TOP TEN: TIP OR DIE! LESSON 101

TIP OR DIE!

Don't look like an amateur. Get better service.


TIPS- means to insure prompt service. My top ten, will HELP you with this.

Bartenders, however, cannot be agitated by every customer who does not observe these rules. You have to smile and deal with it, and go on with your shift. That, is just part of the biz.

10.) Tipping a bartender, is entirely different than tipping a server.

When dining, the server has to wait to the end to receive their gratuity. If the waitperson does not like it, there really is nothing one can do. It is more than likely that the customer has already scurried out the front door, possibly never to be seen again.

When going to the bar, chances are you are going to be making numerous trips to be served, you will be judged on your first trip (and tip). When you step up a second time, we can prioritize serving the guy who is giving us a bigger per drink tip, and we GET to decide how long you will have to wait.

9.) Unless you are a well established regular, do not tip at the end

You may ADD a hefty tip at the end, but do not wait until your drinking binge is over to take care of the server. And don't think you are being smart, if you decide you HAVE to tip at the end, and you will just let us know your plan. Usually, the ones who announce such a thing, are the very ones who fail to live up to their word. We won't believe you, if you say it, so don't try it.

8.) Tip heavy on the first round.

You can bet you will get special treatment after doing so. Also, remember to say please and thank you. People without manners just plain suck.

7.) Do not ask for us to be generous on our pour.

If you want a stronger drink, you should order a double, and expect to pay double. Otherwise, it makes you sound cheap and like a desparate alcoholic. What we pour, is what you get.

6.) If you order water or soda, you need to tip on that too.

And do not ONLY order water; it is a bar; if you don't want to drink alcohol, get a juice or soda. We are a business like any other, and we SELL drinks to people. If you expect to sit on our stools, piss in our bathroom, play our jukebox, you need to be a PAYING customer.

5.) Do not leave coins as a tip.

It is rude, and insulting. And, bartenders have been known to take spare change left on the bar, and throw it on the floor (or worse), next to the cheapsake customer.

4.) If you want to pay using a credit card, plan on spending more than $20.

Who goes to the bar without cash anyway? And, if you are going to open a tab, don't get so drunk you 
forget to close it out and pay. Who does this? Idiots. The same people who leave their cell phones and purses unattended, I suppose.

3.) Do not wave, snap, or use any other self created sign language to get the bartender to acknowledge you.

Wait your turn.

2.) Do not step up to the bar while on your cell phone, or BEFORE having your order ready.

I can't tell you how many times a patron has called me over only to turn around and start asking his friends what they want. By the time you turn back around, the bartender will probably have walked away. Do not signal us, if you don't have it all together.

1.) If you get special treatment, like free drinks, you need to tip on those drinks as if you had paid for them.

"We take care of you, you take care of us." It is a two way street, and believe me, if you are going to be a repeat customer, any bartender worth anything, will remember you when you return again.

The cheap or troublemaking bastard is even ten times more likely to be remembered, and we do not have to be nice to you if you come back. In fact, we don't have to serve you at all. We can refuse service to whoever we want, whether you like it or not. So...Don't be an asshole

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EVERYTHING IN THREES: Part Deux

...Continued from Previous entry EVERYTHING IN THREES here, read here for Part #1:

http://missboozetender.blogspot.com/2015/06/everything-in-threes-triple-bets-triple.html

PART DEUX:
The race went off, and the crowd began to scream at the tv, hollering "Come on baby; Bring it home, Come on fifty-five! "...it was the most memorable time I've had watching a bunch of horses "run for the roses." I was rooting for the favorite, even though I had drawn horse number three, twice. I liked the idea of witnessing history, and a regular winning the most monies.

Well, American Pharaoh, brought it home, and the big winner, was big and generous, ordering pizza, buying shots, and tipping me a twenty. Like I said, win, win.

Shortly after the race was finished three cute twenty-something girls stepped up to the bar and delved in to a pitcher of beer. My peripheral vision caught one of the girls trying to get some juice from a dead outlet for her dying cell phone. I got her attention, "Hey Missy...you need to use this outlet!" And pointed her over to the power strip already in heavy phone refueling use. She gave me a nod of thanks and I thought maybe these chicks were going to be fun ones for me to attempt future interaction.

