Earlier this summer I spent my nights helping a friend by barbacking for a local but relatively high-end bar/nightclub that my buddy opened. Having been to college parties, frat parties and tailgates in months prior, I had already been exposed to an eclectic group of people who frequently accomplished drinking things I didn’t think were drinkable in quantities I didn’t think were consumable.
While working the summer at the aforementioned local watering hole, the theme continued, and the following are five of the most memorable stories from my summer at the bar.
I chose to omit the name of the bar — see story #2.
Provided videos are examples for reference only, not actual footage from the following five stories.
One of the first people I met while working the bar was a rotund regular — a Norwegian named Ronin, and clearly not of the Sig Hansen DNA strain. All Ronin cared to drink were Scooby Snacks, and after losing track of his shot count and a denied attempt for “more Scoobies” he would settle with a Diet Coke, no ice, before slipping off his barstool and away to wherever it is he would go.
At the end of one of the bubbly blonde cocktail waitress’ shifts and long after Ronin was denied his last frothy treat, she clocked out and went to her car. About 5 minutes later she came crying back to the bar, explaining how a certain disheveled, rotund man had commandeered her driver’s seat, comfortably asleep and accompanied by 3-hours worth of neon green liquid sprayed across her dashboard.
When she tried to pull him out of her car all he could mumble was, “more Scoobies.”
Always lock your doors.
A younger, late 20-something guy who had just got a promotion came into the bar alone and was clearly feeling on top of his game. He planted himself next to two mid 30-something (presumably divorcees) women, makeup caked on, and before even asking their names, ordered three of “your most expensive shots” for him and the two
girls women he hadn’t just met.
The shot? Jose Cuervo Aniversario 250 Extra Anejo Tequila. The chaser? Monster. The bill? $750. The look of shock on his face after realizing he and two strangers just choked down ‘The Aniversario’ like it was Sour Apple Pucker Schnapps from a flask outside of a high-school dance? Priceless.
I’m not sure where it originated (despite my manager taking credit for it because he thought it was cool), but “getting Frenched” or “getting French,” as we called it, became a local trend.
If you’re like me and you thought that taking a shot of Grand Marnier was the ‘Patron’ equivalent of taking a shot of Triple Sec, you’d be mistaken and surprised to learn it’s actually an 80-proof Cognac blend that tastes surprisingly good… and more importantly, that girls love. So much in fact that we began giving free shots of ol’ Grand Ma away to any girls who would make out with each other (or guys willing to approach these classy ladies in hopes of making
out new friends) for the sole enjoyment of all bar patrons — a la getting Frenched.
Moral of the story? Get french.
As you might get in any bar — the barfly type who causes a scene, doesn’t know his limits, pulls from a flask inside the bar, gets handsy with the waitresses and epitomizes your general brown-bagger — the aforementioned showed up one night and quickly got the boot.
Despite there being two doormen and a cover charge he clearly wouldn’t pay, the guy managed to sneak back in. Being the ignorant inebriate he was, he forcefully told one of our more ‘seasoned’ bartenders to “gimme a drink.”
Unspecified, the bartender chose a personal favorite, the Jersey Turnpike — pouring the night’s spill mat into a shot glass and giving the man a drink c’est cadeau — on the house.
The shot went down without a thought and the man soon left on his own accord.
A frat-type guy came in with his frat-type buddies and clearly trying to impress them, ordered four horsemen go to hell. The trick with this maritime favorite is take them quick, because if you don’t, the flaming 151 shot is too hot to throw down. Homeboy frat-guy didn’t know this.
Instead, he took too long to get to the flaming Bacardi that when he finally did, the flame had heated the glass so hot that when he slammed his hand on the shot rim to put it out, the shot glass (which sticks to you hand as the dying flame uses up all the oxygen between your palm and the Bacardi and creates a vacuum) burned a shot-sized-blister-ring on his palm. He reacted by yanking the shot glass from his palm, spilling flaming ball of Bacardi all over his friends — his entire arm lighting up in in what can only be described as straight up ThÃch Quáº£ng Äá»©c.
Naturally, he had to be removed.