I'm not a bartender, but I've worked behind a bar. Shucking bivalves in a dark restaurant for dipshit white folks as they talk their way into a martini soaked haze. Most of them are innocent enough, going about their lives oblivious to the world around them. It's nice to live in a bubble. It's safe, secure, easy. The rest of us in the real world, the ones who toil away to expand the riches of the bubble class, we see things they they will never understand.
Many of these people have never been told "No." There are the people who grow up without having to worry about anything because they have been coddled for their entire lives. They get every advantage, from mommy trying to pass off an ice allergy so little asshole's teeth won't hurt, to a plush position in a company that they didn't earn.
There are two meritocracies in this world. One is sports, where you have to work your ass off to get to the top of your field. The other is restaurant. Sure, you can get into culinary school and learn skills and food theory, but working a grills station on a hot line, or shucking for so many hours your hands are prone gives you clout with those who matter. You get promoted, raises, and better jobs by being good at what you do. There are no "failsons" in the kitchen. If there are, they don't survive. They can't. Working a line is a war, and the daddy's boy prep kid will die before working a double.
One night, Dollar Oyster Night, saw me behind the bar, shucking so fast that people stopped and watched. I had a partner who was way better than me, but this night I was keeping up. We shucked and plated for hours on end. There was a revolving door of middle aged me in fleece vests and salmon colored shorts sitting down at the bar, ordering a cocktail and slurping down salty sea snots from the moment we opened that night.
Towards the end of the night, a guy in the traditional garb of the overprotected white sat down with his date. It could have been a wife. It could have been a hooker. I didn't care to find out. This wasn't their first stop of the night, as I could smell. She was disinterested in his bullshit, and he was desperately trying to get some late night fun. I was too busy to get the whole conversation, but it was certainly the man bragging about something he didn't deserve, and her half listening while pretending to read a menu.
Then he turned his attention to us. "Yous two are good," he said, and we looked at each other. This wasn't our first rodeo, so we just kinda smiled back with a chuckle and an affirmation and kept working. Those tickets were coming in fast. The printer sounds haunt me to this day...........
Anyway, Old Dunk and Horny went too far. After a few moments of silence, he went bold. "Gimme a try" he said to us.
"Haha, no way, man. We're professionals," I said back.
"No, gimme one try," and he reached out. I took a step back and he knocked over his glass and shards of gin smeared glass shattered across our workstation.
"THE FUCK??" yelled my partner. We weren't supposed to swear at our post, as we were supposed to be professionals. This was different. We had to get rid of everything we had open for risk of a glass shard getting into someone's throat via oyster. An unwanted pearl if there ever was one.
Who does this? Who does this exact thing? Rich people who have never been told they aren't allowed to do something. Middle aged profiteers who expect everyone to do what they ask. So when the workers rightfully deny said middle ages butthole the ability to shuck an oyster at a restaurant they balk. They try to do it anyway,. and smash their glass all over the damn place.
In the aftermath, as we were frantically cleaning and reshucking the dozes of sea creatures we had to discard, he tried to help again.
Eventually I said "Yo, back up, bro" (I worked in a toxic environment, it was easy to get caught up in the lingo of the line). Managers were involved at this point and he was starting to get upset.
"Sorry 'bout the glass, but I just wanted to do one," he plead as the discussion was had whether to boot him out or not. We, the aggrieved puds had no say in the matter and had to keep working without a break, were not consulted. I wanted to stab his hand with an oyster knife and let him bleed out on the street. The gall of this chode to think not only he could do my job when he's never done anything real in his life, and then to just assume that it would be okay to barge forward like a vertigo addled elephant is insulting.
Just be a jackass and leave me alone. You wouldn't think about me if it weren't for the fact that you wanted something, so back the hell off.
His whore just sat there staring at her phone. She's a peach.
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