After I returned from counting the register and cashed my tip bucket of singles into bigger bills, I somehow ended up at the girls' table where they had already kidnapped one of the trouble making regulars into their den of debauchery. There was an antagonistic banter going on, the girls saying he was calling them "dirty white girls" and other derogatory things, and he was trying to get them to come over to his bachelor pad to do naughty things.

The chicks were dressed in some kind of costumes; but it wasn't obvious what disguises they were attempting to present . One of them looked like a cross between a nameless band member from "The Go-Go's and Cyndy Lauper, but they all had scrungies on their arms circa the early nineties. They said it was supposed to be nineties attire but besides the scrungy bracelet thingys, I didn't see it. Anyway, theme parties are odd to me. It's just some excuse to dress up as a slutty whatever, or act more like a douchebag than usual. I'm not a huge fan.

The banter turned into drunken ranting.  One of the girls said some obscene things to the reverse racist, promising sexual favors to him; joking or not, I covered my ears. Some other stuff started to go down that I didn't want to witness, so I removed myself from the scene.

Well, just another day in the bar room: a historic race, an unexpected profit for one that affected many, and a gaggle of silly girls.

Never a dull moment. Looks like it's time for triple shots! TRIFECTA!

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EVERYTHING IN THREES: TRIPLE BETS, TRIPLE CHICKS, TRIPLE CROWN

It was a historical day at the races; an epic chance after 37 years for a thoroughbred, American Pharaoh, to make history and win the triple crown.

Soon after I opened the doors, an attractive couple swaggered in, ordering tequila drinks, feeding quarters into the pool table, and engaging in banter that showed it was a long established love-hate relationship. He called her "high maintenance" for her drink order (Casamigos Blanco, with soda, a splash of pineapple juice and 2 limes), and he criticized her pool rule knowledge; she humored him and laughed off his wise ass comments and played on.

Soon, a solo drinking California dude pulled up a stool and started a Tecate drink string. I'm not sure if he intended it to be a "hit and run" drink or not, but I already decided he wasn't allowed to leave.  "Kidnapped." That's how I think.

Shortly, I had some diehard, entertaining, goofy, regulars show up, and soon I had a 6 person party of shot drinking jokesters. The new Cali guy fit in quickly, stayed for a double trifecta (6 beers), and partaked in shots with the usual suspects. He quickly bonded with a similarly bearded tattooed fella, over Allman Brothers and obscure music knowledge. They looked like they could have been separated at birth. West Coast newbie will be back! Probably next week; fingers crossed. He was a customer that we would love to add to our arsenal of awesomeness.

I decided to start a Belmont Stakes pool, so that we could fully enjoy the race since the return on investment would be better than any odds at the track. It was like a football pool, with random numbers drawn, and no profit for the house; no laws broken. In my mind, it would make it a party, and whoever won would likely reinvest at least some of the profits into more drinks thereafter. Win, win.

One lucky regular picked "5" twice, and being that was the Triple Crown best bet, he was likely to be the big winner. I decided to take it and run with it, and started chanting like an enthusiastic crap shooter : "Come ooooooon, fifty five....fifty five!" hollering "five, five, shooter, let's goooooooo fifty five!!!!!" in a voice that sounded like a well seasoned auctioneer.

The first pool had sold out quickly, and I had three pools going with $10 a number (The most profit to be made was $130 by the regular who picked five twice.)  Not bad for a $30 investment (he was in all three).

(To be continued...sooooooon, stay tuned for part 2)

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OVERGROWN FRAT BOYS & NEAR DEATH FEVER

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St. Paddy's Day. Not a holiday I like. It's for overgrown frat boys to act like even bigger idiots than they usually do. I prefer, if anything, to have a barrier between me and the often over intoxicated. The choice for me is: work, or hibernate. Since, this year, it fell on a Friday...it was easier just to "have to work it", 'cause it's my usual day. I had mixed feeling about working it: fearing fights from hell, vomit on the sidewalk, and other behavior that belongs at a college kegger. But, I knew it would be busy. Perhaps, it would be...fun! The worst part: green really isn't my color.

Upon arrival, I feared the worst. The bar was packed, and full of the kinds of customers that order Redbull vodkas, Coors light, and Long Island ice teas. It looked about 50 people over capacity, and that was at 7pm. Well, busy=money...so, I tried to stay positive.

