I get in early on Friday to the restaurant to start setting up. I had been “called off” the night before because it was expected to be slow. I see one of the servers that had worked the night before. Hey, man. How you doing? …Good, good. So…how did last night turn out?
He takes a pause, then says,
It was the kind of night that made me question my life’s choices.
That slow, huh?
He nods, says, yeah.
Later that night, I’m standing behind the bar, trying not to fall asleep standing up. This cold. Nobody wants to leave their house, and I don’t blame them. The same server walks up to the terminal to put in an order. He prints the receipt, starts walking towards me. Oh the Heaven’s open up. A cocktail to make! I almost start salivating, excited for the prospect to make a drink. Instead of standing there, making my thumb smell from being up my bum.
He hands me the receipt. Will it say a Bannerman’s Arsenal, perhaps? My favorite drink to make. Or perhaps a Noho Sour, a more complicated drink to make that will take me a whole minute to make?
I look down at the receipt, it says, OPEN DRINK. And then under that, in NOTES, it says,
Yep. One of those nights.