It’s early evening, and the hotel bar is just starting to fill. I’m working the bar solo when a woman walks in.

Customer: “I’ll take a martini. Dry. And make sure it’s cold. I don’t like it when bartenders just wave the vermouth over the glass and call it a day.”

Me: “Got it—dry, shaken, well chilled.”

Customer: “And I want three olives. Not two. Not four. Three.”

Me: “Of course.”

I mix her drink exactly as asked, set it down with precisely three olives on a pick. She takes one sip, pauses, and leans in.

Customer: “This doesn’t taste like the one I had in Milan.”

Me: *Pleasantly.* “Probably not. This is made in Ohio.”

Customer: “Do you not take cocktail standards seriously here?”

Before I can answer, a guy two stools down leans over and says:

Guy: “Ma’am, this is Ohio. The only ‘dry martini’ we know is when we forget the ice. The fanciest thing in this zip code is the mall’s fountain.”

She glares at him, glares at me, eats two of the olives, and leaves the third floating in the glass like a silent protest.

I work in a bar. We’re kinda rural; we generally shut anywhere from 8:30 PM to 9 PM, depending on how busy it is.

On this particular night, it was not busy; I started my pack down just after 8:15 PM. I had a couple of people still finishing up, and I called last drinks at 8:30 PM. The customers were understanding and came and got their last drinks. My manager came and took the cash tills away, and the bar was very obviously packed up and everything cleaned.

Three guys on motorcycles pull up out front about 8:50 PM. I greet them and they ask:

Customer: “Are we able to order drinks?”

Me: “That’s fine, however I can’t do anything too crazy, as we’re about to close, but you’re more than welcome to get a beer, a nip of something or anything in the fridge, and I can only take card as we’ve packed the tills away for the night.”

Customer: “How are you packing up? It’s so early!”

Me: “Yeah, but we usually close around this time, sometimes later if it’s busy, but there’s not much going on tonight.”

Customer: “But we’re here now, so you can stay open.”

Me: “I wish I could, however, three people is not enough for me to stay open. So, what can I get you?”

Customer: “I’ve never seen you close this early, ever, like ever.”

This is odd to me, because for the last two months straight, this bar hasn’t been open past 9 PM.

Me: “Oh, do you come here a lot?”

Customer: “We’ve been here once or twice before.”

Me: “Oh, okay, well, sorry, but what can I get for you?”

They order their drinks and try to pay with cash. I remind them I can’t do cash, only card. No worries, they pay.

Customer: “We’ll be back soon for our next round.”

Me: “Sorry, this will have to be the last drinks. The bars packed up, and I need to close it. I need to clock out; you’re more than welcome to enjoy them, and my manager will lock up once you’re done.”

Customer: “Oh, well, can we get three more rounds then? Make it worthwhile.”

Not wanting to ruin their night or keep this going any longer, I just make their drinks, they pay, and I think we’re finally done.

It’s now 9:30 PM. One of them turns around and asks:

Customer: “Sorry, we wanted to use the pool table. We know it only takes coins, but we’ve got a $10 note. Can we swap it for some coins?”

How many times do people need to be reminded that the cash till has been taken away for the night? Four times, apparently…

I work at a brewery, and we close at 9 PM.

Me: “Last call! It’s 8:30, so last call!”

I serve a few last drinks, and around 8:50 PM a few people get in line to purchase some to-go four-packs, which is fine. Then I see one of these guys try to sit down and open a can inside.

Me: “Sir, you can’t do that here. You have to take that away.”

Customer: “You sold it to me before nine, so it’s a loophole!”

Me: “It’s not a loophole; it’s a felony.”

Customer: “Chill, it’s just beer.”

Me: “Last call was last call, and now I close in a few minutes. That beer is to-go, and so are you! Bye!”

Related:
Trouble Brewing, Part 12
Trouble Brewing, Part 11
Trouble Brewing, Part 10
Trouble Brewing, Part 9
Trouble Brewing, Part 8

I used to tend bar at a restaurant. There was an older couple who came in every Friday, and each ordered a gin martini. On their first visit, I opened the book, made their drinks, and sent them out with the waitress.

The old guy came up a few minutes later and asked me if I drink martinis. I let him know that I didn’t.

He told me to get a couple of glasses, some gin, some ice, and some dry vermouth. He showed me how he made them at home. He showed me how to cut a lime twist and told me a bit about himself and his wife.

After a little chatter and a brief history of martini crafting, he tasted it, smiled, and gave me two gold dollars, taking the two drinks back to his table.

Every Friday for the next two years, with very few exceptions, he and his wife came in and ordered two martinis. Every night, two gold dollars came back, and once in a while, he’d come by to shoot the s***.

I miss tending bar sometimes. One of the biggest things it taught me was that I don’t know what the customer wants, but if I listen, I just might learn something neat.

I went to a bar with some friends after a college football game. I’m twenty-one, but I don’t drink too often, so I offered to be the designated driver for the night. We were having a good time just hanging around and singing karaoke, and then I went up to the bar asking for just a Diet Coke.

The bartender poured my drink and then turned around and asked for my ID. I handed him the same ID I had given the bouncer and had previously given this same bartender when I ordered drinks, and he immediately told me to leave (with my ID in his hand).

Me: “I’m the designated driver.”

He yelled at me so the whole bar could hear.

Bartender: “This is a fake ID, and if you don’t leave voluntarily, then I will make sure you leave!”

I’ve got terrible anxiety and just left, all of my friends were just confused, and I left my ID there because the bartender demanded $100 for my ID back.

Of course, a cop was waiting right outside the bar where I’d parked and pulled me over since he had just seen me just walk out, and drunk driving after games is a big problem at the school. I told the cop that the bartender had taken my real ID, but I gave him my name, Social Security number, and a government identification from my job.

The cop could tell I was sober, and my government ID is a lot more legit than a license, so he ran my name, and it came back saying I was twenty-one.

The cop marched into the bar and demanded that my ID be relinquished immediately, much to the bartender’s surprise. One of my friends caught him saying I needed to pay him for my “fake ID,” and in his drunken stupor, told the police officer and showed the video.

The bartender was immediately arrested on the spot.