Service so bad, you just have to laugh

Having worked in the industry, I understand bad days happen. Things beyond your control can affect the service you give your guests. But what happened last night was just comical.

I understand that everyone can have a bad day when they're waiting tables, especially when they're busy. But there's simply no reason for what happened. After putting menus on the table, there was a snafu at every contact. I felt like we were on a TV show to see how long it would be before we walked out.

Here's a bit of background: Having owned a bar, I'm a fairly observant customer. I watch how things happen. My wife and I don't get out without the kids very often, but when we do, all we want to do is relax and enjoy the experience. We're very patient customers, low-maintenance, and having worked in the industry, we're big believers in tip karma, even if we don't work in the industry any longer. Even if you tell me the Cardinals suck and I shouldn't be wearing a St. Louis hat in Kansas City when the Royals are in the playoffs, you're still getting 20% if you give decent service. (Yes, that actually happened.)

60 Minutes in a bar
Ashley and I wanted to watch a hockey game and walked into a half empty bar and grill with flat screen TVs mounted everywhere. A UFC fight and basketball games were on half of them; the other half had "60 Minutes" on. The only thing worse than watching "60 Minutes" is watching it with no sound. In a bar.

The server greeted us and I asked if she could see about getting a hockey game. She said "Yes!" and took our drink order. Here's where it started to all go wrong.

About 10 minutes later, she brought two beers. Mine was correct; Ashley's was not.

Five minutes later, the correct drink arrives. Cool. How about that hockey game? "Sorry, I forgot to ask. I'll ask now." We see the manager is in the pool table area banging away on his cell phone. She talks to him and walks away. He looks pissy.

At this point, Ashley notices her glass has a crack in it. It takes about five minutes till the server reappears to tell us the manager is checking on the hockey game. We tell her the glass is cracked and she apologizes. "It happens," Ash says and she goes to get another beer.

She brings it and we order a buffalo chicken flatbread. Maybe things will smooth out now. "60 Minutes" is still on. She swings by and says they don't have the NHL package. "That's OK. Can we get a basketball game? ESPN, maybe?"

She speaks to the manager again. He looks a combination of put out and flustered, with just a touch of douchebag thrown in. They both disappear.

Finally, ESPN is on. Our flatbread arrives 10 minutes later and she said she needed to get us silverware, plates and napkins. She disappears quickly, even though the servers' station is only 20 feet away.

At that point, we noticed she brought a chicken pesto flatbread and not the buffalo chicken we ordered. She's nowhere to be seen.

After five minutes, I spot her by the servers' station where they keep silverware and napkins and plates and stuff. She is talking to the manager who is still paying very close attention to his phone. She notices I am standing and gives me a cursory smile and goes right back to talking to the manager douchebag.

The wheels come off
I motioned her over and let her know we're leaving. I tell her I don't want to get her in trouble, but there's no reason for a failure at every point of contact. She said they were short-staffed (lie) and really busy (she had four tables).

Remember the part where I said we start at 20%? That goes out the window if you lie to us.

I explained to her how this experience never got on track. After the wrong beer and the cracked glass, I would have made sure everything was right for the guest, which just didn't happen. And even the douchebag manager couldn't be bothered to do something as simple as change the channel for a half-empty bar after being asked two or three times by a member of his staff. It made us feel like they didn't care about their guests at all.

I told her we'd pay for the two beers, but since the flatbread wasn't what we ordered, we wanted it removed. She brought us the tab, which was $13.26. I gave her a $20. I told Ash I didn't even want to leave a tip, but I couldn't not leave one. "Just leave a dollar and the change. That's still 15%. Maybe she'll get the picture since you talked to her," she said.

The server returned with change of $6. Not even getting the change correct seemed like a fitting end to a less-than-perfect experience. I looked at Ashley and she said, "You just have to laugh. Let's go somewhere else."

Owning a bar rules

Occasionally I have a dream that I still own the bar. For those of you that don't know, I owned a bar.

The dream is always the same. There's a ton of people waiting and I have to cook for them as soon as I walk in because the kitchen guy is late. I'll have to beg the bartender to stay past her shift.

