Bar life, part 2

It’s rare for me to be speechless. I usually have a quick comeback for nearly everything I hear. It’s sort of a requirement of this particular job — I work with smartasses, so my acerbic sense of humor is sort of a defense mechanism. One day, however, it’s gonna get me in trouble.

Quick example: A guy arrives late to the bar. His buddies are already drinking. He just wants a cup, so that he can join them. Still, I have to check his ID. I ask for it, and as he’s handing it over to me, he says, “I’m only 14.”

My response? “I’m checking your age, sir, not your IQ.” His buddies all cracked up — thank goodness. At that point he didn’t really have any choice but to go along with the joke (or else look like a jackwagon in front of his buddies), so it was all good.

Or say someone orders a virgin daquiri, because they’re the DD or whatever. My (joking) response: “I’m sorry, there are no virgins in Tuscaloosa.”

However, there are days when I simply have no comeback for the things I hear/see at the bar.

Case in point: Within my first couple of weeks back at the ol’ watering hole, a young woman came up to the bar and ordered an “umba-rella sour.”

Do what?

I make it a general policy to never laugh in a patron’s face. But sometimes you can’t help it. This was a college student. You know, the future of our country and all. If you are old enough to drink, you should be old enough to know what you’re drinking. It’s amaretto, for cryin’ out loud. You want an amaretto sour. Then she doesn’t have to leave the bar feeling like an idiot, and I don’t have to stand there shaking my head in disbelief and horror at the stupidity of kids these days.

But the most surreal moment came last night, when a young woman came up to the bar and asked to see “the book.” The book is our recipe guide. It’s also what bored, disinterested people who don’t like the taste of alcohol want to use to find something fruity and sweet. If you want “the book” at a bar, just order a sex on the beach. You’ll save yourself a lot of time and allow the bartender to do his damn job.

Anyway, this young woman read through the book. Twice, forward and backward. Then she ordered a strawberry daquiri. A. Strawberry. Daquiri. That’s the most boring drink on the planet. When Lunesta wants to fall asleep, it drinks a strawberry daquiri. Regardless, I’m not there to educate her on her bland, plebian tastes. I begin making the drink, until she stops me cold with one simple question:

“Excuse me,” she says, “but does that have tomato juice in it?”

Some people shouldn’t be allowed to drink, no matter what the legal age is.

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