Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Would you drink there?

Not carding customers who look like they're the age of Harry Potter and his cohorts in the second to last HP movie? Scooping up ice directly into a pint glass? Pouring well gin into a cocktail that calls for Plymouth gin? Finding that the OJ in the gun is thick, brown, sickly-sweet smelling fluid that one isn't fit to smell let alone drink? Having to use an orange, moth-eaten looking shammy to wipe down the bar? I wouldn't even wax my mags with that old thing.

Drink there? I wouldn't even work there.

I had the, ahem, pleasure of training at such a bar yesterday evening. It was like one of my anxiety work dreams where all the product is out, the garnish is skanky and/or wrong, and the manager is a bit of a tyrant.

I called up the owner today and told him what for. He seemed to get it, but, at the same time, was struggling to try and make changes over the phone with me. I'm not a salmon, and I ain't gonna swim up the stream of that place. *If it really were a stream, it'd be strewn with old beer cans, busted doll parts, and worn-out tires.

So, so long, and "lykke til"!


  1. Waiter, there's a fly in my whiskey...

  2. Girl, if only it were just a fly!


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