Until last Saturday, when my schedule got emailed to me, I did not realize that Easter was this week (that’s my life; “What month is it again?”) No big deal but my in-time was half an hour earlier so I asked my boss was he planning on opening earlier.
“Maybe fifteen minutes early if there’s a crowd like last year.”
Now, anyone who has worked in a restaurant knows that “maybe fifteen minutes early” translates into “I’m going to open half and hour early and not tell the servers until right before I do it.” And because Sundays are already busy (for me), I got there an extra half hour early.

Do you guys remember when I was bitching about all the new “martinis” and cocktails that was on our new happy hour menu? Still happening, but my super awesome manager gave us the go-ahead to batch that shit so we’re not spending years making one round of drinks. God bless him for that because that knocked off so much time for me today.

My weekend, every weekend, is the lunch shift. I have the bar, the bar lounge, on the occasion the hostesses will ask me to pick up tables in the restaurant, AND I’m making drinks for every single person that steps into the building. So I’m never not doing something. Fortunately, the way the bar is set up, I can see all my tables in the lounge when I’m behind the bar and I can call over and ask if they would like another margarita while I’m behind the bar (it’s all about consolidating your steps.)

Today was...today was Easter Sunday and all day happy hour. Because we had some Easter Day family deals, there was huge parties in the restaurant which means the smaller parties trickled into the bar lounge because it’s open seating. It only takes one party to wander in before more people follow and pretty soon, I have ten tables.

I pride myself on being very good at consolidating my time and steps because if I wasn’t, I would go down in flames. I’m 100% sure that both my managers know that I rock this shift and I work very hard. The reason I know this is because they never think to come and ask if I need anything until I run into the kitchen, screaming “WHY IS NO ONE RUNNING MY FOOD?! FUCK YOUR DRINKS!”


Don’t get me wrong, I can usually handle it and I’m not so prideful that I can’t ask for help. I do because I want the guests to have a great experience. Majority of the time they are super patient, probably because they actually see me hustling. Of course there’s always that one asshole:

I’ll make twenty drink tickets at a time, fly out of the bar and take six table orders, run back to the bar to put in the orders, then I’ll make another round for the people sitting at the actual bar and take their orders and then by that time, there’s another wave of drink tickets printing up. I’m busy. And usually during this time someone, somewhere, will tell me to slow down and take a breath. And that makes me want to punch them in face.


I know it’s coming from a good place but don’t say that to a busy bartender. Seriously. I’m busy and I don’t have time for a zen moment when you ordered your salad with everything on the side in separate containers because you don’t like your food to touch. Or when the drink ticket machine is spewing out never-ending drink tickets. Or when the people who tell me they’re ready to order and they’re so obviously not even though they’ve been staring at the menu for fucking twenty minutes and asked me multiple questions about every single menu item when they could have easily gotten the answers if they just read the damn thing.

That was my life today. I was drowning in the weeds and no one could help me because each server had six tables. The drink tickets would not stop printing, people would not stop coming into the bar and my food was not coming out. I didn’t know what to do. And then the most miraculous thing happened: the evening bartender came in at 2:30.


It was like I saw the face of God.


The evening bartender is my new favorite person. I will donate my kidney to him if he ever needs it. I love him so very much (I’m so serious. He saved my life.)

That was my Easter. I’m at home ( sitting on my spot of the couch) watching Portlandia.