The first hour and and half, we had already rung about what we usually do on an entire Wednesday night. It didn't seem THAT busy, but how time flies when the liquor is. And after about an hour, we had a whole new crowd...a calmer, more polite, civil one, that said please and thank you. So, the article in Time Out that labelled us an "anger bar" had possibly led a new breed of customer to us. The demographics for the magazine show the readers have money and are educated. Could these St. Paddy's Day visitors be readers of the mag.? or did we just get so lucky to have the troublemakers move on the McDate Rape bar a few avenues over? Whoever these people were...I was thankful they were there.

A highlight of the evening was the appearance of John. John, is a regular who comes to the bar with his bagpipes, and proceeds to play them at highly inappropriate times. He is very goofy, and very loud, and sometimes, he crosses the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Today, he was even on his best behavior. Dressed in full parade uniform, and not as drunk as one would expect, he showed up wanting to play. Wellllll, hell, yeah, today would be the day.

"Who wants to hear some bagpipes?". The response was an enthusiastic "yes". I proceeded to instruct the guys to close the front door, so as not to wake the entire neighborhood. The crowd LOVED it, and I really got a kick out of it. How festive!!!

Over the course of the night, I mangled my knee, by pivoting off it to get from one side of the bar to the other, and from squatting to get beer, and stuff. Last year, I had the same knee problem, with inflammation and pain, which led to me needing to get fluid drained from it with a needle. Fun, fun. I also, was fighting a headache, popping one too many painkillers, that made me feel, not so hot. By the end of the night, I was exhasted. I could barely walk, and knew I would need the entire next day to recover.

I was pretty sure upon closing, our numbers were record breaking in a few places...And the next day, I called the previous manager to compile data, and I was indeed right. Records broken.

Sometime on Saturday (the day after), I crashed out on my couch, and when I woke up, I knew something wasn't right. I was hot. Super hot. I knew I had a fever. There was a mad search for my thermometer, and found it in some odd place, no one would ever think to look. I stuck it in mouth and was scared to look. 104.3. Jesus. Ice bath. Advil. 911? I tried to stay calm, and take the proper measures to lower my temperature.

It was a fight, and I was soooo sick. I thought a few times, I was going to die. It was a weekend, and 
if I wanted to get medical attention on Sunday, it would have to be the ER. Honestly, sometimes, I think I would rather die, than check myself into a NYC hospital. The waiting time alone is enough to kill you. If I could just make it until Monday, I could go to my own doctor, which luckily, is on the main floor of my building.

If my doctor's office been anywhere else, I would have called the ambulance. Luckily, I toughed it out, with rigorous folk remedies, and made it downstairs midday on Monday. After having my temperture shooting back up to 104.5, and having atleast an hour where I was visibly shaking, I somehow managed to get dressed and carry myself to the elevator down the few floors.

I don't think I have ever been sicker as an adult. It was bad. Very very bad. Mind altering even. I 
came out of the delirium, thinking, I need to take more time for myself. I am working too hard, so hard, I could die. And it just ain't worth it

BAR RULES: NOT UP FOR DEBATE

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You stumble into the bar, delusional perhaps from pre-entry intoxication, or perhaps from anticipatory drunkendom. Somehow, you come to the conclusion, you are entitled to act like the bar is your home; your personal refuge. You are a cocky mother f-er.

Case #1:

Electrician Mike enters with a monstrous box which at first looks like a X-mas tree stand. But, upon further inspection, I realize it is a huge box of power tools.


He begins to test the power tools, making various buzzing sounds, loudly plopping things on top of the bar, and then he saunters over to an outlet, and proceeds to plug in some contraption.

I suggest that the noise he is making is not appropriate since patrons are there nursing their hangovers, hoping to cure them with a little hair of the dog. Power tool testing, is not what the doctor ordered.

On top of this...I begin to question another patron, Bill, as to whether Mike thought to ask whether it was okay to tap into our power supply.

I begin to silently fume. Instead of wasting my breath, I begin to create a list of functions the bar is not intended for. That was the start of my famous "bar rule signs..." This one read:

"This is a bar...not your...
...#1 Power tool testing station."

Lesson: Don't come to my bar on your lunch break and set up shop. The result will be a sign posted for all to see, and your cockiness will have been the inspiration for the retalitory list.

