Suprisingly, this broad is not the biggest nutjob tending bar in my city. She’s got stiff comp from another cold mess at The Lounge.
This is me trying to pay out and get my checkcard back:
“Close my tab?”
“What’s your last name?”
I tell her. She checks her tabs.
“I don’t have a tab with that last name”
“That’s not my last name, its …”
“I told you I don’t have a tab with that name”
“But you misspelled it …”
Now completely unhinged and channelling a meth-binging Tony Soprano, “Hey! HEY! Look in my eyes! OK?” (what?) “I don’t have a check in your name!!!”.
“I opened my tab with you. You have my VISA card.”
Pointing at the door, “You can leave!”
Around this time, the other bartender steps in, apologizes and gets my card. I tip $2.50/drink on the check.
Why? Because I genuinely feel sorry for the girl. She doesn’t know how good she’s got it, when she could be across the street at Lucky Bar fielding 25 cent tips and getting barfed on by Biffs and young-professional starter-kit princesses.
The night wasn’t a loss though. Far from. Riddims from Meistro, squashing w/ Mustafa, plus all the cool folk I met.
And on to Selam for some re-unitings and Miami Vice Crockett’s theme-ings.
» All shots here.
The BYT sticker makes a comeback…
April 28, 2008 at 6:58 pm