Delivery drivers start coming through the back door to fill beer orders. Sales reps are waiting at the front to take orders for the weekend. The weasel bastard landlord is there to talk about the bar he opened next door.

Everyone orders at the same time. How is that even possible? And they all want something different. There's a plumbing problem (Again?) in the men's room.

Hell of a start for a Thursday, I think.

Finally, the cook shows and I pass the spatula. He's had car trouble and his phone is turned off. I like him, though, and he's a good worker. Just perpetually 20 minutes late. Works is ass off for me when he gets there, though.

I relieve the bartender set the room for the band. (Bands were there on Saturday. It must be Saturday. OK... hell of a start for a Saturday.) The bartender is supposed to do it but never does.

The waitress shows up drunk from being at the pool all day. She says she didn't want to let me down by calling in for a replacement. Now it's too late to have another waitress come in. It's OK, I say. I'll handle it.

The band calls and can't find the place. They're going to be late. The doorman is arrives. On time. Problem is that he was scheduled last night.

It's gonna be a long night...

I wake up really tense. I'm actually sweating. It feels like I didn't sleep at all. My teeth hurt from grinding them and I have acid reflux. My pulse is racing and my hernia is acting up.  I think I'm developing psoriasis.

Sure do miss that place.

Dealing with Heat and Humidity in the Old West

SCENE: A saloon in the Old West. The bartender wipes down a glass, as they constantly did in the Old West. In the background, several people of easily identifiable socioeconomic status play poker. Two ornery looking desperadoes enter.

BARTENDER: Hello, Humidity. How goes it, Heat? Haven't seen you guys in a while.

HUMIDITY: How 'bout a bottle? (Tosses some sort of coin indiscriminately on the bar, as desperadoes were known to do. Bottle service was apparently much cheaper in the Old West.)

HEAT: And sumpthin to eat. (Nothing specific, just whatever they can rustle up. Probably steak and beans. Potatoes if they were able to get them, but trade routes were unreliable back in the day.)

BARTENDER: Boys, the people round here are tired of ya. Best you boys be movin' on.

HUMIDITY: We don't have to take that talk from a bartender. (People in the service industry were not respected as toughs in the Old West.)

HEAT: You lookin' to get thumped?

BARTENDER: Boys, you know we look forward to seeing you all winter. But you boys have outstayed your welcome. Best you head south now. They likely would like to see ya.

HEAT: Let me thump him, Joe! (There's always at least one desperado in the Old West named Joe.)

HUMIDITY (OR APPARENTLY, JOE): I think we may just stay a while. And we'll be takin' that bottle, our dinner and whatever else we want while we're here!

Bartender reaches for a sawed off shotgun under the bar, but is beaten to the draw by "Joe" who puts an inordinately large knife under the bartender's throat. (Every desperado in the Old West carried an inordinately large knife.)

HEAT: Whatcha think 'bout that, Old Man? Joe's gonna make ya bleed now.

SOUND: Multiple firearms being cocked. Always identifiable is one pump action shotgun, which didn't exist in the Old West.

STORE OWNER: I don't think so. (Store owner is easily identifiable by his apron.)

HUMIDITY: You don't got the guts. (The emerging middle class of the Old West were widely known to be less than brave, and only stood up for themselves as part of a group.)

FARMER: Nah. Mebbe he ain't. But WE do. We don't like your kind stayin so long. You best be hittin the trail where they don't mind you. (After all, have you ever heard of a "cold and dusty trail?")

PIANO PLAYER: That's right. Y'all git. (Piano players were men of few words in the Old West, but eventually had one line.)

Even the dance hall girl/lady of the night (difficult to tell the difference in the Old West) has pulled a Derringer from her garter. (OK... now we know her status.)

HUMIDITY: A'ight. (People think "A'ight" is modern. But it originates in the Old West. Google it.) We'll leave. But we'll be back.

HEAT: Yeah, we'll be back.

BARTENDER: We'll be lookin' forward to that, Heat. We ain't sayin' you ain't welcome, we're just gettin a little tired of ya. We'll be seein' ya again. You'll be welcome after a spell.

The desperadoes walk out. The people of easily identifiable socioeconomic status uncock their weapons and return to their poker game. The bartender smiles and nods at the piano player, who starts playing.

And... SCENE.