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I love my job. I get paid to intoxicate the intoxicated all night and watch them unknowingly confuse twenties for fives on my bar table while a nipple, or perhaps two, slips out for a crowd of cheering admirers. Night after night, I get drinks purchased for me from drunken high-class men, and hell, when I don’t, I make them for myself after I cry into a rando’s Captain and Coke from lack of self-assurance. But besides those nights, which are definitely few and far between because let’s be real, I’m a smokeshow, I have the time of my life working in a bar. I’ve done everything from bar backing and lugging ice to cocktail waitressing in a tight corset. I’ve tended bars in glorious shithole college towns and upscale nightclubs where everyone gels their hair and gets Chanel lipstick stains on all my shot glasses. Now you’re probably thinking, “Hey Anna, wow! You rock. You must be so intelligent and stuff. You get people drunk for a living. Congrats, you uneducated, little-boobied ginger.” Well guess what, idiots? I’ve learned a valuable skill that any Fortune 500 company would feel blessed to have dance across their marble tables on my piece of shit, yet extensive resumé. I’ve learned what not to do at a bar.
Don’t Say You Know The Manager
“Hey! Can I get two Vegas Bombs, heavy on the whiskey, light on the Red Bull. Oh, and I know [insert owner, manager, downstairs bartender’s name here].”
I’m not sure if you’re trying to get a discount out of me, or name things that we have in common. I’m gonna go with the latter and spit in your drink while I’m at it so we can have something else in common: my saliva. I’m not an idiot; I know you don’t know my manager/owner/mother/bouncer/fucking name, or else he or she would’ve given me the heads up or come up to the bar with you. Stop trying it. Pay your 14 bucks, you wannabe industry moocher.
Don’t Order Drinks That I’ve Never Heard Of
“Um, yeah hi hey can I get a Yellow Flying Bird Titty Bang?”
What the fuck is that? I know every drink in the book and that ain’t one of ’em.
“Oh my god. No one knows how to make it. Ugh. This bar sucks. You suck. It’s such a simple drink and you’re a bad bartender.”
No I’m not. That’s just a ridiculous drink that some bartender at another place three years ago made up just to fuck with your drunk ass one night. My guess is the main alcohol was gasoline and you were too banged up to realize it. If you want your stupid drink with 10 different mixers, just tell me what’s in it and I’ll make it for you.
“Fine. I’ll just tell you how to make it. It’s peach schnapps and OJ. Like, how did you not know that? Have you ever bartended before?”
Yes. And that’s called a fuzzy navel, you pretentious asshole. Here’s your damn princess drink.
Don’t Act Like You’ve Never Ordered A Drink Before
Hot chick with lots of hot chick friends walk over to my station and lay their bowling balls of cleavage on the bar in front of my over-eyelinered and forever envious eyes. “[Giggle giggle] Can I get a vodka cran, but like, looooots of vodka hahaHAhahAHaha!”
How am I ever going to make this drink when my arms can’t reach the liquor well because the huge boner I have is in the way?! OH WAIT. I DON’T HAVE ONE. Your bodacious lady parts don’t overwhelm me in my bathing suit area; they just make me hate you for being so beautifully proportionate. You’re getting a cup of ice, a regular 4 count pour of the scummiest vodka to ever hit the western hemisphere, and a top off of watered down cran. Next.
Hi can I get a cup of alcohol, please?
You’re underage. Get you and your construction paper Maryland ID out of my face.
Know When To Use Cash, Know When To Open A Tab
Smoking hot man with blue eyes and a strong jawline at a crowded college bar comes up to you and says, “Wow you’re a hardworking, good looking bartender. Can I please have a bottle of your cheapest, fraternity friendly beer? Man I’m so excited to tip you because I appreciate your service so much!”
Wow. What a 10. AND he’s wearing a bow tie. Maybe I’ll buy him this beer. Will he ask for my number? Of course he will. You’re a hardworking, good-looking bartender whose service is appreciated. But it’s his first beer…yeah, better make him buy it. That’s like sleeping with someone on the first date and you’ve totally never done that except a couple times.
“No problem! That’ll be $2, I have [insert shitty beer] on special tonight just for you, handsome.”
Strong jaw-lined man reaches his manly hands into his perfectly tailored J. Crew pants, only to pull out a credit card.
