Unhappy Hour

In an effort to capitalize on and exacerbate my disdain for humanity, the owners recently expanded our Happy Hour to appeal to every bargain shopper, bad tipper and spandex lover within a 30-mile radius.

Before I proceed, know that:

1) Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) Happy Hour is only available in a specific part of the restaurant, which fortunately is never in my section.

Last week I waited on a group of four prototypical Caucasian corporate tools (two loud-mouthed males, two bimbo secretaries).  We got off on the wrong foot when Alpha male 1 approached me -- as I was in mid-sentence with another table -- and boarishly interrupted to inform me that he needed a pitcher of margaritas.

Without shifting focus from my current table, I said, "Have a seat and I'll be there when I'm ready to take your order."

As if I'd just spoken Yiddish, he stood there like a Republican at a tolerance museum, unable to understand the concept.

"And we need four glasses" he said.

I took care of the current table then approached the corporate wasps.

"Yes?"

"Pitcher?"

"Rocks or blended?"

No one seemed prepared for this curveball, so bimbo 1 took the helm.

"Uhm.  We want them slushy."

"Blended?"

"Slushy."

"Blended."

"Slushy?"

Before I continue, know that:

1) This took place at approximately 2:30 pm.  Happy Hour is from 4-7.

2) This took place in my section.  My section was not inclusive of Happy Hour prices.

I delivered the pitcher, and the four were relatively low maintenance from that point on.  They ordered another pitcher (at about 3:30) and asked for the bill around 4:15 or so.

After a quick perusal of the bill, Alpha male 1 summoned me.

"Hey, guy, you charged us full price for the pitchers."

"I'm known to do that, yes."

"Uhhhhh, HELLO, happy hour?"

"Mm hmm."

"We need this check adjusted.  I'm not paying full price."

"First of all, you're not in the bar area.  Happy Hour isn't available here."

(Blank looks from all)

"And second, you ordered your two pitchers before Happy Hour even starts."

(Blank.  A collective canvas of idiocy.)

"Ok, let me see if I can explain this simply.  Happy Hour starts at 4.  You ordered your drinks BEFORE 4, right?  Happy Hour isn't retroactive."

(Crickets)

"Happy Hour...isn't where you are.  You are here.  Happy Hour...is over there.  Right?"

(...)

Before I could bust out my Etch-a-Sketch to paint a picture of this abstract concept, Alpha male addressed me as if I'd messed up the quarterly report or the TPS evaluations.

"Yeah, guy, we're gonna need to see a manager.  You should have given us happy hour prices."

"Oh?  And why is that?"

"HEY!  WE COME IN HERE ABOUT THREE TIMES A WEEK, BUDDY.  WE'RE HERE MORE THAN YOU ARE!"

"Unfortunately I'm here about five times a week, so I shamefully win that trophy, and even if this were a who's-here-more-often-contest, first prize isn't half off your drinks."

"Do you have a manager?"

"Yeah, I think so.  Let me find him so he repeat what I just said."

I found my manager.  He stood his ground and refused to comp their drinks.

Alpha male 1 approached me with four credit cards (naturally, because why would either of the men offer to buy their employees drinks?) and informed me, with great pleasure, that he'd be hanging onto the bill so he could have it adjusted by one of the owners.

"Congrats.  I'll be back with your cards," I said.

I delivered the four receipts (with one pen) and walked away.  I heard one of the men mutter something about "stick up his ass" and the four howled with laughter at this polysyllabic bon mot.

They headed to the bar to continue drinking (at Happy Hour prices) and were about to order another pitcher.  However, the manager and I agreed that anything more than two pitchers among four people within less than two hours would be over the legal blood alcohol limit.

I informed the bartender, in front of my corporate friends, that they were cut off.

"They're technically over the limit," I announced.  "Ask this gentleman.  He has the receipt to prove it."

Comments

[Katrina]

I heart you!

[vikkitikkitavi]

Having spent 10 years in waiter hell, I worship you and your blog, however, I do have a question. Shouldn't a slushy margarita be referred to as "frozen," and not "blended"? Drinks are frequently blended without ice.

[ubermouth]

Whatever you earn in tips IS NOT ENOUGH!

[PurpleGirl]

Most excellent. :)

[j]

"with one pen" Fucking GREAT!

[Jessica]

Do not ever forget that I love you.