I worked at this dive bar in Vilnius that opened at 8:00 pm and closed in the wee hours of the morning, usually when public transport started running. It was quite a werewolf’s haunt past midnight. The types of shenanigans that went on there could fill a book, but this one was about an early opening because it was cleaning day. (It’s a dive, so no surprise the hygiene standards were low.)

There were some locals sitting at the bar. They were a thuggy-looking bunch, but they were always polite, and one of them nearly always beat me at chess, so we called them our “Elite thugs”. They wouldn’t drink much; they just liked hanging around from time to time. Later, some “tourist” — our name for people who come to check the bar out once and then never return — popped in and the evening continued. He sat at the bar and seemed friendly enough so we had various conversations, with him doing most of the talking.

Not long after that, one of the regulars showed up and joined us at the bar. He was a young guy (but legal, no worries), and he mostly kept to himself as he was not much of a drinker. The problems started when the “tourist” and the young guy got to talking, and after a few minutes, the conversation went downhill.

Tourist: “Yeah, I like this place. A real f****** bar. Not like those f** joints they have nowadays.”

Young Guy: “What’s wrong with f**s?”

The tourist looked like he’d been slapped with a wet rag.

Tourist: “You’re not a f**, are you?”

Young Guy: “Um… I’m gay, yeah.”

The tourist went ballistic. He started cussing at guy, hurling expletives, and listing an entire adult website’s worth of intimate homosexual acts. I’ll never know how these people know so much about this stuff.

I piped in.

Me: “Listen, bud, I’ve known this guy for a year, and I’ve heard more about homosexual sex s*** from you in thirty seconds than I’ve ever heard from him in a year I’ve known him. How about you go for a smoke and never come back, huh?”

That didn’t stop there, as the tourist started ripping at me with all the expletives in his — admittedly — quite expansive dictionary. The elites clearly got sick of this moron and soon chimed in. All four of ’em.

Elites: “You have a problem with [Young Guy]?

Tourist: “But he’s a f**!”

Elites: “We know he’s a f**. He’s our f**. We know him. We don’t know you!“

The tourist looked at me like I was supposed to stand up for him or something. Too dense.

Me: “It’s about time for that smoke, pal.”

After looking around one more time, the tourist cursed under his breath and darted out of the bar. We ask people to pay in advance, of course, so no problem there.

The young guy and I thanked the elite thugs for a timely intervention.

Me: “Beer, gents?”

Elites: “Nah. Peace and quiet are good enough. What a p***k.”

Thankfully, the tourist stayed “tourist” and never showed his face again. He probably went to some other joint to complain about f**s; the guy seemed like a pro at that stuff.

I work in a hotel lounge, and recently in my province, we’ve redone restrictions and we must now give last call at 10:00 pm. I swear, ever since this was put in place, I’ve had the thirstiest alcoholic sitting in my section at 9:30 pm having withdrawals just thinking of getting last-called. But I digress. This particular table is thirsty but very nice.

This is a table of four men. At 9:00 pm, they inquire about last call, and I promise them I’ll stay on top of their drinks before we get there. I connect with the leader of the bunch; he says he likes me and praises me often. He orders a burger with three add-ons, and he also lets me know that he wants only one bill for the table for when the time comes. He likes to drink lots, seems to have a deep wallet, pays for the whole bill, and is amicable. This is the perfect table. Easy money. I love it.

Last call came and went without a fuss. Although I slightly overserved these folks, they never slurred, got aggressive, or even displayed any rude or entitled behavior. I just liked this table in general after a really crappy wedding I had to serve the day before — a story for another day.

I brought the one bill as promised: $350 for the table. I saw them argue about the bill a bit, and then someone else from the table signed it and then went outside to mingle on our patio. To my dismay, he had tipped only $45 on the $350 bill, below 15%. The payer had even asked me to deliver two shots to another table to be put on his bill, which I had done promptly. There was no reason to stiff my tip.

But here comes the twist: he didn’t put his room number on the bill, and I couldn’t find his name in our room system. I decided to go up to the table where he wasn’t anymore and lay the bill open in front of the leader I had been connecting with all night.

Me: ”Hey, your bud forgot to put down his room number. Do you mind getting that for me, please?”

There was a pause as the guy looked a the bill.

Leader: “Is that what he tipped you?!”

YES! VICTORY IS MINE! I just stayed pleasant.

Me: “Don’t worry about it. I had a good time serving you and your friends.”

Leader: “This is unacceptable!”

He stormed outside to his friend on the patio. I didn’t hear or see the interaction, but he came back with a room number and a tip fixed to $70.

Not only did I get good money, but I got to get one under-tipper schooled by a proper tipper! Priceless.

I’m British, and I was staying in a city in continental Europe. There was a bar there that was run by Brits and attracted other Brits, etc., who wanted to interact with each other. I decided to visit.

I’d once before spent a few happy hours there watching a sports event on a large screen and was prepared to overlook the poor state of the furnishing and worse toilets.

