On Friday and Saturday nights, after 10 pm, my place of business starts charging a 3 dollar cover to get in.  On Friday and Saturday night, after the 3 dollar cover starts, it becomes a liquor tasting of sorts.  It never fails.  It’s every Friday and Saturday night after the cover starts.  Let’s begin

Three different tables in one night.  All ghetto women.  Two ghetto black women, and one supremely trashy ghetto as FUCK white woman.

Table 1: 22 year old African American male, 21 year old African American female.  Strong smell of Black and Mild + some skunky as hell Marijuana (I’m a reformed pothead, what can I say).  Young man orders a pint of Bud after bitching me out for not carrying Bud Ice or Busch.  Young woman orders a candy apple martini (butterscotch liqueur, apple pucker, vodka).  I deliver drinks.  I take orders, including all the possible changes they could think of.  I input orders into computer system.  I start walking to new table, when I notice the female, we’ll name her Skukeesha, waving at me to come back.  I veer to the left, and make a stop at the table.

“Something I can help you with ma’am?” I ask.  “Yea, dis drank taste nasty.  I wanna try sumpin else,” Skukeesha replies.  “Do you have something in mind?”  “I wanna try this _____ (my restaurants version of a top shelf long island, name blanked to protect my employment).  I take candy apple martini from table, sit on end of bar and inform bartender of change in beverage.  Return to table with beverage.  Begin to walk off, hear coughing.  Turn around, and see a third of drink missing.  “This one nasty too!  Ya’ll don’t know what ya’ll durin!  Bring me ______ (another signature drink, blanked to protect employment.  Made with 3 brands rum, peach schnapps, some juice and grenadine).  “Right away, ma’am.” I take drink back to bar,  make addition to bill, retrieve drink, return to table.  This time, Ribeye is smarter and doesn’t move.  “Try this out and see how you like it.”  She takes a sip.  “Dis alright.”  “I’ll be by to check on you in a little bit guys, enjoy your drinks.”   Not 2 minutes later, Skukeesha is tapping on my arm while I’m at another table.  “Dis just ain’t good.  Bring me a Amaretto Souah”  Drink is half gone.  “Ma’am, I’ll take it back, but I can’t get it taken off the bill.”  “Well why da fuck not?!  I ain’t drank it!”   “Because you drank half of it, and I’ve already had two other drinks comped off of your bill.  I’m sorry ma’am, but this isn’t a wine tasting.  Please go back to your table, and I’ll be right there with your Amaretto Sour.”  Properly chastised, Skukeesha returns to her table, my other guests laughing their asses off.

No tip from Skukeesha or her boyfriend Oranjalo.

Table 2:  Two young women.  One Latina, one African American.  25 and 24 respectively.  We’ll name African American woman Kenyatta.

Young Latina orders a top shelf margarita.  Young Kenyatta orders a frozen watermelon margarita.  I warn Kenyatta it’s going to be nasty frozen, she insists that she gets it this way all the time.  I input drinks, and retrieve them from bartender.  Return to table and deliver.  Young Latina loves her margarita, says it tastes just like her Uncle Manuel’s *yes, actual statement and name*.  I ask Ms. Kenyatta how her drink was.  “Dis is nasty.  Take it back and off my bill”  There was already a quarter of drink missing from the glass.  I remove drink.  Before I walk off, “Bring me a cosmopolitan.”  “Yes, ma’am.”  I go through all the motions, dropping off old drink and bringing new.  I walk off after wishing ladies well.  About 10 minutes passes, and I go back to the table.  “How are we doing, ladies?  Ready for another cocktail?”  I look at both drinks, both are empty.  Young Latina, who I’m going to name Maria (it’s a pretty name) is smiling, and wants another of the same.  Kenyatta is scowling.  “That cosmopolitan was just nasty.  I ain’t paying for it.”  “But ma’am, you drank the whole thing.”  “But I ain like it!”  “But you drank the whole thing.  If you didn’t like it, you should have told me before you drank the whole thing.  I’m not having it comped, I’m sorry.  Now, what would you like to drink next?”  “Bring me a Amaretto Souah.”  I unconsciously roll my eyes, Maria sees me and bursts out laughing.  She’s embarrassed by her friends actions.  I get Amaretto sour, and another piece of me dies inside.

Table 3: Young African American Family.  21 year old male, 22 year old ghetto as hell white trash female, and 7 year old child.  Their child.  No , I’m not kidding. 

On account of her fat, I’m going to name this un-be-weave-able woman Miss Bertha.  I don’t know why, but Miss Bertha sounds like a fat name.  Kid orders a virgin daquiri.  Great, let’s piss off the bartender during the cover charge rush.  Father, we’ll call him Shi-thead (get it), orders a strawberry shake.  More to piss off bartender.  Miss Bertha, a verrrrrry fat, blonde with literal black colored hairweave corn rowed down the back of her head into a Weavlett (a weave mullet). “I wanna Why Ziffadel” Shoot me.  We don’t have awesome high class snotty person wine, but we can do better than Beringer White Zin.  At least get some Kendall Jackson or some other working class wine.  Not white zin.  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll just need to see your ID.”  “Why I gotta show ya dat?  I had to show it to get in!”  “Legally ma’am, I still have to see it to serve you drinks, and I”m not losing my job over your white zin.”  She throws it at me, she’s legal, and I get their drinks.  I don’t notice the cork floating in her faux wine.  “There a fuckin bug in my wine, is you tryin to make me sick?”  I look closely, and see that it’s cork, and tell her such.  “Dat ain no dayum cork, dat a bug.”  “No, ma’am, it’s cork.  I’ll gladly get you another glass.”  “I dont’ want no wine no mo.  Brang me a screwdriva.”  I get her screwdriver, and bring it back.  “Dis grey goose right?”  “No ma’am, it’s house vodka.”  “It posed to be grey goose, urbody know dat a screwdriva made wit grey goose!”  “No, ma’am, our screwdrivers are made with house vodka unless you tell me otherwise.”  “Den get me one with grey goose, fuck, why you can’t just do yo damn job right!”  At that point, I had her kicked out.  I’m not going to put up with that much abuse.

Why is it that Friday and Saturday night, once cover starts, the trash comes out in full force?  Why do ghetto women insist on tasting every drink on the menu, and try to not pay for what they drink?  Do you really think that drinking a whole drink and telling me you don’t like it is going to make it free?  Here’s a hint.  Stay at home and drink some Bud Ice, and leave me alone.

Ribeye

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