Don't confuse your local bar with your personal den of selfish indulgence. You could be the ridicule of bartenders and those who love them, everywhere.

Screw you with a power tool later.

FAKE IDs and WANNABES

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OLD TIMERS BOOZEFEST: FLORENCE and LAWRENCE

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Lawrence, one of our regulars that could be called "furniture", with questionable grooming habits, also, seems to have a way with the ladies. He can be quite charming, when he applies himself. Having been married three times, once to a playboy bunny (or something), he certainly has had his share of women. Although sometimes, he is rude and cranky, he does know how to treat a lady, with proper manners, and respect. Lawrence is rather old school, and knows how to be a gentleman when duty calls.

This Tuesday, like so many others, he was hitting the Pabst and Kentucky Gentleman at his leisurely pace. Late night, he was still in full swing, as he headed outside for a cigarette break.

Shortly, the doors to the entrance swung back open, and low and behold, Lawrence had a lovely looking old lady in his company.

"Tanqueray martini straight up, very, very cold, no olives, no nothing." she politely ordered.

Apparently Lawrence had approached her on the sidewalk, and asked her if she would like to come in for a drink, AND she accepted.

It wasn't long before I was intently listening to this woman, entranced by her mannerisms and utterings. Her name was Florence, and as Lawrence quickly pointed out, their names rhymed...was it a match made in heaven?

Over the next few hours, I tried to absorb as much as I could about Florence. This is her story:

She was born in Manhattan, and has lived on 10th Street, a few blocks away, for 79 years. (Both Lawrence and I comment, how she looks better than him, a man 20 years younger...)

Born May 28, 1927, married once to a man who smoked and passed away in 1991. She never had children, because as she told it...they were too busy having a good time, by the time they were ready to consider it, she had passed her childbearing years. Florence has some unusual facial expressions: an odd crinkling of the nose, and a wide smile that appears at strange times.

I ask her if she is a movie star. No, but she is an actress, a member of Aftra, who doesn't have to pay her union dues. She must have been "grandfathered in". She is very well dressed, apparently just coming from dinner at a Japanese place down the block. When asked who she had dined with, she proudly claims to "always go out alone". She says her friends her age, don't like to go out to dinner, to bars, essentially, they don't like to spend any money. So, she flies solo.

She talks about how fancy the food was tonight at the restaurant, and how she prefers simplicity. A steak, some potatoes, no fancy garnishes. She speaks about Nobu, famous chefs, food presentation, and how things used to be.

As the martini disappears, Florence gets a little more talkative, and a bit more crazy. She calls herself a virgin, which I quickly correct, telling her she must be a born again virgin. Well, yes, a born again, having not had sex since 1991, I suppose that applies. Wow.

She talks to the other patrons at the bar, which at this point, are only two others. She takes a liking to Karen, and tells her to pull her chair closer. Florence comments on how smart Karen is, how beautiful she is, and starts asking philosophical questions like if she knows what love is, and other cliche things. Every sentence now begins with "Listen..." and she gets more brave with her questions as time goes on. She starts to contradict herself...first talking about how she would never tell someone not to smoke, or try to control or judge anyone for their choices...Not ten minutes later, she is doing just that, asking why a girl like me is working in a place like this, calling my co-worker a fake, and wondering how anyone could drink beer directly from a bottle.

She also, starts to be flirtatous with Lawrence, and returns to the talk of being a born again virgin. For a second, I questioned whether I heard things right; "You know how tight I am down there?", she informs Lawrence, and then adds to the pot, " and I never had children." Wink, wink.

Lawrence turns beet red. She says he is too young for her. But, there seems to be some weird sexual tension going on. I am in mild shock.

She challenges another customer, to grow some balls, and pull up a chair to talk to her. He is a twenty-something, calling her babe, and saying things like "my bad". She is offended by his non-chalance, and orders him to leave her alone. She is getting somewhat belligerent, and who wouldn't after fifteen years of celibacy? I'd be crazy and cranky, too.

Florence, does look like a movie star, especially when she smiles, and she makes me miss my grandmother. I like her. Alot. I want her to come back. Every night. Somehow, I doubt that would ever happen, and I wonder IF I'll ever see her again.

I try to make sure I do, by inviting her to our Anniversary party this weekend, and I even write the information down for her, so she wont forget.

