My first bar shift on Saturday was an unassuming lunchtime slot. Unbeknownst to me was that the wedding that was to take place right across the hall in the Great Room, and the wedding party wasn’t really scheduled to go anywhere before (or after) besides, well, our bar. About 150 people of the ripe drinking age of their mid-to-late 20s and early thirties came through, with some old geezers in the mix having hot flashes. (Seriously, one woman had to go stand in the corner with the door propped open to the 12 degree North Country air outside because of a hot flash.)
It was wedding party of the chardonnay and rum-and-diet types. Also, they “just want[ed] a fruity martini”. Go figure.
As the flood came in quite rapidly in the last crucial 30 minutes to chug a bevvy before seating at the ceremony, I stopped getting assistance with my pouring, mixing, shaking, and building, and kind of just left up to it. The bodies needed their drinks. Scary at first, life as a whole is just kind of winging it, so there it was. Doing life as life is always done.
One especially ornery (old) fellow had said I had given him a “disappointing pour” of his chardonnay upon receipt. The head bartender, however – bless his soul! – simply said “six ounce standard”, and proceeded to take a glass out of the cabinet, line a jigger up next to it, and very deliberately pour three 2oz. measures of water into the wine glass, one after another.
“You’re wasting your time.”
He poured out the final two ounces, and left the glass of water measuring up exactly to the mister’s glass of chardonnay. Gotta say, that was a pretty damn lucky pour of mine.
All in all, I did not break anything and managed to take care of several orders on my own (including two too many Cosmos, which was two).
Hoping and praying to the god I don’t have that this wasn’t just beginner’s luck.