Do I Look Like The Kind Of Bartender Who Cares?

The golf club where I work is hosting a dinner dance for a local businessman, with lots of very well-off guests.

A man comes to the bar and orders a fairly large round of drinks. His total comes to about £100.

I tell him the price, and his demeanour flips from cordial to furious.

Guest: “£100?! Do I look like I can afford to buy £100 worth of drinks, huh, fella?”

I give him a once-over, taking in his midwinter tan, designer suit, expensive watch, and gold jewellery, not to mention his wallet that is on the bar in front of him with half a dozen £50 notes visible.

Me: “Er, yeah. You do.”

He locks eyes with me for about five seconds, then his angry expression splits into an enormous grin, and he bursts out laughing.

Guest: “Well played, fella, well played!”

He hands me a credit card and pays for his drinks.

Guest: “I’m sorry for messing with you at first. That was mean of me. Here, this is for you guys behind the bar; you’re doing great!”

He then handed me three of those aforementioned £50 notes, gave me the double finger guns, and headed off with his drinks.