After 3am, she announces it is time for her to go home. It is raining, and cold, so I offer he an umbrella, and Lawrence wants to put her in a cab. She refuses both, but says she will see us Saturday.

I hope she keeps her word.

Maybe I should have asked her for her number...

ON YOUR MARKS, GET READY FOR BOOZE-TENDING AT ITS WORST

Vanessa gave meaning to the term "star bartender". She had been a huge draw at another east village honky tonk, that had since been closed, due to, tax evasion, or some other illegal crap. The plan was, that her regulars would follow her to Doc's, and she would train the newbies to do things her way.

She was very bosy, and pretty intimidating. Vanessa had a line for most everything. No music: "Come on you cheap bastards, put a dollar in the jukebox". No tip: "Hey asshole, why don't you take this quarter, and go call your mother and tell her how cheap you are." Slow ballad on the jukebox: Song cut: "What do you guys think this is, a funeral? Please excuse me, while I go slit my wrists."

Vanessa also, TOLD customers that they were doing shots, and buying her one too. Saying no, was not an option. "What shot are you doing?" as she slammed down the glasses, and "you're buying me a shot." I would guess she drank about 3/4 of a bottle of Absolut every shift. Sometimes, she wouldn't even bother to pour it in a glass, but rather hold the bottle over her mouth and consume. There were penalty shots for customers who did something to piss her off, which often meant the cheapest whiskey poured into their mouth while leaning their heads backwards in between Vanessa's knees from on top of the bar.

Neatness and stocking, were not a priority; the evidence of debauchery was everywhere. Newspapers strewn on the floor, liquor and beer spilled on the bar, empty bottles everywhere. Vanessa was even more of a mess: more often than not, she was the drunkest person in the bar, covered in alcohol, hair wet from spraying herself down with the soda gun, wife beaters torn in several places. Her antics were a sight to be seen; patrons came to watch her, and she could pack the place.

Training with her was like bootcamp. You were treated like a new recruit, subject to her command. I was to do whatever she told me to do, and nothing was ever good enough. She told me I was using the wrong glass, pouring too much or too little, not drinking enough, wearing the wrong clothes, being too nice, and on and on...She took my training sessions, as license to get drunk, to entertain and not have to serve, and to use me as she saw fit. I also was not to be paid for training, and all those tips people were giving to me, were going to go right to her pocket.


After midnight, she was so hammered anyone she served, she "forgot" to get money from. People would get drinks from her, she would walk away, and they would be standing there with money in hand. All night long, people would offer to pay me for drinks Vanessa neglected to charge them for. Apparently, also, she had a habit of taking people's money, and either giving them the wrong change, or not bringing any at all. She was a master at explaining how to be a star bartender, but she was pissing people off, and apparently giving away the house. If she didn't have a partner there to collect money, or fix her mistakes, the place would easily be out of business in no time. By midnight, she couldn't serve drinks. All she could do was put on her "show", yell at the customers, and continue to hit the bottle herself.

Needless to say, as the place was packed every night Vanessa worked, but the till was not, the owner soon learned if he kept her on, he would soon be deep in debt. The liquor costs were soaring, and the fact that she brought a huge crowd in every night, meant nothing, because she was all talk, and all alcoholic.

Vanessa, was a prime example of someone who could verbally teach someone how to make money, but she couldn't follow her own advice. I think in her case, she was a lush of extraordinary proportions...and that was the ultimate cause of her demise.

Lesson: Don't get so drunk, that you "forget" to take the cash.

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READY. SET. BOOZEFEST: The beginning of an NYC bartender's two decade love affair with a bar and it's patrons.

Recently, a co-worker of mine suggested I try to take more time off for myself. She explained how she feels defined by her job, and that escape is needed to have a life outside of the bar world. I agree with that, but I also feel that, more people than not, are defined by what they do in life. One of the most annoying questions people ask when first meeting someone, is: "what do you do?".

Although, I cringe at the unoriginality of this inquiry, it is a reality, and will likely not change. After, working over 22 years in the bar/restaurant business, it is impossible for me to not, be associated with my place of work: Joanna, from Doc's. It is far easier to go with that  Nearly one half of my life has been spent at my bar, it is as much a part of me, as I am a part of it.

It is just after Doc Holliday's 21st year anniversary, and being there since day #1, I often find myself feeling reminiscent of days gone, more than usual, around this time of year. 

