My Other Job--Cocktail "Waitress"

For exactly a month now, I've been working as a cocktail server at a brand spankin' new "Swank, Posh" restaurant on Magazine Street. I won't say which one, but in certain circles the chef is famous. In my circle, he's just some dude from West Virginia who spent some time in France and sports a serious Pittsburgh 'stache.

But I didn't know he was from West Virginia when I applied. I just needed a job and all the other ones were taken.

Being a cocktail server isn't that bad. I only work three nights a week and the staff is pretty cool. I'm the least smiley one there but only because my feet hurt so BAD.

Here's a typical Saturday night:
My section is the "gorgeous" side patio, where I'm serving a emo hipster dude in plaid his 7th manhattan, "with rye whiskey please." His friend is drinking a mint julep and rolling his own cigarettes. They are having an incredibly stimulating conversation. "I voted because it was such an important election year." I fall asleep refilling their waters.

Inside at the bar, three "ladies" dressed like the Olsen twins (the skinny one) are loudly discussing which of their past flings they did or did not sleep with. They are using the f-word a lot and calling each other "slut." It's super classy.

As I set down an almost full Miller High Life to throw away (It is the only thing like that we serve--I think originally it was as a joke but the hipster kids liked it, so we kept it on the menu), a guy gets all worried that we are wasting beer and says he'll drink it. Even though I picked it up off a stranger's table outside who, for all he knows, could have put the beer in his mouth and then spit it all back in the bottle. I tell him to do whatever he wants and walk away. I want no part of that. This is a classy joint.

In the kitchen, someone has started a rumor that a customer threw up on the front porch. "No, I don't think so." Then the second-in-command chef makes fun of me for stuffing beverage napkins into my shoes but I don't care. Band-aids won't cut it.

Back outside, I watch a woman in an evening dress help her stumbling husband down the steps. When he reaches the sidewalk--I am not making this up--he proceeds to ralph everywhere. Guess the rumors were true. J, the bartender from Pittsburgh, has to dump a bucket of water on the sidewalk to clean it. Once again, classy.

The most amazing thing about working at a bar is seeing how drunk everyone gets. I constantly ask someone if they'd like another drink, convinced they will say "no thank you, I've had more than enough." Instead they say "keep 'em coming" and trip over the furniture or ralph on the sidewalk. Even scarier, some of them just get up and walk out like they've had 2 coca-cola's instead of 15 martini's, and then who knows? Drive home? Take a cab? Sleep in the bushes?