that you're not carrying it on you. You have a fucking hairbrush, two tampons, a compact, lipstick, a cordless drill, a snowboard, and whatever the fuck else you have in that Bag of Plenty that you carry around with you, but you couldn't put your fucking driver's license in there? Again, get a clue. While I don't card EVERYONE, if I suspect you might be teetering on the edge of legality, I'm carding you. It's not a power trip, I don't get off on it, it's the fucking law. And if you don't have it, you're probably fucked. Look at it this way: if something happens to you and we need to identify the body, well, at least you had your ID on you. And hopefully you were wearing clean underwear, or your mom is going to be VERY embarrassed.

EIGHTEEN: Do not call me over and then decide you're going to get the group's order together. Like this:

"Hey buddy!" (I walk over)
"Uh, yeah, I'll have a Bud Light, um... hey Johnny, what do you want?"
(Long pause)
"Um, I think he'll have a Heineken..."
(large baseball bat hits you upside the head).

If you get my attention and I come over, you damn fucking well better know what you want when I get there. In addition, don't order, and when I come back with the drinks, order more. Give me the whole order at once. I've had jerkoffs do this:
                        Moron: "Can I have a Bud Light?"
                        Me: (Walk away, get beer, come back) "$3.50"
                        Moron: "I need two."
                        Me: (Walk away AGAIN, get beer AGAIN, come back AGAIN) "OK, $7.00"
                        Moron: "I also need a vodka soda."
                        Me: (Make drink) "$11.00"
                        Moron: "I think we need shots, too."
You get the idea? It's just fucking brainless. Get your shit together, order all at once, and HAVE YOUR FUCKING WALLET READY WHEN I COME BACK! I can't tell you how many times I've had some fuckass order and when I tell him how much, then and ONLY then does he realize that (a) he has to pay and (b) his wallet is in his pants, and (c) it's going to take him a friggin' week to open it and find money.

NINETEEN: Have your fucking money ready. It's fucking obnoxious to be busy, have some half-wit order drinks, and then after you get them and tell him how much it is, watch him fumble for his wallet, look inside, try to figure out simple math, etc. Have an ample amount of cash in your hand when the bartender comes back with your order. Act as if, when you order drinks, that unless you have a tab at the bar, you're going to have to pay for them. I don't have the time, energy, or patience to waste on watching you go for your wallet. It's like watching some old bat start to slowly fill out her check AFTER the cashier rings in her basket full of Depends, Cat Chow, and applesauce at the grocery store. Be prepared. Expediency is always appreciated.

TWENTY: Don't bitch about the price. I currently work in a restaurant. The menus are posted on the door so people (morons) can see what the bill of fare is prior to making a commitment so great as walking into the establishment. The menu also has the prices on it. So, when the bill comes, I don't want to hear how much everything was. You read the menu. You saw the prices. You sat your fat don't-wanna-cook-ass in a chair, ordered off the menu, and ate it like the bottom-feeder you are. Pay the bill, tip, and go. No one put a gun to your head and told you that you HAD to be here. Same goes for the prices. Eight bucks for a glass of wine? Yes, sorry to get all 2005 on your ass, but... it's 2005. If you can't afford to eat with the big people, take you and your too-much-hairspray wife to Applebee's where you can have your four buck glass of Montevideo White Fucking Zin and your $8.95 all you can eat riblets and leave me - and the rest of us - the fuck alone. You cunt.

TWENTY-ONE: One simple rule with wine - if you've never heard of the vineyard, it doesn't mean shit. Unless you are an oenophile bar none or are the Senior Editor for "Wine Spectator" magazine, I don't care what you have heard of and what you haven't. I've been bartending for fifteen years and haven't heard of half of the vineyards out there. And stop asking me questions as if you know anything about what you are talking about. "Is that chardonnay oaky?" "What's drier, the merlot or the cabernet?" Here's what you do: "I'd like to try the..." and have a swig. If you like it, fine. If you don't, try something else. I actually had some old bat once ask me what kind of white zinfandel we carried by the glass. I replied, "pink." Who gives a fuck? Really? You're so much of a wine snob that you are picky about your WHITE FUCKING ZINFANDEL? Do us all a favor, go play in traffic.

TWENTY-TWO: If you go to a party, regardless of where it is (restaurant, bar, hotel, double-wide trailer), and it's is an open bar - meaning drinks are complimentary - it would be nice if you'd tip the fucking bartender. Especially if you are one of these assholes: "Hey, lemme get a Ketel and club, and make sure there's not too much club." My recommendation in that case is that you have a dead president in your paw (not the cherry-tree chopping variety). The funny thing about an open bar is that I'm already making a little money off the party. However, I stress "little." And if you decide to take advantage of the booze flowing like... well... booze, and to avoid unsightly lugees floating in your adult beverage, leave a tip. Here's what I do: I walk straight up to the bartender, put a twenty down, and inform him that I plan on drinking heavily, and just make sure that there is vodka for me. You'd be surprised how fast and strong my drinks are, while you, Mister No-Tip Cheapfuck, are drinking swill.