April 6th, 1994. Alphabet City.

Home of Tompkin's Square Park, location of choice for the "squatters", drug dealers on street corners, very few bars and restaurants, and apartments still considered affordable. It was a different time, a different place. I was almost 24, pursuing an acting career, and paying the rent, like so many artists 
do, by working in the service industry.

I was just finishing a two year run at a theatre district restaurant, where demanding patrons poured in to fill their stomachs a few hours before curtain time.

The place would be full by 6 o'clock, and be empty again by 7:45. It was a decent gig. You would make all your money in two hours, but it was quite stressful, since you essentially had a "deadline". Two hours or less in and out, a kitchen that got busier than Grand Central at rush hour, with cooks yelling "pick it up, pick it up", and waitresses "stealing" other tables food, making things even more chaotic than they already were. On top of that, the owner was a surly middle aged Greek man, who 
would follow you around during the night, yell in your ear, holding your job over your head with idle threats.

As a waitress, during my employment there, I did cultivate quite the following, which is not as common for waitresses as it is for bartenders. I was extremely patient with the demanding elite, with their rum and diet cokes, egg white omelets, and sauces on the side. They often pressed for special treatment, and tried to get a rise out of you, by treating you like a servant. But I learned very quickly, that they WANT to push your buttons. When you, unpredictably, smile, and say, "no problem", or "sure", they feel like the assholes, and have no choice but to shut up and enjoy. I was better with some kinds of customers than others.

Among the most memorable, were a group of three 60-something ladies, who came in at least once a month. They always had such a great time, having a few cocktails, a nice meal, and sometimes, when they came in during "non- rush hour" times, I would sit down and schmooze.

I began to realize, I had a natural talent: I knew exactly what kind of customer I was dealing with, the second I approached my table.

There were the young couples: usually from Brooklyn or New Jersey, in for a night out on the town. Money was not an object, ordering Johnny Walker blacks, Ketel One tonics, a bottle of wine with dinner, appetizers they don't finish, espresso with a cordial on the side, and often tipping way over twenty percent.

There were family outings, with high maintenance Long Island mothers, children in tow, sometimes, the grandparents too. Everything is "sauce on the side", with other special needs, and they usually tip exactly double the tax on the bill.

I often made repeat customers, which in a tourist heavy area, was unusual. I had patrons, who came into town a few times a year, and every time, they came to my restaurant, and sat in my section. I was a people pleaser. And got off on juggling 15-20 tables, running around like the spaz that I am, stacking 10 plates and my arm, getting the checks down and paid, with time to spare before curtains up. It was like a race, and the payoff were happy customers, and money in my pocket. The place was hit with a whirlwind of energy every night, and there were many stories to tell. I was also, still in my early 20's, and there were plenty of nights at after hours, many young boys to juggle, and an overactive social schedule.That is whole book in itself...

Anyway...a few times when the bartender was sick, I filled in. When you are a waitress setting up the service area for drinks, you quickly learn how to make them. I already knew most of the "recipes", simply from observing; the rest of the job required listening skills, attentiveness, and personality.

After a few fill-in shifts behind the bar, the "regulars" were bothering the owner to put me behind the stick. He was, as I alluded to, a cranky man, and retorted things like "you aren't tall enough", and other stupid crap like that. At that point, I had been there almost two years, and I felt my time was coming to an end. My closest friend, (who I had met there) had moved back to Boston, and it just wasn't as much fun anymore. And the owner, was way beyond unbearable.

I took a bartending course up at Barnard, which was cheap, held on six Friday  nights, where we used real liquor and were allowed to drink our concoctions. I am sure I drank at least half of what I spent on the course in liquor. And I learned how to make drinks, like Pearl Harbors, and Godfathers, which, as I have found, in my 22 years of bartending, to be of almost no use whatsoever.

I gave my two weeks notice, and started to scour the local papers for jobs. Little did I know, the owner of my bar had another bar post an ad for him, to screen potential employees and tell them to
"come in and hang out" on a Friday night in March. He was to be in attendance, checking out the potential applicants, and approaching those with "potential" that very night.

I believe I was THE only person who was literally hired OFF that very bar. After a song, or three of
shaking it, I was introduced the "real" person who was hiring...and I was in. "Come in Wednesday" night, ask for Vanessa