Congrats, buddy. You just went from a 10 to a borderline 1.5. And that’s me being extremely generous. If you are at a busy bar do not, I repeat, DO NOT use a credit card. Credit cards are only acceptable when starting a tab at a bar where the crowd isn’t shoving to get a measly hand on the table. Instead of handing me two dollar bills that I can throw into the cash register faster than you can say Betty White’s wrinkly tush, I now have to open the computer, find your damn drink in the world’s most convoluted menu, enter it, swipe your card, check your faded name and expiration date in a room lit solely by a flashing BUD LIGHT sign about 30 feet away, print off your receipt, stuff it in a sticky fake leather menu book, AND FIND A DAMN PEN. Maybe it’s just the bars I’ve worked at, but pens in a bar are like a note that’s not “a little bit pitchy” to Randy Jackson’s 2000s American Idol ears. They don’t exist. And even after I’ve found a pen, it is most likely A) not going to work because I found it on the floor in a puddle of 30 different liqueurs or B) not going to work because it’s brand new and still has the plastic ball on the tip but we are both too drunk to even realize it. And now I’ve got to wait for you to sign it. Oh gee wiz, thanks strong-jawlined man, for the dash you put on the add tip line! I’m currently looking at your receipt and mentally making a note of your first and last name so I can stalk you on Facebook in the morning and spread a herpes rumor about you.
Respond
Topanga
Topanga is a contributing writer for Post Grad Problems. Lover of red wine, mediocre gossip, and Corey's whipped ass.
@TopangaPGP
Last one is ridiculous. It’s 2014… The majority of the world’s transactions are done electronically and a bar should be no different. Get off your retarded cash-only high horse.
Different situations call for different etiquette you inconsiderate douche. The transaction fees on credit cards far out weigh the profit earned on the drink at low prices.
Bring cash to the bar and if you’re having more than 1 drink open a tab with your card.
Also if the minimum is 20$ dollars because assholes like you keep ordering 4 dollar drinks with their cards don’t ask “really?” or “seriously” I’m busy and this isn’t a new fucking thing my bar invented.
and for the love of God don’t tell me having a minimum charge to use a credit card is illegal. I don’t even know if it is or isn’t but saying that makes you a dick.
You what needs to be included here? If you have a drink then you should step away from the damn bar so people behind you can buy drinks. Nothing infuriates me more than people who idly chat in front of the bar after they’ve gotten their drinks.
and then they get pissed at you for trying to nudge your way past them to order a drink.
The worst.
Will I get faster service and/or preferential treatment if I tip you big on my first drink of the night?
Absolutely. I try my best to give everyone great service regardless of tip, but an extra buck or twenty makes it easy to play favorites
So…if boobs don’t work, how else can I get more vodka?
haha…first of all i love this! I bartended for 6 years in a college bar. I have seen a lot. and would love to agree with you on all of the above. credit cards are annoying and no one ever tips on them. or they look at you like you a incapable of any mathematical skill and can’t figure out there tab, when you break it down in a crowded bar where lip reading is a huge skill set, you end up screaming at the person. they don’t understand this and even take their change back, including the penny.
they scream at you for giving them change. seriously change. i don’t know where you live but quarters are amazing, they equal laundry, or if you work in a bar dinner on a busy night. peanuts are a god send.
if you work in a bar that doesn’t allow you to drink, your life will turn into hell quickly. When i say no, i mean it. no i can’t drink. yes , there are cameras. it is 2014. a jack shot is not worth my car payment or rent. please excuse my desire to pay by bills regularly.
OMG! please don’t use phrases like YOLO, TOTS, or AMAZ! this makes you sound ridiculous and please excuse the assumption but chances are you are the idiot who orders a drink with milk and very little alcohol. And yes, i do put more milk in it than I should. Milk behind a bar is annoying and messy, and belongs only in establishments where you trust the bar staff to check the expiration date…
Please don’t walk into a college bar and ask for good glass of wine. It’s not going to happen. It’s a COLLEGE bar, we have beer and shots, maybe a descent liquor selection. But chances are the wine comes from a plastic bottle.
Also, don’t ask for a STRONG drink. I know you won’t tip.
Two dollars is cheap.
Ladies, congrats on your voluptuous lady parts. I am sure victoria’s secret will be hunting you down soon! But, seriously, please don’t hand me a wad of cash from your bra. Especially, when it is sweaty. Or your armpit. I don’t want it. I don’t want to touch it, the bank tellers and managers who count the money don’t either. Please do something else with it. And by that I mean don’t put it in your armpits either. GROSS…
Oh and by the way, please don’t assume I am an idiot. If a business is managed correctly, no intelligent manager is going to stick someone without skills behind a bar. A good bartender will make or break a bar. You need to be capable of multi-tasking, memorization skills, have a remotely charming personality, and be capable of making intelligent choices. I don’t want to deal with the idiot frat boy who doesn’t like his craft beer choice that he ordered to be cool. I want you to order and get out of my face. Especially, if you think “hey, what are you doing later?”is going to help you get my number…it’s not.
Thanks for the comment that said everything the column basically did except it was way fucking longer.
What this man said.