Pre-Patty’s Day
The Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day was the second biggest day of 2008. Maybe it was because St. Patrick’s Day was on a Monday, and people decided that Saturday would be their alcoholiday, but we were busy all night long. Nicole informed me the other day that this year’s Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day Tim would come on at seven and Kimi at eight, as opposed to their usual eight-thirty. I said, “So you’re gonna let them touch my stack?!” She replied, “Don’t worry. You’ll make enough money this week.” I usually hate it when other people are right, but this time, I made an exception.
When I got to work the party had already started. The revelers had dusted off their green shirts and strapped on their spare livers. It was by no means Iditarod crazy, but there was a good crowd. There was probably sixty people in the bar and we were already expecting the women’s rugby team. For the rugby party, we set up a buffet in the back prior to their arrival. I try and keep one eye on it in case there are some who think an empty room with steam trays is an invitation to dine. Rarely does anyone defile our food table, but on Saturday an unlikely character dug in. Chino pointed out that an old man reading the paper decided to taste our wares. I hurried back, wanting to punch him in the throat, then asking, “What about this untouched cornucopia makes you think we were saving it for you? Do you think this is Top fucking Chef? Were you just waiting to sit at Judge’s table with Padma?” I would then get aroused watching him struggle for breath, daring onlookers to dial “911,” lest they find their tabs with multiple rounds of unordered Jaeger Bombs. Instead, I informed him, “This is for a private party and not a public buffet.” Luckily, the rugby party showed up and had at it. I was able to take my eye off of the buffet. I don’t know if it was a pub crawl, but a fair number of people, who arrived before I did, took off. It didn’t matter, the party was just getting warmed up.
I don’t know where they came from or who they were, aside from the rugby players and my buddy, Mike Harrigan, but the bar began to fill up. Gator had to jump back and help. There isn’t a whole lot I remember of the two and a half hours between clocking in and when Tim showed up. There was the dumb shit who ordered a round of drinks including a Guinness. I guess he didn’t know that a Guinness is poured in two stages, so when I turned around to run his card, he grabbed the not full glass, and walked away. I wonder if he thought, “Cheap ass place. Can’t even fill up a fucking Guinness. That and I had to reach across the bar to an area I shouldn’t, just to get it.” His loss. There was also the guy telling me the name on the tab, “Scott.” I don’t know how it works for the rest of you, but when I open a phone book, I usually go last name first. When I couldn’t find someone by that last name, I had to yell across the bar to bring the customer back. It wasn’t a big deal, but it happened twice more that night. Dear Readers, I know this falls on deaf ears, but unless your name is Prince, Seal, or Bjork (all regulars, by the way,) go last name first when closing a tab. When Tim showed up, I had to close out all my credit cards and count my cash tips because my stack is my stack. It was a good crowd, perfect for two bartenders. Kimi came on and I started thinking about dinner. I realized I wasn’t sitting down and dining: one because there was no place and two no time, so I ordered fish and chips to eat standing behind the bar. I joke about the food at O’ Brien’s, but it is very good, and we have great fish and chips. Maybe it’s my love for tartar sauce, but it hit my spot.
We were slammed until some time after ten, then it died. It was a hard death, too. I began to question whether this was an omen that St. Patrick’s day would be weak (which it never is.) Or if I would survive the ten hour onslaught on Tuesday since I was falling asleep on my feet. I went outside to get some air. A server mentioned there was a party bus outside. I had dreams of a hundred people pouring into the bar ready to drink us out of everything. Alas, when I got outside, I saw that it was, as advertised, a party bus. It was fifty people on a double-decker bus partying. Good for fucking them. I believe a couple of ladies got off to befoul our bathroom. I went back inside, exhausted. Then it happened. Some time around midnight there was a surge of people. I was no longer concerned with Tuesday or my intestinal fortitude, because I was ready to party. It became a mad house. The biggest surprise of the night is how few douche bags were out. They were there, but I am hard pressed to remember them. When I was closing out credit card slips I was super impressed with how generous customers were.
It was a huge night, but I don’t believe the numbers topped last year. This is four massive Saturdays in a row. All leading up to the biggest day of the year. St. Patrick’s Day is long and arduous; and, although we look forward to it, we can’t wait until it’s done. Thank God for the warm-up event, the practice run, the test. The Saturday before Saint Patrick’s Day, otherwise known as, Pre-Patty’s Day.
who the hell is padra?
i came to this site hoping to find engrossing snippets about fascinating people you’ve encountered and the stories they’ve confessed to you over beer. instead, it’s mostly about how you don’t sell pitchers, or people sometimes eat the buffet food that’s seet out for specific parties, or whatever mundane thing is happening to you at the moment. it’s incredibly boring. — unless your point is that you’d think the bartender scene would be a booze-infused, character-ridden, lebowski-esque experience, but it’s not, because it’s boring. then i might suggest you make it kafka-esque boring, so that we get the point. otherwise, this needs some serious spice, man.