My husband and I were celebrating his 50th birthday at our favorite restaurant. We were seated rock-star, bellied up at the bar. Sipping gin and tonic, noshing on select delicacies from our charcuterie plate, a bedazzled hand reached in front of me and dropped an empty plastic bottle of Smart Water.
Next, the hand that was weighed down with a giant rock, hailed the bartender like a cab. She elbowed me. She complained about the time it took for SERVICE! Clearly, I was in her way and she really wanted a Grey Goose and soda. Her husband was thirsty for pinot noir. This was no average patron. No, I was standing right next to a very entitled, Dago bitch. Wow, lucky me!
I felt like that bitch was on the verge of going all Reese Witherspoon (the new “postal”). I could feel the prickly tension from this lady and braced myself to hear her shout at the totally slammed bartender, “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? WELL, YOU ARE ABOUT TO FIND OUT BUDDY. I AM AN AMERICAN CITIZEN, STANDING ON AMERICAN SOIL THIS IS MY RIGHT. I NEED A DRINK AND THE SEATS THAT I HAD RESERVED! WHY AM I WAITING??!!??”
Before she could spew the words … bad news! Grey Goose is like so five-years-ago and not on the menu. Frazzled with uncertainty, the lady with the rock on her well manicured finger, was stalled by the intense chore of reading the menu. This required squeezing herself right next to me at the bar. I could smell her odor, feel her arm, she flipped her hair in my face. I was so in her way. What was I thinking? Like, how dare I?
At last, five minutes later, a much needed drink was in her botoxed hand. Just in time to greet her friends who FINALLY arrived. The now expanded party required drinks immediately!!!
Waiting for SEVICE! The important bitch gave her friends and everyone surrounding the bar the skinny. “THIS BARTENDER SUCKS! I AM SO ANNOYED! I CANNOT BELIEVE WE HAVEN’T BEEN SEATED. I AM TALKING TO SOMEONE ABOUT THIS! WE SHOULD BE DRINKING FREE DRINKS!”
One person in the party remarked, “Nice place. What is it? Like Eye-taal-yun?”
“Yes,” said the bitch and scurried off to complain to the host.
I wanted to let her know that she was wrong. The the food at the establishment is Mediterranean. The chef creates small, special plates ment to be shared. The menu regularly changes with fresh, farm-to-table ingredients. Food isn’t fast and doesn’t come off a conveyor belt. The drinks are exquisite and as for the wine list… well, the owner is a sommelier. Chef Boy’r Dee is not in the kitchen.
We asked for the bill and wrote a note to the bartender, warning him that he and the staff might need to get their shit together. What would it be like if this upset lady never came back? She could be the one trickle of hope that would make our little fancy restaurant a big deal. People would fly in from Japan just to sample the eye-tail-young food. They would marvel at the lady with a big rock and botoxed hand. They would request to be near her table. The napkins her party used would be auctioned off and the restaurant would use the proceeds to expand the “stupid communal dining.” Plus, enough change would be left to make a hefty donation to Habitat for Humanity. Wow, our favorite dig could go from stupid and suckie to smashing. I imagined totally being that powerful bitch’s best friend, learning how to be a BIG bitch, and getting lots of free drinks. Bonus.
Seriously folks, I hope she hated the place and complained to all her asshole friends. I want this restaurant to stay special, custom and not some cookie cut bullshit. I want to wait for a well crafted cocktail that is worth waiting for. I’d love to say to that woman, “GET OUT and don’t let the door hit you in your boney ass.”
We just wrote down all the shit she was saying about the staff and passed it to the bartender. He’d deal with them. NEVER piss off a bartender.