I looked up the bar on a mapping app which said it opened at 16:00. I arrived around 15:55, but there was no sign of anyone inside. “No problem,” I thought. “I’ll hang around until they do turn up.”

At 16:05, nobody had turned up, so I thought, “Oh, well, the mapping app is wrong.” I looked at various posters and notices in the windows, trying to find something that would indicate when they really opened. Eventually, I noticed a small strip of paper with a scribbled note saying they opened at 16:30.

I went to a cafe nearby to wait. At 16:35, I wandered back, and there was a light on inside. I tried the door, but it was still locked. I waited. A loose group of Brits turned up outside. The door opened and a languid youth emerged to roll a wooden cask outside.

The youth spoke to one of the Brits and went back inside, closing the door and leaving everyone else hanging round outside.

The youth emerged a few minutes later, put some ashtrays out, and went back inside. But this time, he left the door open.

I reckoned they were probably opening now, so I wandered into the empty bar. I hung around for a couple of minutes, and then the languid youth appeared.

Youth: “Oh, mate, no, we’re not open.”

He said this in a tone implying I was an idiot.

Me: “…”

This was at about 16:55, an hour after I’d first turned up, and by now I was fed up with this. I couldn’t be bothered to ask when, or even whether, they’d be opening, and I just silently walked out.

Back in 2015, when I still studied, I sometimes manned a student bar at one of the big student clubs in the town. The student clubs, called Nations, are huge and several hundred years old, and they are all run By The Book (TM).

Swedish alcohol law is VERY strict, and serving someone more than they can handle is technically a jailable offense for the bartender (even though punishment rarely happens). That also means that only the bartender can decide when you’ve had enough.

Once in a while, the Nation I worked at held parties for people active in past times, like the 1960s or 1990s, and this took place during one of them. A pair of men in their forties, obviously VERY drunk, waddled toward my bar.

Drunk Man #1: “Heyyo! Give us a couple of twelves of gin and tonic!”

That’s twelve centiliters of gin; a normal is four centiliters.

Drunk Man #2: “Yeah, and don’t pour too much tonic into it, if you get it?

The first man slid a 1000-kronor bill (100 dollars) toward me.

Me: “No.”

Drunk Man #1: “Waddya mean, no?”

He slid another one towards me, without waiting to hear my explanation.

Me: “Well, first of all, we have never sold twelves. Secondly, you’ve had quite enough. I can mix up something tasty and non-alcoholic for you?”

Drunk Man #1: “Nah, whaddya mean? We’re not drunk! Not enough. Come on! Give us drinks now!”

Me: “No. I can recommend water. A lot of it.”

Drunk Man #2: “Nah, you, you, you should know that we drank less back when we ruled this place! Give us gin and tonic, now!”

Me: “I cannot sell you that, and you know why. Accept my call or leave the premises.”

Drunk Man #1: “Ahh, I get it!”

He slid another bill towards me and winked. All three remained on the counter.

Me: “Sorry. The law is clear, and you wouldn’t handle a two-centiliter gin and tonic, let alone a twelve. Water, non-alcoholic, or nothing.”

Drunk Man #1: “Listen here, you little s***! Don’t you know me? Don’t you know who I used to be? I was the chairman in 1991! Everyone—”

Me: *Interrupting* “I wasn’t born then, good sir. I was born in 1992.”

The two men deflated and slunk away. The doorman said that the two friends had wailed and moaned about being denied alcohol by someone born after their “prime”.

The best part? They left the money. The other workers and I split it, and we had beer money for three parties!

Related:
Putting The “Toxic” Into “Intoxicated”

It’s St. Patrick’s Day, so no matter where you are, or whatever your heritage, everyone is Irish, and everyone is out to get drunk. As a result, our bar is crazy, and it’s all hands on deck. A drunk man from an equally drunk group of men comes over to the bar, and eventually, they get to me.

Drunk Customer: “I’m Irish!”

Me: “That’s great! Did you want to order!”

Drunk Customer: “Do you believe me?”

The customer is Asian, with an American accent. I stress that because I did once meet an Asian man with an Irish accent, so I never judge a book!

Me: “You can be whatever you want to be, sir. Are you ordering?”

Drunk Customer: “I’m Korean-Irish! My name is Paddy Kim!”

Me: “That’s great, Paddy! I don’t think I can serve you, though.”

Drunk Customer: “What?! Why not!”

Me: “If you don’t want the bar staff to think you’re too intoxicated for a drink, maybe it’s best not to make them ask what you’re ordering three times with no answer.”

Drunk Customer: “Oh… I’ll just have a Guinness.”

Me: “I’m not serving you alcohol.”

Drunk Customer: “Guinness has alcohol?!”

Me: “Then I’m definitely not serving you alcohol.”

He wanders over to his friends looking confused. I brought them all water when I had a moment to spare, and I could hear him muttering to his equally confused-looking friends.

Drunk Customer: “I thought it was like… a really weird Irish root beer…”

Today is St. Patrick’s Day! Get your fix of more St.Patrick’s Day-themed stories with our St.Patrick’s Day Themed Roundup!