July 10, 2012
This could have been a good story. This could have been a rousing tale of fondness and friendship. This could have been a retelling of a triumph. Instead, it's just another one of those time I spilled a drink on someone reports. (For the previous one: go here.)
Of all the patios in all the world, these three gents walked onto mine. I was thrilled when I saw these old men sitting at one of my tables because I love getting nostalgic for things I was never a part of. (Prohibition, the two World Wars, and Russian Communism are my jam, only because I wasn't there.) At any rate, I really like serving old people because they usually tip me well. Often, we get along swimmingly because they can tell that I'm an old soul too. At any rate, I bounced up to these fellows' table and took their order. All they wanted were two beers and a black and tan, bless their aging hearts. Don't we all love old men who still know how to have a good time?
After grabbing their drinks from the bar, I walked across the entire restaurant, opened the glass door, and proceeded to their table, all without incident. Then, I handed the first gentleman his pint of Samuel Adams Summer Ale. It stuck the landing. Next, I safely delivered the pint of black and tan. All of a sudden, the tray, now unbalanced, tipped slightly. I lacked the forearm strength to match it. Before I knew it, half of the stein of Newcastle had soaked my tray, and the man innocently sitting closest to it. Luckily, I was able to right the glass before the entire thing spilled, but the damage had already been done. The poor guy was soaked, and I was left gasping. I apologized immediately to the man, who now spelled like a frat house. (This brought on a wave of nostalgia for things I actually have witnessed.) I also apologized to the other man whose drink had been the sacrificial lamb to the god of female arm strength. I told the former that I would a lot of napkins and the latter another beer. He told me just to fill up the one I already had, which I did while scrambling for napkins. My manager was working behind the bar, and when I explained the situation he accompanied me outside to their table. Unlike previous tables who shall not be mentioned, these gentlemen did not ask for a discount or anything. Of course, my manager comped their beers for them anyway, which was the right thing to do. (Snaps for my manager's integrity.) Still, the guys weren't even mad. They laughed it off, said they'd been through much worse, and basically let me off scot free.
I wasn't expecting a tip from these gentlemen, and I did not receive one. I have never been more fine with a withheld tip in my entire life. Even though it was just an honest mistake, I know that I didn't deserve one. However, worse than my lack of tip is the knowledge that I ruined something beautiful between us. I know we could have had a real connection-- if not for that sopping wet one. Oh well, as with all the guys in my life, I keep this mentality: if it doesn't work with this one, then on to the next. I'm sure that there will be more elderly gentlemen in my future, and, if I'm lucky, they'll drink scotch.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
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